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It’s outright domestic.
Homey.
The furthest residence I’d have picked for the girls if I had to hazard a guess. It is far easier to imagine them sharing a penthouse apartment in Santa Monica. Something expensive with sex appeal. Something in a great location, far enough from the rest of Los Angeles that they’re far from home when they’re working, something close enough to the social scene that they could have fun when they’re not on the job.
My booted feet are heavy on the three front porch stairs as I climb, my steps sounding as reluctant as I feel, being here again. When I spoke to Antoinette about a second interview, I was hoping that she’d come to the station and bring Joan Stark with her. Not only would it have been more convenient, but the location would have guaranteed that I wouldn’t have run into Catherine.
It's not that I don’t want to see her again.
It’s that Ido.
She’s been on my mind a lot since that first interview. No, since before the interview when our eyes met across the station, and I sorted through the wad of contact sheets until I found her picture because Iwantedto talk to her first.
It was aStarbucksMoment, a rare encounter when you meet a stranger’s eyes in a coffee shop and there’s a little zing of recognition. A connection. An attraction. But, because you’re late for work, or too self-conscious to make conversation, you hurry on your way, only to ever think about the contact abstractly after that. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. But, if every time you’re in the same coffee shop at the same time afterward and you look over your shoulder, seeking, you sum it up to innate curiosity.
The problem with Catherine, or, rather,my attractionto Catherine, is that our acquaintance wasn’t over the moment it happened. I’ve already seen her several times. I will probably continue to see her until the investigation is closed or goes cold—and that’s problematic for me. I can’t think straight when she’s looking at me with those sad, green eyes.
Steeling myself, I ring the doorbell. I tell myself I have a job to do. A bungled murder or attempted murder to solve, and, despite the draw I feel to Catherine Beauchamp, Iamcapable of compartmentalizing. If anything, my current problem is that, for the first time ever, I find that I don’t want to. So, if I’m hoping that Antoinette is home alone, and that I can get in, ask my questions, and leave, I consider it only natural.
But I’m not that lucky.
I never have been.
Catherine opens the door. Her smile dies, her dimples disappearing in a flash of panic. Her dread hurtsmore than I thought possible. I feel it in the hollowed-out depths of my stomach. But I push it aside, and, clearing my throat, greet her. “Miss Beauchamp.”
“Catherine,” she reminds me.
“Catherine.”
Time pauses as we stare at each other, both of us completely frozen in our mutual fear.
I discreetly assess her, trying to see for myself how she’s holding together after the last few weeks. She’s partially concealed by the dark contrast of the house behind her, but I can see that she’s wearing snug jeans again. And fuck me because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman who makes plain, blue jeans look like something designed solely to be peeled off. This time they’re accompanied by a pink top that ties around her neck and leaves nothing to the imagination. There’s some sort of thin, gold chain around her bare midriff and a dragonfly belly button ring that dangles just into view. Her feet are bare. Her red hair is loose, curling down her front.
She looks like she’s doing fine. Incredible even.
She clears her throat and glances behind her into the house as if searching for an escape.
Collecting myself, I try to smile, but the attempt fails, crumpling into an awkward grimace that makes my face feel unnaturally stiff. “I hope I’m not interrupting. Ah,” it takes me a moment to remember why I’m here, “I had an interview scheduled—with Antoinette.”
“Oh?” She frowns, her perfectly shaped eyebrows dipping inwards. “That’s strange; she didn’t mention it.”
“She’s not here?” It’s hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Every time I have to come here to talk to one of the girls, the chances of this exact thing happening increase.
“No. Um…Come in. I’ll call her and see where she is.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition. Yet.” Her mouth turns upwards as she smiles, and I catch the tease of dimples starting. “But it will be if I burn the cupcakes I’m making.”
With that, she turns back inside, leaving me to stay or follow. Coward that I am, I avert my gaze and actually consider just waiting on the porch swing outside. I don’t move for a solid ten seconds until Catherine shouts through, ‘This is very unlike Toni!”
With one last sigh, I step into the house and turn left towards the kitchen. “What’s that?”
“She doesn’t forget appointments,” she replies as I enter.
The kitchen is small but clean and tidy. There are black granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. The tile on the wall is a white subway tile. The lighting, the way it perfectly illuminates Catherine as she bends down towards the oven, is excellent, good enough that I turn away, feigning interest in reading the cereal labels on the boxes neatly lined up on the fridge. “Maybe she forgot. We only agreed on the date and time a few days ago…”
“Mhmm.” Catherine seems unconvinced. “Toni doesn’t forget anything.”
