“Well, I’m not sure I believe you,” I fumed. “Besides, why would I kill Emerson? I would have beaten her in the competition anyway. And it’s not like she was even—hey.” I clenched my hands, kicked my feet apart, and glared at Pike, who had turned to face me, slight interest on his face. “I don’t have to defend myself to you.”
He shrugged. “The guilty always overcompensate.” He went back to work gathering his things.
“No,” I said, yanking on his shoulder until he faced me. “The guilty always act nonchalant. They always point the finger of accusation.”
We both looked down at my index finger, extended, my hot-pink fingernail pressed up against Pike’s chest, slice of red sticker across it. I quickly withdrew, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Look, I don’t know about you, but going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit is really not on my bucket list. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head out.”
“And do what? Hide out? Oh, no you’re not. I’ll tell them you were here.”
Pike glared at me and cocked his head. “You were here, too.” I blinked, realizing for the first time that I had just spent the last twenty minutes tied up and trapped in a closet by and with a possible murderer. A cold shiver washed over me and I squinted, trying to pick up the slightest twitch in Pike’s eyes—something that said he was hiding a secret, something that said he was guilty.
“What? You trying to read my mind?”
“That would be a short story.”
“Why would I kill Emerson?” Pike huffed.
“Because she was your ex-girlfriend.”
Pike opened the door. “She wasn’t my ex-girlfriend and I hardly ever saw her.”
“Maybe that cop was right and you killed Reginald, too. For Emerson. Or maybe you wanted her to be your girlfriend, but she scorned you—although I can’t see Emerson scorning anyone, that whole beggars-can’t-be-choosers thing, but whatever. That’s it, huh? You loved her. It was one of those ‘if-I-can’t-have-her-then-nobody-can’ things, huh?” I bit my lip. “No, that’s preposterous. Emerson was an awful person.” A tiny niggle of guilt touched the back of my mind and I sighed. “But she didn’t deserve to be shish-kabobed by a pair of designer shears.”
A sympathetic look flashed over Pike’s face. “You should go home, Nina. Lock your doors. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
I frowned. “What are you going to do?”
Pike sighed, his chest rising mightily. “I’m going to go track a killer.”
The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees once Pike slipped out. I stood in Emerson’s empty living room, listening to the silence for a full minute before I took off like a shot down the hall, nearly pummeling Pike in the apartment vestibule.
“You can’t hunt down a killer,” I said, my voice sounding breathless and desperate. “You can’t do it alone. You need backup.”
Pike paused, listening, and I moistened my suddenly dry lips. “You need me.”
A hint of exhausted smile pushed at the corner of Pike’s lips. “And you’re credible backup?”
I pressed my teeth together, feeling the familiar push of my razor-sharp fangs. “You’d be surprised,” I muttered.
If this were a movie, our vestibule exchange would be followed by a musical montage of Pike and me with heads bent as we studied files and photo books over greasy takeout boxes of congealing Chinese food. The music would speed up as the scenes sped up to show the change of seasons, the stubble growing on Pike’s chin as we grew more and more disillusioned. But this isn’t a movie.
“How do we start?” I said after what seemed like an hour had passed.
Pike rested a hand on my shoulder, his eyes intense as he looked directly at me. “I meant what I said, Nina. Go upstairs. Lock your doors. Don’t go anywhere alone.” He spoke slowly, like a father explaining dating rules to his daughter and though I should have been offended and indignant, all I could muster up was a cold fist of fear gripping the bottom of my stomach. As Pike turned to go, I knew with every fiber of my being that he was about to fall into something grittier, dirtier, and far more dangerous than even he expected.
“Do you want to know why I couldn’t feel the fire?” I said to the back of his head.
He stopped, his hand on the door, back still toward me. I swallowed heavily when I saw his hand close over the door handle, the muscles at the back of his arms flicking as he went to push it open.
“Do you want to know why you can’t take my picture?”
Pike stopped. His shoulders straightened and he turned to me, his face open, eyes soft. I saw a sliver of pink tongue dart out of his mouth, moistening his lips. “Why?”
I took a step down, unsure of how—or why—I had bartered my biggest secret to find the murderer of a woman I couldn’t stand and a man I barely knew.
“Upstairs.”
Vlad actually looked up from his laptop when Pike walked in. I felt my eyebrows rise and a sweet warmth spread in my stomach when Vlad’s dark brows shot downward, his thin lips pulled into a menacing scowl as his eyes flickered over Pike.
Aw, Vlad. He cared.
“I’m sorry,” Pike said, looking from Vlad to me. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“He’s not company, he’s my nephew.” I crossed over to Vlad. “Vlad, this is my friend”—my breath caught on the word—“Pike. Pike, my nephew, Vlad.”
The two men regarded each other casually, critically, before offering each other one of those barely perceptible manly head nods.
Vlad went back to his screen and Pike followed me to the couch.
“All right,” Pike said, sitting down beside me. “What’s the big reveal?”
I saw Vlad stiffen in his spot at the dining table. His eyebrows shot up over the screen, his eyes, wide and accusing, following. “Can you come here for a second, Nina?”
I beelined over to Vlad and leaned my head in, certain of what he was going to say. “Please tell me your big reveal entails your tits or your ass or something else that won’t potentially ruin my life or make you have to eat Pike.”
“I know what I’m doing, Vlad,” I hissed. And, because I felt like I should, I added, “And watch your language.”
Even though I had no idea what I was doing.
Pike edged to the side of the couch. “So?”
A knock on the door stopped him and I celebrated my good luck. I snatched open the door and was greeted by Felipe’s strangled cries, his shoulders shimmying under the dead weight of his emotion.
“Nina, Nina, oh, it’s awful!” He plunged himself into my arms and I was forced to hug him, to think of friend over fashion as a snot bubble popped on my dupioni silk blouse.
“Felipe, what’s going on?”
“It’s my Reggie,” he huffed.
Pike and I shared a very déjà vu look. “What about Reginald?”
“He didn’t commit the suicide. He—he—he was murdered.” The admittance came out with another rash of hysterical tears and Pike rushed over.
“What do you mean he was murdered?”
I knew what I heard at the cocktail party, but Felipe’s crushed face was painful confirmation.
“I just came from the police station. They did the”—sniff—“the”—sniff—“autopsy. It came back positive. Or whatever you say. My Reggie was murdered!”
Pike snaked his arms in front of his chest. “First Reginald and now Emerson,” he said just under his breath. He shot me a sidelong glance and I knew exactly what he didn’t say: that I was next.
We spent the next twenty minutes listening as Felipe filled us in on what the police had told him—which wasn’t much. By the time he left the sun was dipping into the Hudson and I was pacing. Pike grabbed both my shoulders and I stopped my march.