So Pretty It Hurts

it at the spa, knowing she’d be tempted to try it. But I couldn’t be sure she hadn’t told that idiot Tory that I’d talked about it. If the cops found the bottle, they might eventually connect it back to me. You really made me angry with all your poking around. If you’d just minded your own business.”

“You snooped in my room, didn’t you? You checked out my computer.”

“You left me no choice, did you?”

“And as I started poking around even more, you came after me. You thought getting me suspended from Buzz might shut me down, but when that didn’t work, you tried to kill me. Who was the man in the gypsy cab?”

“None of your business,” Whitney said snidely. “And trust me, you’ll never find him.”

“How did you discover I was going to be downtown? Tommy told you, didn’t he?”

“No comment,” she said. “I can’t let you know all my secrets.”

“I bet you were talking to him about the funeral or something to do with Devon’s death, and he mentioned he’d be seeing me.”

“There’s no proof of that or anything else.”

“The police will call the doctor. They’ll find out you knew about the abortion.”

“That hardly proves I killed Devon,” she said.

“They’ll talk to Sherrie, they’ll find out you told her to call my boss. And when they see you were trying to shut me up, they’ll start trying to link you to the fire.”

“Oh, please, Bailey, don’t you get it?” She’d raised her voice again, the rage simmering just below the surface. Wasn’t she worried about the testers hearing, I wondered. “Sherrie’s on a six- month bender. No one’s going to get anything out of her about me, and those local yokels in Pennsylvania aren’t ever going to have a confab with the local-yokel cops in upstate New York. As far as the world is concerned, Devon Barr basically starved herself to death. And if anyone manages to feel bad about that, they can buy the fucking album.”

She was probably right. Collinson seemed smart enough, but how would he tie it all together? Was Whitney going to get away with murder? I knew I had to do something.

“Maybe the cops won’t figure out it was murder,” I said. “But I bet if I tell Cap, he’ll put the pieces together and realize I’m telling the truth.”

She shot up from her chair then, making me jump in surprise. “Don’t you dare bring Cap into this!”

I rose slowly from my own chair.

“Why not?” I said. “Because you know he’d leave you in a second if he found out? He might even be willing to try to point the cops to evidence.”

Her whole body seemed to droop at that moment and she flung her head back and forth.

“You can’t tell him!” she screamed. “I won’t let you.”

“But how much better for you to tell him than for him to find out from the cops,” I said. “He must know how you feel about abortion. He’ll understand.”

“No, no, no,” she yelled. And then suddenly she was taking off across the room toward the terrace door. She grabbed the handle and flung the door open. I could feel a rush of cold air even from where I was standing. Whitney stepped outside and, to my horror, flung herself against the outer wall of the terrace. My God, I thought, she’s going to jump.

“I need some help,” I yelled, into the bowels of the apartment. Then I rushed outside.

“Whitney,” I said, coming up behind her. “Don’t be crazy. You—”

Before I could say another word, she spun around and slugged me in the face with her fist.

I stumbled backward and simultaneously raised my arm to my face, anticipating another strike. She struck again, this time at my chest. Though the fabric of my coat absorbed the blow, the force of her punch made me stagger backward even more, until I backed into the outside wall of the terrace. I tried to right myself, ready to hit back somehow, but then she charged me, hurling her body into mine. Using the palm of my hand, I shoved hard into her shoulder, trying to push her away. As I raised my hand to strike her again, I felt her hand reach between my legs. I gasped in surprise and confusion. It took me a second to realize that she was trying to hoist me up. She was planning to throw me off the terrace.

Chapter 22

Terrified, I yanked my left arm to my body, pointed the elbow toward Whitney, and with all my strength, drove the elbow into her face. She reeled back and doubled over. I braced myself for another charge, but when Whitney looked up, I saw that she was starting to wheeze. A second later she collapsed into a sitting position on the floor of the terrace

“Help me,” she muttered. It didn’t seem like she was faking it. “Please. My inhaler.”

“Where is it?” I yelled.

“In my purse.”

I charged back into the apartment, raced the length of the living room, and grabbed the brown hobo bag off the hall table. It would take extra seconds, but I needed to alert the women in the kitchen to call 911. I propelled myself down a hallway toward the still-constant sound of chatter until I found a huge, sprawling kitchen. But there was no one there. My eyes followed the sounds to a TV on the wall—it was playing a tape of some kind of cooking class. There had never been anyone in the kitchen at all.

I tore back out to the terrace. Whitney was wheezing heavily, searching desperately for air. I upended her purse, letting the contents splatter at my feet—keys, pens, a makeup bag, wallet. In the middle of the mess I spotted the inhaler. I snatched it and handed it to Whitney. Like a robot, she flipped off the top with her thumb. She pulled it to her mouth and pumped. Then pumped again. She continued to wheeze, harder, and her eyes grew wide with fright.

“It’s empty,” she said hoarsely. “Help me.”

“Have you got another?” I yelled above the wind.

She flopped her head every which way, and it was impossible to tell if she meant yes or no, but then she flung her right arm toward the door.

“Where?” I was screaming now. “In the bathroom?”

No answer. Just desperate wheezing, her hands clutching her throat. I raced back into the apartment, toward where I assumed the master bedroom was. En route, I grabbed a phone and hit 911.

“There’s a woman here having a bad asthma attack,” I said. “You must send an ambulance right now.” I rattled off the address.

“Does she have an inhaler?” the operator asked after I’d given the key information.

“Yes, but it’s no good. I’m trying to find another.”

“Try to keep the person calm. Tell her to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth.”

The idea of me calming Whitney down seemed preposterous. I’d located the bathroom by now, and I pawed through the medicine cabinet, spilling cosmetics and prescription drugs onto the counter. No inhaler. I tried the bedside tables next, with no success. After that, with adrenaline coursing through me, I made a desperate stab at the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cupboards. Still no luck. Trying to calm Whitney seemed the only course of action.

I’d left the terrace door open, and the living room was now frigid, with wind whipping through it. When I stepped outside, I saw that Whitney was lying sprawled out on the cement floor, totally still. Bending down, I realized that she didn’t seem to be breathing. I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on her bluish lips, but there was no response. In desperation I picked up the inhaler. Was it really empty or just stuck? I turned it over. On the flat end was a small puncture hole, as if it had been stabbed with a sharp object.