The Good Girl. Christy Barritt
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eyes widened, some of her cool confidence leaving for a moment. “You’re asking me?”
I looked at her, suddenly realizing she might be my only friend here in St. Paul. “Is Lana still here?”
“Nope, she’s definitely in Tuscany. Sent me a picture this morning.” Candy peered at the knife again. Her gaze changed from fearful to curious. “I’m totally getting this on video.”
She already had her phone out and aimed at the cutting board.
“Absolutely not.” My hand went to my waist—an assertive stance, if you asked me—as realizations began to click in my head. “Are you guys punking me or something? I know Lana is amused by the strangest things, but really?”
“Punking is so 2006. I, Candy Cornelius, am all about today and being on the edge of all that is cool and worthy. This would be perfect for my YouTube channel.” She held up her phone again. “And no, I had nothing to do with this. I’m fame hungry, but not when it comes to stuff this twisted.”
“Any idea who might have left this?” I kept my voice even, as if I’d played detective a million times before. I hadn’t. But I had been questioned by detectives before, so maybe some good would come out of that experience as I tried at the moment to imitate them.
Candy shrugged, shoving her phone back into the pocket of her tight black jeans. “I have no idea. There was that weird stalker guy who Lana told to get lost.”
Weird stalker guy? Why hadn’t I heard about him? Was I really that wrapped up in my own little world? I already knew the answer—yes, I was.
“Stalker? What stalker? And more importantly, was this stalker violent?”
She shrugged. “He seemed more like a pitiful little puppy dog to me. I can’t imagine him doing this, but who really knows?” She paused and straightened her head. “Are you sure I can’t get this on video?”
I had to draw on every ounce of strength and politeness inside me not to scream. You know, Good Girls Rule #5: Practice patience even when you want to throttle someone. The last thing I needed right now was some stalker sneaking into the house where I was staying and leaving notes underneath a terrifyingly sharp knife. I was no Nancy Drew. I had no desire to add a little mystery to my life. I just wanted to grasp that ever-elusive peace that dangled just out of reach.
I cleared my throat, deciding to try a different approach. “Listen, it’s like this. I hate video cameras. All cameras, for that matter. Like, I really hate them.” They’d followed me around for months as my face had been splashed across the news. Lana promised me that she hadn’t told anyone here about what happened.
Candy stared at me a moment. Did she know about my past? My cheeks reddened at the thought. She crossed her arms. “Fine. I won’t make you an instant celebrity after all.”
“I’m thinking I should call the cops. The note by itself may not be that threatening, but the knife definitely sends a message.” As I looked at it again, fear trickled down my spine until I shivered.
“I agree. Can I stick around long enough to see what they say?”
“Aren’t you allergic to Gaga?” I looked down at the perky little dog who sat at my feet.
She flicked a piece of lint from her shirt. “No, I just told Lana that so I wouldn’t have to dog sit. Of course.” She shrugged as if that was the most natural explanation in the world.
I sucked in a deep breath, considering my options. Finally, I settled with, “No pictures.”
She grinned. “Deal.”
This was one deal I hoped I didn’t regret.
Chapter 3
I’d envisioned coming to St. Paul, being dropped off on Lana’s doorstep by one of my sister’s semi-responsible friends, and fading into blissful oblivion. If I haven’t already mentioned it, things were not going according to my plan. The same could be said for my entire life, I supposed.
I’d followed all the steps and done everything correctly. Kind of like the time I’d built a model airplane, one of my dad’s favorite pastimes. I’d followed all of the directions. At the time, I couldn’t see my work turning out to be an airplane, but I told myself I needed to finish before I’d see the big picture.
The final product looked more like a Transformer than a FW 190.
A Transformer that had been destroyed by the Decepticons, at that.
Little did I know that my life would parallel the building of that model airplane—I’d followed the rules but the end result was nothing like the picture on the box.
The police had been here fifteen minutes—an unglamorous fifteen minutes, at that. There was one uptight, middle-aged officer who’d taken my statement. Along with him was a younger guy with spiky hair and a shirt that read CSU. He was snapping some photos and dusting for fingerprints.
What had I just walked into? What was going on in Lana’s house? I knew things here couldn’t possibly be as normal as they first appeared, and I was right. Something was seriously not normal.
Why would someone leave a message like that? And who? Had Lana made someone seriously upset before she left on her trip? The message had to be intended for her. All of my “enemies” were back in Florida and preferred the public humiliation brand of justice to the “scare you out of your mind” kind.
Maybe this was a joke. That’s what it had to be, I decided.
The doorbell rang, bringing me back to reality. I stomped across the room and jerked the door open, thankful for the opportunity to get away from Candy’s delightful chatter with the crime-scene guy. All I’d heard was something about an opportunity she might have to be an extra on the TV show CSI and could he give her some pointers? I’d tuned the rest out.
I blinked at the man on the stoop and quickly took inventory of him—early thirties, short brown hair, defined biceps, trim build, and at least six feet tall. He wore faded jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a tattoo peeked from the edge of his sleeve.
He was the kind of man women noticed—not me, of course. I mean sure, I guess by the strictest definition I had just “noticed” him, but not noticed him noticed him. I mean, why bother? I had no hopes of a happy ever after. My last relationship had left me tattered and bruised and done with love. Besides, in a neighborhood like this, one filled with two cars in the driveway and swing sets in the backyard, most people were married and living the American dream with two-point-four children. It was that kind of community.
He extended his hand. “I’m Cooper. Ben Cooper. You must be Lana’s sister.”
Ben Cooper. Lana had mentioned him. That’s right. He’d taken care of Gaga since I couldn’t get here until a day after Lana left—thanks to a meeting with my attorney. And he was the only other person I could think of who had a key to Lana’s place. “I’m Tara, and you’re just the person I want to see. The police have some questions for you.”
He raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes widening. “The police?”
“I’ll let them explain.” I extended my hand, inviting him inside, and nearly slapped Candy inadvertently in the process.
Cooper stepped in the house. I caught the brief scent of sawdust and gasoline, as if he’d been working in a garage somewhere. The smell was surprisingly pleasant. The uniformed officer greeted him and pulled him aside to ask questions.
“He’s Lana’s hottie neighbor,” Candy whispered, wagging her eyebrows up and down. From the way he’d simply nodded to Candy, I assumed they hadn’t met before, that she’d simply admired him from afar.
He was handsome. He also had a wedding band on his finger, which was no surprise. Middle-class neighborhoods weren’t exactly a hub for singles. No, they were a hub for tandem bikes with baby seats on the back, and adorable little tricycles