Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
He rises slowly, deliberately, like someone approaching a skittish animal.
“Ms. Reid.” His voice is a low baritone, rough at the edges, the kind of voice that makes one want to melt. “Victor Callahan. I apologize for the intrusion.”
I step inside, leaving the door open. A calculated move—any scream would bring Joey running, though I doubt I’d need the help. I’ve dispatched men twice his size when necessary, but that’s not the side of myself I care to reveal here.
“Most men buy me a drink before breaking into my dressing room,” I say, keeping my voice light as I assess him. Up close, I can see the stubble along his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Or perhaps he always looks like that. Still deadly handsome, though.
“I’m not most men,” he says without a smile.
No kidding.
“And I didn’t break in. Your door was unlocked.”
“So who are you then?” I ask, moving to my vanity and beginning to remove my earrings. Act casual, unaffected.
“I told you. Victor Callahan. I’m a private investigator.”
I can’t help but bristle. Of course.
“Well, I’ve already told the cops everything I know about Elizabeth,” I tell him.
“Have you?” Something in his tone makes me look up, catch his eyes in the mirror. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, I swear I see something flash in those dark depths. Something familiar.
I turn to face him, leaning against the vanity. “Mr. Callahan, I’m tired, I’m thirsty, and I’ve just learned my closest friend was murdered. So unless you have something useful to offer, I’d appreciate some privacy.”
“Please. Call me Callahan.”
“Callahan, then.”
He doesn’t move, just studies me with that unnerving intensity. “You were the last person to talk to her, aside from her killer.”
My heart stutters. “The police didn’t mention that.”
“Yeah. They’re good at that.” He steps closer, into my space. Most people can’t hold my gaze for long—there’s something about my eyes that makes them uneasy, a predatory quality I can’t entirely disguise. Yet Callahan doesn’t waver. “But I know Elizabeth came to your apartment the night before she disappeared. What did you talk about?”
I should lie. Should feed him the same story I gave the cops. But something makes me hesitate.
I reach for the glass of water on my vanity, buying time. As I do, I let a thread of my influence slip into my words. Not much—just enough to make most humans pliable, suggestive.
“Elizabeth and I talked about the usual things,” I say, voice honeyed, eyes locked on his. “Her auditions. Her dreams of Hollywood. Nothing unusual.” I tilt my head slightly. “Maybe you should focus on her other friends. She had many. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one she confided in.”
The suggestion would work on most. Would make them nod and move on to easier questioning, maybe even leave.
But Callahan just narrows his eyes slightly.
“Nice try, Ms. Reid.” His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “But I think we both know there was more to that conversation.”
A chill runs through me. My influence bounced right off him. That never happens with most humans.
“You’re very direct,” I say, switching tactics. I move closer, watching his reaction. Most men either back away from assertive women or get aggressive. He does neither.
“In my experience, directness saves time.” His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second, then back to my eyes. “And time is something Elizabeth Short ran out of.”
“Poetic.” I reach for my cigarette case, partly to have something to do with my hands. “You’re right, of course. We did talk about something else.” I light the cigarette, exhaling slowly. “She was scared.”
His posture shifts subtly. “Of what?”
“It’s hard to say.” That much is true. She had said so much. “She thought someone was following her. Watching her. I thought she was paranoid.”
“And now you regret that.”
It’s not a question. I look away, taking another drag. “Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if I took her more seriously, she wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be in this jam.”
“Do you consider this to be a jam, Ms. Reid?”
“Please, you can call me Lena.”
He pulls out a small notebook. “Did she mention any names? Any places she was going?”
“No.” The lie feels heavier than it did the other day. “She was always chasing one opportunity or another. That’s how it is for girls like us in this town. You take chances. You take what you can get.”
Of course, he wouldn’t understand that. Men have no idea what it’s like.
“Some chances are more dangerous than others.” He flips through his notebook. “The police report says you’ve been in Los Angeles for three years. Moved here from Salem, Oregon, at age twenty-two. Your parents still live there.”
“You’ve done your homework,” I say as smoothly as possible, though his knowledge rankles me. What else does he know? Does he know what my parents are? What I am? What if he starts poking deeper and finds holes in our stories?