So Pretty It Hurts

Due to his tone, it didn’t sound like much of a compliment, but I thanked him anyway.

“And are all these lurid details about a pregnancy and abortion true?” he asked.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll share if you share.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why did you visit Devon’s mother the day of the funeral?”

“Oh, my. Was our fearless Bailey actually doing a stakeout in Pine Grove?”

“I don’t have the time or energy to play cute with you, Richard. Just tell me.”

“All right,” he said, his voice suddenly stripped of either false jocularity or sarcasm. “I did go to see that pitiful wench. But it was out of nothing more than morbid curiosity. I wanted to see the place Devon was born. I wanted to see the house that could produce such a monster. I thought I might find some closure that way.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. I just considered his grief and pain and wondered how much it had shaped his life.

“And did you?” I asked finally.

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid not at all.”

I signed off, feeling intensely sorry for the man.

There were other loose ends that, unfortunately I wasn’t able to tie up. The odorous Zorro, for instance. I was still pretty sure Jane had wielded the branding iron that night at Scott’s, but there just was no way to prove it. Then there was the gypsy cab driver. From what I’d learned, the police were searching Whitney’s phone records to see if they could find a link, but as of this point, nothing seemed to have turned up. Not that the cops were going to call me with any news.

And lastly there was Sherrie. Jessie had heard she’d definitely gone on a major bender after Devon’s death —maybe because most of Devon’s money had been left to the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute—and so the Buzz lawyers had no luck getting her to retract what she said about me. It didn’t matter anymore, though. Nash told me that he and the lawyers were now certain that Whitney must have put Sherrie up to the whole thing.

Yeah, I finally talked to Nash. He kept calling, and I realized I was being childish not to return his calls. I was expecting the gruff-news-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold routine, with him doing a big mea culpa and begging me to come back, and I knew I’d have to fight hard not to be suckered in by it. Instead he offered this line of bullshit about how the lawyers had totally muzzled him during my suspension, but he’d been working doggedly the whole time to clear my name. Sure, right, I told myself—and Lindsay Lohan was about to be named the next UN Goodwill Ambassador. I knew I’d never ever be able to trust the guy. Which made it easier to tell him I was moving on.

“If you’re holding out for more money,” Nash replied, “I can probably do a little something.”

“No,” I told him, “it’s not a money thing. But thank you. Best of luck.”

I was surprised at how sad the decision to leave Buzz made me feel. I had arrived there knowing practically nada about celebs and caring even less—I mean, I would look at shots of people like Audrina Partridge and wonder how a woman whose only real accomplishment in life was sticking to a low-carb diet could be on the cover of Buzz—but it had been fun to be in that crazy, zany world for a while.

Despite all the turmoil of those December days, there was one definite upside. Once my lawyer felt the cops really accepted my version of events, I did a ton of press and my book took off, leaving Napkin Folding for Beginners in a cloud of dust. It even briefly made the New York Times best-seller list—okay, extended list, but still, it meant I was going to receive royalties. And several publishers approached my agent, inquiring about my doing another book, this one on the whole Devon mess. I’d pounded out a proposal during my ski trip with Beau over the holidays.

And there was news to share on the book front when I sat down to the roast chicken dinner at Beau’s.

“So how did the meeting with your agent go?” Beau asked before I could even broach the subject.

“Great,” I said. “She’s tested the waters with my proposal, and she thinks we can actually sell the book in an auction, which means I might make some decent dough up front.”

“That’s fantastic, Bailey,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m so relieved. I’ve got that small trust fund from my father, but it’s just barely enough to live on. With the book advance, I should be fine this year. So I’m going to try the freelance route for a while. I’ll work on the book and whatever assignments come up here and there.”

“Will it be weird not to have an office to go into?”

“Yeah, I’m sure a little bit. Both Buzz and Gloss were only part-time, but it was still nice to hang around other people some days. And it’s kind of scary to be totally on my own. But in the long run, I think it may be better for me. Bosses always seem to make me bristle. Now I don’t have to be at the mercy of a Cat Jones or Nash Nolan or Mona Hodges. I like the idea of being a free agent.”

“Should that alarm me?” he asked, locking his brown eyes with mine.

“I mean professionally,” I said, smiling.

And I realized something at that moment. That part of why I felt comfortable becoming a free agent professionally and taking such a big risk was that I had Beau in my life. Not to bail me out financially. But because I was crazy about him and because I knew he had my back in so many ways. That at the end of a solitary day, we could share a good conversation, and later I’d be able to slip into bed beside him. No sooner had the thought formed, though, thant my heart fluttered a little with anxiety. Was I putting too much stock in a romantic relationship?

Quickly I recited one of my mantras—“Bailey, don’t be a total love moron.”

And next I reminded myself that Beau carved a chicken perfectly, and his ass looked great in jeans.

Acknowledgments

It was so wonderful to get back to Bailey Weggins, and I want to thank everyone who helped me with So Pretty It Hurts. In terms of research for the book, I’m indebted to Barbara Butcher, chief of staff, New York City Medical Examiner’s office; Dr. Chet Lerner, chief, Section of Infectious Diseases, New York Downtown Hospital; Dr. Mark Howell, psychotherapist; Faith Kates-Kogan, president and founder of Next Models; Thomas Dolan, IAAI-CFI, patrol officer/crime scene investigator, Carlisle, Pennsylvania police department and fire analyst with NEFCO; and my husband, Brad Holbrook, who is so good with accents (among many other things!).

I also want to say a huge thank-you to my terrific new editor, Kathy Schneider, and to Maya Ziv, too, for all her awesome help. It’s been fantastic working with both of them. Thank you, as well, to Rachel Elinsky, for her amazing efforts with PR. Others at Harper I’d love to give a big shout-out to are Jonathan Burnham, Leah Wasielewski, Katie O’Callaghan, Mark Ferguson, Tina Andreadis, and Leslie Cohen. And as always, thank you to my extraordinary agent, Sandra Dijkstra, whom I adore!

About the Author

Kate White, the editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan magazine, is the New York Times bestselling author of the standalone novels, The