Even if I had words, they're all stuck behind the horrendous lump of knowing that prods at my gag reflex.
Tuija's bedroom is surprisingly sparse. She must've poured all of her personality into her office because here, the walls are white and bare, the beech furniture awkwardly put together as if she gave up mid-assembly and didn't fix in all the screws. There are no family photos or trinkets. No calendar full of social events. A couple pairs of heels lie scattered by her closet, as if someone kicked their way through them.
Perhaps they did.
I don't want to look on the bed, but I know I have to.
Would you believe it if I said I'd never seen her naked? It's the truth. Tuij and I were only ever platonic. Maybe I could understand Leo and Rachel's arrangement a little better if we'd been anything else, but no. We were friends, if you could even call it that.
We aren't friends anymore.
We aren't friends because Tuija is dead.
She's draped across the bed, half-obscured by a white sheet. Eyes still open and blood shot. Her face is oddly beautiful, all pale and scrubbed free of makeup; she looks like a mannequin. A wax doll. One large breast spills from beneath the cover, its nipple pink and erect. Stiff, probably.
All of lifeless Tuija is soft and stiff at once.
"Firecracker?" I don't sound like myself. I sound like I smoke forty a day.
A messy purple bruise circles her throat. Somebody strangled my redheaded rocket.
My fingers hover above her blank face as if they can somehow conjure new life, but nothing happens, the room is still dim and motionless and smells like damp. There's a faint undercurrent of the clean, sharp perfume I always told her I hated, but suddenly I don't hate it at all.
Harvey comes up behind me. I recognise his heavy gait.
"It was a breakin. The door was just pushed shut. We don't know how long she's been like this—probably happened in the middle of the night."
"Can I cover her?" I find myself asking.
"You can't touch a thing. Aeron—shit. Look at how they did it."
They choked her.
Just like my mother was choked.
"I have an alibi," I grind out. "Leo even has a camera in her kitchen...I'll be on there."
He nods. "It's the police you have to convince. Not me. We both know who's responsible here."
I blink. Am running on empty, scraping the rough edges of my own brain. "Who?"
"Montgomery," he hisses. "His people."
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Shit.
He couldn't have got to Leo; I was with her all night. So he skipped my heart and went straight for my main artery.
He went for Tuij.
"The police have arrived," someone calls through from the living area.
"Better get your ass out of here." Harvey clamps a big hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let them get in here and find something to nail the bastard."
"I can nail him," I utter. "I already did nail him. To a fucking cross."
And Tuija has paid the price, though she warned me. Hell, even Harvey warned me. It's the dead elephant in this cold, cold room.
"Sir," Harvey says firmly. "You need to move."
I take one last look at Tuija, whose hands are thrown above her head—probably where they were held down—in a vague mockery of a salute. Just the way she used to do in the office.
Of all the words that cross my mind, I can only form an apology.
I'm sorry, firecracker. This wasn't your fault.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
#15
Love (noun): an empty, endless pit idiots fall throw themselves into without caring who will catch them or when.
If there was ever a story to overshadow Montgomery and his twink, it would be this one. Two women, both connected to me in various, shadowy ways, both dead in a matter of days. As far as the media are concerned—even my media—Tuija was my ex. So was Rachel. I finally make a public announcement about a relationship and these girls are quickly deceased, one in a suspiciously similar manner to my mother. A murder I was accused of, connected to.
Of course the police have questions. I'm better armed this time with a good lawyer, but I'm still at the precinct for eight hours, until Leo delivers the footage from her kitchen camera. If she sent the whole thing, they'll see her on top of me. See us fucking.
I can't even bring myself to care.
Even with my solid alibi, there are questions of conspiracy to consider. When the fuckers can't find anything to charge me with, they release me into Harvey's custody, and a police escort accompanies us to a hotel where a suite has been rented for me.
I can't go home. There are too many eyes on me; I must hide.
I need a shower.
I need to call Ash.
I need to see Leo, and I need her to bring that fucking scalpel so I can paint myself some rose-tinted glasses in the mess of another cut. At this rate, I'll end up slicing myself open if I can't do...something...
"Is Leo coming?" I ask Harvey as he walks me to my suite.
"She'll be here in ten." He regards me. "Sir. About Tuija. I'm...I'm sorry."
I swallow dry air. "Thank you."