So Pretty It Hurts

trying to reach you to interview you.”

“I should probably deal with that in a minute. There’s just so much to think about right now.”

“Do you still have unanswered questions about the case?” he asked.

“A few. I don’t know who the guy in the gypsy cab was or how Whitney put him up to the job. But maybe the police can figure that out by going through her phone logs. One thing that does keep bugging me is the hole in the inhaler. Landon asked if Cap could have done it.”

“Do you think so?”

“No, but it seems unlikely it could have happened accidentally. You would think those things were almost fail proof. If it wasn’t an accident, then someone put the hole there.”

“I think I’ll hang around for a while, just to keep an eye on my patient. Do you need anything else right now?”

“Um, just my phone. It’s in my bag, out in the living room.”

“Sure,” Beau said and started to rise from the chair.

“Wait, one second, though, would you?” I said. “There’s something I want to say off the topic of murder and mayhem.”

Beau came from around the bottom of the bed and sidled up next to me.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I know it seems crazy, but in the midst of all this nightmare stuff, I’ve had a chance to do some thinking. Remember what you said to me the other day about me being the one with the commitment issues? Well, you’re not the first person to say that to me. You’re not even the second. I’d like to have another chance with you. And now that I’m aware of what’s going on with me, I think I can handle things differently.”

“Great, Bailey. I’m happy to hear that.” He laughed. “Besides, a friend of mine just invited us to his amazing ski house over Christmas, and I need to give him an answer by tonight.”

God, this was getting better by the minute.

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” I said.

Beau took three steps toward me and leaned down to kiss me.

“No,” I said, throwing up my hand. “You’ll catch this thing. It’s mean as a pit bull.”

“I’m sure I’m probably already infected,” he said, laughing. “We did a lot of spit swapping this weekend.”

He returned a few minutes later with my purse and set it down on the bed next to me. I reached toward it to retrieve my phone. I was anxious to see who might have called me for interviews. Maybe even a news outlet that I could form a partnership with, since I wouldn’t be going back to Buzz. Gosh, I’d almost said it out loud: I wasn’t going back. I’d never again have a first look at Suri’s latest pair of kitten heels.

And then, just as I touched my purse, a thought jarred me, like a fellow subway passenger falling into me as the train rounded a curve. Whitney’s handbag. The brown suede hobo bag. I’d seen it before. On Saturday afternoon I had followed Devon down the stairs at Scott’s to talk to her, and I’d caught her putting something into her handbag. A brown suede hobo bag. But it hadn’t been her bag, after all. It had been Whitney’s. It had happened, too, only a short time after Devon’s discussion with Cap in the woods and her confession to me that she wasn’t safe.

And at that moment, as the wind howled outside, I realized the final twist of the story: Devon had punctured the inhaler after she realized, from her conversation with Cap, that Whitney had probably learned about the abortion. She’d been terrified of Whitney’s wrath and what she might do.

Whitney had killed Devon. But in the end, Devon had killed her back.

Chapter 23

Beau asked if I wanted him to build a fire, and I told him yes. It had been a fairly mild January so far, but on that Friday, in the third week of the month, the night was suddenly crazy cold, and I craved extra warmth. There was a brief moment when I worried that seeing flames in his fireplace, the fireplace I’d never really noticed all fall, would trigger that old Why-is-Beau-such-a-freaking-mystery? feeling in me again, but as I watched him light the kindling and poke around with one of the irons, I could tell it wasn’t going to happen.

First, he looked really good in the jeans he was wearing, and that was an excellent distraction. Plus, ever since I’d urged myself to (1) accept the fact that he was fully committed to me, and (2) stop going slightly psycho or pulling back, I’d been a pretty good girl. And even when I occasionally did feel a little weirded out, I would just recite a helpful mantra in my head, like “Bailey, don’t be a total love moron,” and “Bailey, just shut your freakin’ brain down, okay?”

But something unexpected happened when flames finally started to dance and the smell of wood smoke filled the room. I was suddenly back in that barn fire in Pennsylvania, terrified that I would never find a way out and the smoke and the flames or both would be my undoing. Beau was in the kitchen at that point, carving up a rotisserie chicken he’d bought, and he didn’t see the tears of phantom panic prick my eyes. Six weeks had passed since the barn incident, but I realized that it was still playing a bit of havoc with my psyche.

Of course it wasn’t just the barn fire that still troubled me. It was everything else rolled up with that—being abducted in the gypsy cab and Whitney’s death and discovering the awful things she and Devon had done to each other.

At least I hadn’t landed in an iffy situation with the cops, which easily could have happened. Though a lot about the case was finally clear in my mind, I knew it must seem muddled and even far-fetched to the cops, especially without any solid evidence pointing to Whitney. Plus, I’d done enough crime pieces to know that the cops found me suspicious just from having been smack in the middle of it all. The day after Whitney’s death, at the urging of Beau, Landon, and my mother, I hired a lawyer. I knew it would cost me big-time, but I needed the best advice possible.

Fortunately, a few things emerged fairly quickly that lent my story and theory credibility. The Upper West Side resident who had called 911 apparently confirmed that Whitney had been trying to push me off the terrace. She’d seen it with binoculars. (I said a silent prayer at the time to the patron saint of busybodies and voyeurs.) Also, Tommy admitted to me that he’d indeed talked to Whitney about the funeral from the Living Room, and told her I was dropping by. He shared this info with the police without even asking for any kinky favors in return.

And my attorney was able to suss out from a police contact that Whitney’s father had a prescription to Lasix for high blood pressure and that she’d made an impromptu visit to see him right before she’d headed off for the spa trip with Devon. Though the cops never revealed this, I suspected that they were able to confirm that Whitney had made contact with someone in Devon’s gyno’s office during the fall. The cops stayed in touch with me for a while, asking for input, but that was it.

A week after Whitney’s death, Detective Collinson called and thanked me for what I’d done. He revealed that with more specific questioning, Ralph, Scott’s caretaker, recalled seeing Whitney take a bottle of Evian water out of her purse on Saturday and set it on the counter, though neither he, Sandy, nor Laura had ever seen her drinking bottled water that weekend. Collinson also shared a couple of details he’d picked up from the cops in New York. Whitney and Cap had taken separate cars to the funeral. Though the texts I’d received had been sent on a prepaid phone and there was no clue who had purchased it, the police found gasoline stains in the trunk of Whitney’s car. He also told me that Cap didn’t try to come to Whitney’s defense in any way. I suspected Cap recognized the truth and was totally distressed and disgusted by it.

There was one other loose end I cleared up on my own—by calling Richard Parkin.

“Well, well,” he said when he heard my voice. “Once again you’ve managed to dazzle us all with your Sherlockian skills. Bravo, Bailey.”