So Pretty It Hurts

“I always thought it was bulimics who vomited.”

“You said she was avoiding food. Individuals with bulimia will eat a huge amount of food and then throw up to keep from gaining weight. Anorexics, on the other hand, starve themselves by eating very little. But because they are morbidly fearful of gaining weight, they may also exercise compulsively, take laxatives or diet pills, or purge. Ipecac is an emetic. It stimulates the central nervous system and the stomach, causing the person to vomit.”

“If Devon Barr did have an eating disorder, she could have died from it, correct?”

“Again, speaking generally, you most certainly can die from an eating disorder. Anorexia has one of the highest mortality rates of any psychotic condition—a significant number of people eventually die from it.”

“From heart failure?”

“That’s one possibility. People who are anorexic frequently have a disturbed electrolyte imbalance—they’re not ingesting enough potassium, for instance—and that can lead to arrhythmia and cardiac arrest. Heart failure is even more likely in those who use drugs to stimulate vomiting or bowel movements. I can’t believe they still sell ipecac. It’s certainly not recommended anymore by pediatricians for poisoning emergencies.”

“This is kind of a crazy question. Is there a particular reason why someone would try one method over another to reduce their weight—vomiting versus laxatives, for instance, or diuretics?”

She didn’t answer right away, and until I heard her clear her throat quietly, I wondered if she was still on the line.

“You can’t use this in your article, all right? It will only give people ideas. But someone can actually become addicted to throwing up their food. Dopamine is secreted in the brain when you vomit, which creates a feeling of euphoria. A girl tries it once, and then can’t stop.”

Wow. That hadn’t turned up in any of the articles I’d read online.

“Suddenly there are two demons at work,” she continued. “There’s not only the need to lose weight but also the desire to repeat the rush vomiting creates.”

“You’ve been very generous with your time,” I said. “Just one more question. If someone suffered from an eating disorder years ago but had appeared to recover, why might it suddenly be triggered again?”

“There’s a high recidivism rate with anorexia. Stress can trigger it again. Or feelings of low self- esteem.”

I wondered what had been going on in Devon’s life that could have helped restart her eating disorder. Heartache over her breakup with Tommy? Trouble with Cap? Disappointment about not getting pregnant again? I flashed again on the scene of Devon crying by the woods. Had something been scaring her for a while?

After signing off, I phoned Beau, explained that I’d be burning the midnight oil and would call him tomorrow. Then I put the pedal to the metal. I checked with art once more on the final layout, reviewed a bunch of Web sites to make sure there were no updates on Devon, and finally pounded out my article.

Once I’d forwarded the piece to the deputy editor, I stretched my legs and then read the e-mail from the PR department, explaining what they had in store for me on Thursday. I would be doing the Today show and a ton of other media.

Nash asked for a couple of tweaks with the story, and I didn’t end up leaving the office until 2:00 a.m. Though Jessie could have bailed earlier, she hung around, partly out of solidarity. When we were finally out in the nearly deserted street, standing in front of the town car she was taking home courtesy of Buzz, we hugged each other tightly. Further south, the lights of Times Square still gyrated.

At that hour of the morning the drive from midtown to the Village took practically no time. After heaving my duffel bag into the living room, I yanked off my boots and jeans and crawled into bed with my sweater still on.

I woke around nine the next morning, with my head aching slightly and my wrist still sore from my tumble. Gingerly I swung my legs out of bed and pulled on pajama bottoms. As I waited for coffee to brew, I plopped down in my home office—a former walk-in closet—and checked out a few Web sites just to make certain I wasn’t out of the loop on anything. The press had scrounged around everywhere for quotes on Devon—there was even a comment from the waxer who’d allegedly done her monthly Brazilian—but they’d turned up nothing of real interest.

I was now really in a waiting game. The autopsy had either been performed last night or was scheduled for this morning. And though a full toxicology screen would take days, even weeks, the police would surely issue some kind of preliminary report by the end of the day. Unless the results were totally ambiguous, I might at last know whether Devon had died from natural causes—or if she’d been the victim of foul play.

With coffee mug in hand, I located my phone to call Beau. I was yearning for a real conversation with him— and for the chance to see him. Since we’d started dating exclusively a few months ago, the most we’d ever been apart was three days, so this had been a real stretch. Though I’d only spoken to him for a couple of minutes yesterday, I’d sensed, as I’d indicated to Jessie, that our Sedona tiff was behind us. And that was a total relief. Earlier in the fall, I’d had to make a big romantic choice—between Beau and an actor named Chris Wickersham— and I’d never for a second regretted my decision. I felt enchanted by Beau—by his passion and creativity and slight air of mystery. But I was getting in deep, and I needed to be sure he was really committed.

“So you’re up,” he said, sounding really happy to hear my voice. “I was dying to call you but didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m a little frayed around the edges, but the adrenaline rush is helping.”

“I checked out your Web story. Pretty incredible.”

“Maybe even more incredible is some of the stuff I didn’t put up there. I can’t wait to fill you in.”

“How about doing it at dinner tonight? I was thinking since you’d had such a rough weekend, I’d pamper you and cook dinner.”

“That sounds fantastic,” I said. “Unless something huge related to the case breaks, I should be able to leave Buzz at a decent time tonight.”

“Great. Just give me a heads-up when you know for sure.”

I felt like letting out a big sigh when I disconnected. Everything seemed back to normal.

I’d expected that my day would be busy, but in some ways it just sputtered along. I showered and then knocked on the door of my sixty-something next-door neighbor Landon, hoping to catch up, but there was no answer. Throughout the morning I made several calls to Detective Collinson’s office but didn’t reach him until noon, at which point he told me the autopsy wasn’t being performed until the afternoon and there would be no statement until tomorrow. Midafternoon, I dropped by the office, but discovered the typical anticlimactic day-after-closing scene. It was like walking into a party at midnight and finding nothing but empty plastic cups, wet potato chips plastered to the table, and a few people passed out on the couch.

I called Beau shortly afterward and let him know that there was no reason I couldn’t be at his place by seven.

“Great. You could probably stand to go to bed early tonight.”

“Yes, I could,” I said, laughing. I felt my cheeks begin to burn, just thinking about slipping between the sheets with him. I hit the gym on the way home from Buzz, showered again at home, and later grabbed a cab to head over to Chelsea.

Even though we’d only been apart a week or so, when Beau opened the door to his apartment, it felt as if it’d been much longer. His face was slightly tanned from the Arizona sun, and his hair, which he had been wearing longer now, seemed to have grown an inch in the time he was gone. I felt the jolt of surprise I’d experienced when I first saw him in September after he’d been in Turkey for weeks and weeks.

“Hey there,” he said in greeting. He gave me a long, sexy kiss and then wrapped one arm around me in a protective gesture. “You look pretty amazing for someone who has been snowbound with a dead body.”

Beau looked awfully good himself. He was wearing tight jeans, loafers, and a blue-and-white checked shirt, with the top two buttons undone. He smelled good too—that dusky, exotic scent that he always wore.

“I’m still a little shell-shocked, but just being back in Manhattan has helped.”

“Well, come in and let me pamper you. You can sit by the fire with a glass of wine while I finish dinner.”

“Fire?” I said.

I looked past him into the living room, and my eyes widened in surprise. There was indeed a fire burning in