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)
“Some girls try harder than others,” the cop mutters, and I feel a surge of anger cut through my grief. “Is there anything else you remember about that night? Anything she might have mentioned?”
The urge to tell him about the diary is strong but I rein it in. It’s true that half the cops in this town are on Cohen’s payroll, but the other half aren’t. What if there’s some incriminating evidence about me in those pages? I’m selfish enough to worry about that. Not to mention I don’t know what Betty would say about herself, potentially damaging her reputation after death. I need to read it over first, at the very least.
“No,” I say firmly. “She was scared, but she didn’t say of what. Or who.”
“And that wasn’t enough for you to worry?”
I shrug through a sharp pang of guilt. “Mister, most of us in this town are scared, one way or another.”
The cops exchange glances, clearly dissatisfied with my answers. But what else can I say without putting myself in danger?
Without exposing what I really am?
“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Reid. Don’t leave town.” The red-nosed cop hands me his card. “Call if you remember anything else.”
After they leave, Joey hovers uncertainly. “You okay, Lena? You don’t have to go back on if you don’t want to.”
I take another long swig of vodka, letting it burn away some of the shock. Elizabeth is dead. Murdered. And I’ve just lied to the police about what I know. As if I wasn’t feeling guilty already. After all, I was the one that introduced Betty to this racket.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, rising to my feet and smoothing down my dress. “The show must go on, right?”
But as I check my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes hold a new darkness. Tonight, for the first time, the blood-red of my attire feels like an omen rather than a statement.
As I reapply my lipstick with trembling hands, I silently promise Betty that I’ll find out what happened to her. I need to get home, need to read that diary, see what Betty knew.
I cap my lipstick and take a deep breath. Time to become Lena Reid again, the sultry singer with nothing—and everything—to hide. But underneath, with every beat of my heart, I feel the weight of my guilt.
I’m so sorry, Betty. I should have protected you.
I step back into the hallway, head high, ready to face the crowd once more. But as I move toward the stage, I feel it again—that prickling at the back of my neck. The sense of being watched.
When I glance back, the hallway is empty. But the feeling remains, a shadow following me into the spotlight.
The lock clicks behind me as I enter my apartment, silence wrapping around me like a shroud. I lean against the door, letting the mask fall away. No more Lena Reid, the composed singer.
Just me, terrified and aggrieved.
My hands shake as I cross to the liquor cabinet, pouring two fingers of whiskey and downing it in one swallow. The burn does nothing to warm the chill spreading through me.
I move to the fireplace, mechanically arranging kindling and logs. The familiar ritual steadies my nerves as the flames catch, orange light dancing across the hardwood floors. For a moment, I just stare into the fire, mesmerized by its hungry motion.
Then I cross to the bookshelf, reaching above the collected works of Fitzgerald for the slim leather-bound book I placed there. Elizabeth’s diary.
I have to believe that she left it here for me to find. I have to believe that she would want me to read it.
Still, as I settle in front of the fire, running my fingers over the worn cover before opening it, I feel shame and guilt, about to read something that Betty probably meant for her eyes only. I open it carefully, her handwriting fills the pages—neat but hurried, as if she couldn’t get the information down fast enough.
I flip toward the most recent entries, wanting to read them first to see if they give any immediate clues, then I’ll go back to the beginning.
Dec. 14 – Package delivery to warehouse on Alameda. The Europeans watching again. Blonde woman in Cadillac followed three blocks.
Dec. 17 – Overheard conversation about “blood types” at the Satin Slipper. The tall one with the accent asking about medical records from blood drive.
Dec. 21 – Another package to the warehouse. Saw strange symbols painted on inner wall. They looked kind of like this:
I turn the page to find Elizabeth’s crude reproduction of symbols that make my blood run cold. They look ancient, like something out of the Bronze Age.
Dec. 28 – They’re watching my building now. Saw the blonde woman again. Think I’m being followed everywhere. Mickster says I’m imagining things. He never takes me seriously.