Читать книгу The Good Girl - Christy Barritt - Страница 5

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 left haphazardly on sidewalks filled with chalk drawings and wildflower bouquets picked by chubby little hands.

I edged closer, wanting to hear what Ben Cooper had to say. Maybe he had some of the answers we needed. I could hope. Candy edged closer with me. Perhaps digging deeper into her character study for a possible role on CSI? Or was Candy simply the type of person who liked to insert herself everywhere and anywhere she had the chance?

Cooper’s hands went to his hips as he addressed the officer. “I stopped by this morning. I didn’t go into the kitchen. I just unlocked the back door, let the dog out, and then put her back inside a few minutes later.”

The officer shifted. “Nothing appeared to be out of place?”

Cooper shrugged. “I didn’t go poking around, but no. Everything seemed normal. The dog didn’t seem agitated or give any sign of distress.”

“And the door was locked when you arrived, and you locked it before you left?”

“That’s correct.”

“Have you seen anyone around the neighborhood acting strangely?”

Cooper shifted, his fingers still splayed across his hips. “As I’m sure you know, we have had a couple of break-ins in the area recently. Last I heard, they hadn’t caught the guys who did it.”

The officer closed his notebook. “You’ll be around if we have any more questions?”

“Absolutely.”

After they wrapped up, Cooper strode back over to me. “What a welcome to the neighborhood. Lana know about this yet?”

“I tried to call her, but she didn’t answer. Maybe it’s just as well.”

“I’ll be right next door if you need anything while you’re here.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I appreciate that.” But I wouldn’t be needing anything except some alone time.

At that precise moment, my contact lens began half-burning, half-popping out of my eye. My eyelid fluttered as I struggled not to lose the lens. Cooper stared at me, his head tilted and eyes narrowed in confusion.

What if he thinks I’m flirting with him? The thought made me sputter, all while my eyelid continued to blink with rapid-fire precision. Certain that my cheeks were red and that Ben Cooper thought I was the world’s worst winker, I nodded toward the hallway and mumbled something about dust.

I escaped into the bathroom and flipped on the lights. I stepped toward the vanity and stopped cold.

I blinked—partially on purpose, certain I was seeing things.

There, on the bathroom mirror, waited another message. I peered closer, ignoring the signals that caused alarm to burst like boiling water in my head. The words looked to be written in slime—runny, oozy, gooey slime.

Help.

A handprint smeared beside the word, like someone had tried to reach through the mirror in desperation. My moment of courage wore off, and trembles claimed my muscles. I took a step back and fell against the toilet, knocking off a small city of cosmetics before sliding to the floor.

“Uh, guys, you’re going to want to see this.”

Candy swung around the doorway, her eyebrows knitting together as she spotted me. “I’m going to want to see you looking like an island in the middle of a sea of overpriced cosmetics?” She deadpanned the question, her lips parting in confusion.

I shook my head, my cheeks heating again as I realized my head was resting on the back of the toilet and various bottles laid around my shorts-clad legs—which needed to be shaved—all while my eye fluttered and watered, probably sending mascara down my cheek.

I nodded behind her. Her gaze landed on the mirror.

She gasped and stepped out of the bathroom. Her eyes were wide—with fear or in awe? I wasn’t sure.

She pointed to the mirror, her voice trembling. Fear. Definitely fear. “I never thought I’d see that with my own eyes.”

Chills continued to seep into every fiber of my being. “See what?” Leftovers from the Kid’s Choice Awards on Lana’s bathroom mirror?

“Ectoplasm.”

Ectoplasm. As in ghostly, paranormal ooze?

I closed my eyes, suddenly not caring about my contact or my legs or the mess around me. It was like some kind of wicked game of Clue was being played, and I’d been forced to participate.

It was the ghost in the kitchen with a butcher knife, I heard myself saying.