Chapter Eleven #2
I tossed my hair, throwing all caution into the wind along with the perfume of my new favorite conditioner, which smelled of an oil extracted from a flower that only grew on a vine in a tree somewhere in the Andes cloud forests.
I hoped it hit her smack in the face. The scent, not the hair.
Though I wouldn’t be mad if the hair did too.
“Actually, you can hide a ring of any size in coral. At least any size that fits on a human finger.” I raised my eyebrow, which was, honestly, not quite as sculpted, back at her.
I’d simply been too busy with the whole murder thing to worry about making a threading appointment.
“And, while I haven’t seen the ring yet, I’m pretty sure it’s going to make it hard to lift my hand.
Because it’s so heavy. And big. I wouldn’t be seen in anything less.
What would all of my followers say? You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about disappointing so many people. ”
Nailed it. She wrinkled up her nose like I’d accidentally purchased the conditioner made out of the oils extracted from the fur of a small marsupial that lived in the remote Australian outback (while I’ve heard the smell is not great, it does apparently leave your hair the softest and shiniest it could possibly be). “I’m sure.”
Someone cleared their throat delicately behind me.
I girded for battle with one of Persimmon’s friends—Plum?
Pineapple?—but, to my surprise, turned and found Gabe standing there, all dewy in his salmon Hawaiian shirt and white shorts, an outfit that positively screamed balding douchebag on a golf course on his third divorce.
It was shocking how well he was pulling it off.
“Oh, hey,” I said. “When did you come over here?”
“Just now,” he said. Good. Hopefully he hadn’t heard any of my lying.
He liked to get on me about lying. It’s wrong, Pom.
Okay, sure, Gabe, you tell me a better way to get out of things you don’t want to do without hurting anyone’s feelings or causing any international incidents.
“Persimmon. Hi. Nice to see you.” He sounded a little like he was being strangled, which, understandable.
“Oh, you, too, Gabe,” she purred, literally batting her eyelashes. “I was hearing the most—”
“We’ve got to go,” I broke in, tucking my arm through Gabe’s elbow. “I see our friend over there. Nice seeing you, Persy!”
From the way her face darkened, I would definitely be paying for that off-the-cuff nickname later, probably through her telling her boyfriend to pay someone to hammer stuff all night in the room below us and toss bowling balls on the roof above.
But that was okay. I had great earplugs.
I steered Gabe away from the bar toward the beach, leaving my drink behind.
It was cooler on the beach, with the breeze coming in off the water.
Damp sand squished between my toes. I’d always loved sand: building castles out of it; digging up little crabs; lying down on it during a hot day and soaking in its warmth.
I even liked shaking off the dried bits that clung to every part of me after a long day at the beach—it was like bringing home a thousand little reminders of the beautiful outdoors.
And I liked listening to the rattling it made when my former housekeeper (and current employee of the foundation), Lori, would vacuum it up the next day.
I had time to get through all that in my head because I was waiting for Gabe to ask who I’d seen, but he must understand enough of my interactions with girls like Persimmon by now that he realized I’d been making it up. Right?
Quick glance over at him. He was staring up at the sky in the direction of the setting sun. That wasn’t great. He wasn’t even wearing sunglasses. “Hey, Gabe,” I began, but his eyes widened. That was even less great.
“Isn’t that Cora?”
I spun around, the health of Gabe’s eyes forgotten. Glasses existed. He’d be fine, as long as I made sure he got frames that suited his face. “Oh! Yes! Okay. Good. Do we have a strategy?”
He didn’t respond. He was looking at her off in the distance. Irritation tickled my stomach. “Hello? Gabe?”
“Right. Sorry.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Do you want to handle her on your own? It’s probably best for… optics and things.”
Optics and things? What did that even mean?
(Yes, I knew what both the words “optics” and “things” meant, so don’t go running and submitting any blind items about how stupid I am.) In this context.
I was about to confront a potential murderer who, even if she hadn’t murdered the victim in question, probably wanted to murder me.
You’d think my loving boyfriend would want to be there to throw himself dramatically in the path of the bullet or the knife or whatever.
Maybe he’d think he was dying, even though obviously he would only have been grazed, and realize there, lying on the floor all bloody and sexy, that he wanted to give me everything I wanted (an autumn wedding in Tuscany).
Because nobody else ever chose me like that. My family made it clear often how they were stuck with me. Andrea had been paid to raise me. Opal had been a secret murderer. Gabe was… Gabe was…
Gabe was gone. I blinked. On my right there was only surf and sand, on my left a growing crowd that did not include my boyfriend.
I hadn’t even seen where he’d gone.
Okay. Fine. Whatever. The best state of mind to conduct an interrogation was a fragile and slightly panicked one, right?
Right. It was probably a great sign that I was answering my own questions.
I squared my shoulders and forged off across the sand, strong and resolute, except not strong or resolute at all, really.
Unless “strong and resolute” meant “wanting to cry,” and yes, anonymous leakers, I knew it didn’t.