“How dare you?” she said, fisting her hands on her hips in irritation. “You’ll listen to me and like it.”
Could she not see the duct tape around my ankles? Or Jane strapped to a chair and lying on the floor? The woman was so self-centered, nothing else existed but her world and her problems. But since Althea had gone ahead and unwrapped my hands a minute ago, and since Whitney was blocking Althea’s view of me, I took the opportunity to cautiously reach down and remove the tape around my ankles.
“Fine,” I said, as I tried to rip off the duct tape without making noise. “Say what you want, and then you can leave.”
Her eyes narrowed in fury. “How dare you tell Mrs. Perry about that cheap, ugly version of her sculptural masterpiece? She’s heartbroken. Why do you have to be so mean?”
“Me?” Was she for real? This was the reason she was here? “I didn’t tell Mrs. Perry anything. I haven’t seen her since the party.”
“Who else but you would hurt her like that? It’s what you do. It’s so typical of you, to not be able to tell the difference between trash and art.”
“Oh, please. You thought it was trash, too. We both lied to make her think her ugly fountain was beautiful.” I sat up straight, having managed to pull off the tape while Whitney blocked my view. “Never mind. I didn’t do what you think I did, so you can go ahead and leave now.”
Unfortunately she was on a tear, flouncing around and blathering about my thoughtless behavior. And now Althea could see me again. I sat rigidly in the chair so the woman wouldn’t realize I was free to move. She still had a gun pointed in my direction, after all.
“You ruin people’s dreams,” Whitney cried. “Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve been trying to steal my husband for years?”
“Oh no.” I started laughing. “You’re crazy—you know that? I don’t want Tommy. I couldn’t steal him away from you if I tried. He’s madly in love with you, heaven only knows why.”
But she wasn’t listening. She was leaning around to see what was on the floor. “Jane? Is that you? What’re you doing down there?”
“Whitney,” I whispered. “Go now.”
She frowned at me. “What?”
“You’re in danger.”
“Will you speak up? I can’t hear you.”
She’d never been the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but her inability to comprehend a threat was mind-blowing.
“Get out of here!” I whispered as loudly as I could without alerting Althea.
But instead of running, Whitney stopped and sniffed the air. “Is that Valentino? I love Valentino.” She lifted her snooty nose higher to breathe in Althea’s flowery fragrance.
“You are ridiculous,” I muttered.
“Who’s wearing Valentino?” She glanced around. “Don’t tell me it’s you.”
“Just kill her,” Jane muttered, and I was ridiculously happy to know she still had her sense of humor.
Whitney heard her and gave her a puzzled look. “Jane, what’s going on? Is this part of the game?”
“Shannon, get her out of here,” Jane whispered.
Jane was right. I had to make a move. Without warning, I jumped up from my chair and grabbed Whitney, pulling her into the kitchen. She screamed and tried to slap my hands off her.
“No, you don’t!” Althea shouted, and darted out from behind the door. She caught up with us in the kitchen and yanked a syringe from her pocket. Good grief, what else did she have in her pockets?
“Whitney, run!” I grappled with Althea, trying to avoid that needle. But now Althea had a firm hold on Whitney’s arm.
“Get your hands off me!” Whitney shrieked. “Who are you?”
In one swift move, Althea managed to stab Whitney’s arm.
“Ow! What’re you . . . uuuh . . .” Whitney’s eyelids fluttered closed and she crumpled to the floor.
“What was in that?” I cried, horrified to see Whitney inert. My mind flashed on Andrew Braxton, murdered by deadly injection. Had she killed Whitney?
“Relax. It’s just a tranquilizer,” she said, waving away my concern. “At least it shut her up. You and Jane are annoying, but that woman just about pushed me over the edge.”
“What is wrong with you?” I shouted. “You’re like the doctor of death with your gun and your drugs and your lies.”
“I’m forced to carry a gun, but I rarely use it. I prefer a nice clean syringe.” She patted her hair back into place. “I think they’re more ladylike.”
“You are not a lady,” I said, then cringed inwardly. As if insulting her would work in my favor.