Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond
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to her ear, a nervous habit she’d given up years ago after her hair-dresser had chastised her. “I’m sure he was only doing his job.”
“Still, he tried to make it sound as if…as if I had something to do with her death.”
Carlotta’s heart pounded and moisture gathered around her hairline, but she remained silent.
Peter gave a little laugh. “I almost got the feeling that he thought you and I were having an affair or something.”
She tried to mimic his laugh, but the noise that emerged sounded high-pitched and strangled, a noise similar to what she imagined Angela had made in the throes of death. “Well…we’re not.”
“I know,” he said, “but I don’t have to tell you that if the police knew that we ran into each other earlier this week and that we…kissed…they might be suspicious. I’d hate to see you dragged into this mess over a misunderstanding.”
“Right,” she said, her mind spinning over his words and the memory of his searing kiss.
“Did the detective question you?”
“Yes. I told him that we dated when we were kids, but…I didn’t mention the kiss.” Or the fact that I’m still crazy in love with you.
His sigh of relief whistled over the line. “Good. Of course, the M.E. ruled the death accidental, so I guess there’s no reason to worry—about the police somehow involving you, I mean.”
His reaction raised warning flags in the back of her mind. On the heels of such a tragedy, was it normal for Peter to be concerned about such trivial things? Unless…unless he had a reason to be concerned. And hadn’t she heard with her own ears Detective Terry tell Coop to take the body to the morgue to be autopsied? Should she mention it to Peter?
“Peter, Angela came into the store today.”
“And?”
“And she wanted to return the man’s jacket that I told you she’d purchased.”
“She did?”
“Yes. But it looked, um…worn. And when I told her that I couldn’t give her a refund, she went berserk.”
“What do you mean?”
“She…attacked me.”
“What? Did she hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “She’d been drinking, and she accused me of fooling around with you behind her back. Why would she think that?”
He made distressed noises. “I don’t know. And I’m so sorry that Angela made a scene. I hope it didn’t get you in trouble at work.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m only sorry that the jacket must have been a sore spot between the two of you.”
“When a marriage is going south, petty things tend to get blown out of proportion.”
“I thought you’d love the color,” she said, fishing. “Brown always looked good on you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “It was thoughtful of Angela.”
Her hand tightened on the phone. The jacket was gray. Maybe Angela had bought it for someone else. But if so, why would Peter pretend otherwise? Or maybe he was just too overwhelmed with everything else to remember details like the color.
“Peter,” she said carefully, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to call me, considering everything that’s happened.”
“Oh,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “I thought you were my friend, but you’re right—it was wrong of me to call.”
She closed her eyes, frustrated with her warring emotions. She was suddenly afraid—afraid he would ask her to come over, to comfort him in his grief, and that in a moment of weakness, she would. “I am your friend, Peter. I’m trying to advise you as to what’s best, that’s all.”
“I know, Carly. You’re the only person in my life who ever truly cared about me, and I ruined everything.”
She bit down on her tongue. The pain helped to clear her head. “Peter, I don’t think now is the time to discuss the past. You have other things to worry about. You’re not going to be alone tonight, are you?”
“Sort of. I couldn’t stay at the house, so I checked into the Ritz-Carlton for a while. Room 539.”
“That’s good,” she murmured, shifting on the bed but unable to find a comfortable position. Did he think she’d offer to come to the hotel and keep him company? She couldn’t do that, but somehow she wound up writing the room number on a notepad next to the phone.
Peter heaved a sigh. “Angela and I were having problems, but I never thought it would end like this.”
A chill went through her at the despair in his voice. Was he on the verge of making a confession? “Peter, I really don’t think I’m the person you should be sharing this with.”
“You’re right, of course. I won’t bother you anymore, Carly.”
“You’re not bothering me,” she said quickly, her mind racing. “But you need to take care of yourself. Try to sleep, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, sounding disoriented and childlike.
She gripped the phone, not wanting to let him go. “Good night, Peter.”
“Good night, Carly.”
She put down the receiver, her heart squeezing painfully, her head spinning. Why did life have to be so hard? Useless tears pressed on her eyelids as she fought the push-pull emotions she felt for Peter. She wanted to believe him, but could she? He had betrayed her trust once, and now he seemed remorseful, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Shouldn’t he be too consumed with grief to be worried about anything else?
She huddled down in the covers, turned up the volume on the television and immersed herself in the figures moving across the screen. As always, watching the exotic lives of the rich and the beautiful helped to remove her from the turmoil raging in her life and in her heart.
Even after paid programming came on at 3:00 a.m., she fought sleep. She didn’t want to go where she couldn’t control her thoughts and fears. There were too many faces to haunt her, too many questions pulling at her—her parents’ disappearance, the loan sharks’ lurking presence, Peter’s betrayal and their illicit reunion, and now, Angela’s death.
And the chief tormentor in her fitful dreams was Jack Terry, who prodded and poked at her, demanding to know the truth about her parents, about their lives, about her feelings for Peter, about her suspicions regarding Angela’s drowning. He pursued her, crowded her, menacing and relentless, his eyes all-seeing, his big hands reaching for her, as if he were going to wring the truth out of her—
“Carlotta.”
Her eyes popped open and she shrieked, scrambling away from the voice.
“Sis, hey, it’s just me.”
She blinked through the morning light and Wesley’s concerned face came into view. “Oh.” Her muscles relaxed in abject relief.
“Hard night, huh?”
She nodded against her pillow, then alarm seized her anew and her gaze flew to the clock. “What time is it? Oh my God, I overslept. Lindy’s going to fire me for sure!” She flung back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“I left you some breakfast on the table,” Wesley said. “I have to take off—I’m working with Coop today.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said, her head heavy as she stood. “What time did you get in last night?”
“Late.” He was headed toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “We ran into some trouble at the morgue with the Ashford