Chapter 20
“Thanks for helping me paint the room, Mena. It means a lot.” Sarah grinned at me. There was a smear of pale yellow paint across her cheek and a hand-sized print on the front of her khaki overalls. Her pale hair was held back by a black headband. It made her look like a little girl, minus the pregnant belly, of course.
My milk-based paint was a total hit. Since she’d met me, Sarah had taken to caring more about the things I cared about, including all-natural products. Even though Larsen thought we were mad, Sarah made a valid point. Milk-based paint would make for a healthier environment for the baby, especially in an area where he would be sleeping.
Not to mention we needed the fun of painting a room after the discussion we’d had this morning with Tina.
“Well, you’re paying me for the paint even though I don’t want you to.” I swiped my roller up the wall, the sponge making a wet squish as it moved. “The least I could do is help you paint.”
“You have to make a living, Mena,” Sarah chided, dipping her brush in the bucket. She was trimming the corners and edges while I rollered the surface area. “Just because you’re my best friend doesn’t mean I can take advantage of your talents.”
“Whatever,” I said fondly.
Since our meeting with Tina that morning, J.J. and I hadn’t left Sarah’s side. I couldn’t help the worry that kept me from going home. Not until Larsen got home from the office, and I knew my best friend would be safe.
“What are your plans this week?” I asked, dipping the roller in the pan.
“None, believe it or not.”
“No ribbon cuttings or school visits?” I teased.
“The life of a society woman never pauses,” she said haughtily, flicking her brush in my direction. Paint splashed over my coveralls.
“You wouldn’t do that if we hadn’t covered the carpet.”
Sarah leaned forward as much as she was able and ran the brush along the edge of the baseboard. “No responsibilities this week. Which is best, I think. So, how’s life with the Irishman?”
I blushed. I hadn’t thought of Tierney all day, but just the mention of him sent a mixture of desire and terror flooding through me. “Good.”
“Mena!” Sarah tossed her brush in the tray at her hip and smirked at me. “Are you sleeping with him?”
The very thought made me shiver. I ran the roller over the wall a little harder. “No! I’ve only known him three days. What do you take me for?”
“A girl who hasn’t had a boyfriend in the entire three years I’ve know her.” Sarah leaned against the wall — luckily a section that was unpainted — and eyed me warily, her hands cradling her stomach. “It isn’t good for a woman to go so long without a man’s companionship.”
I glared at her. “That’s sexist.”
“Not sexist. It’s been proven that a woman who hasn’t had an orgasm in years is only half a person.” Sarah grinned.
“You just made that up.” I laughed.
“Don’t deny it, Mena. Look at you: you’ve rollered the same spot like twenty times since I brought up Tierney.”
I paused and glanced at my roller. I had. “I blame you.”
“Blame all you want,” Sarah cooed. She picked up her brush and turned back to the corner she was painting. “But you know what I’m saying is true.”
“I just don’t know anything about him,” I said after a pause. I swiped the roller in my tray, watching as the thick, creamy paint soaked the sponge.
“Then do something about it.”
As I was musing on her logic, I painted the same spot four times.
Damn. I had it bad.
*
After dinner, I cuddled on the couch with Sarah as Larsen disappeared into his office. She grabbed the remote from the end table and turned on the evening news.
“Thanks for dinner,” I told her, tucking my feet beneath her knees where it was warm. They always kept it ice cold in their house, so when the sun began to sink, it got frigid.
Sarah pulled a soft, fluffy blanket from the back of the couch and shook it out around our legs. “You’re welcome. You can’t always be the one to cook.”
“It was awesome of you to make the veggie casserole for me. After cooking the roast for Larsen, I mean.”
“Says the woman who makes me chicken even though she doesn’t eat it.” Sarah rolled her eyes.
“Don’t do that. The baby will see,” I joked.
She shoved me with a foot. “Shh. I want to watch the news.”
“Wanna make a bet on what color tie Sorcha Gonzalez is wearing today?” I asked as the ditty for the six o’clock news played.
“Yes. Green.”
“Blue and yellow striped,” I shot back, and we both turned our gazes to the television.
Red-headed anchor Nancy Morris’s botoxed face filled the screen, and she started in her boring monotonous voice. “Breaking news out of Waterford tonight in reference to the case of missing pregnant woman, Molly Swanson. We join Marissa Lopez live at Horehead Cemetery on Backrush Road. Marissa, what can you tell us about the current situation?”
I looked at Sarah. Her eyes were wide and worried.
Marissa Lopez was five feet tall and eighty pounds soaking wet with a mass of black hair that looked like a separate entity on her head. She frowned into the camera as she spoke. “Thank you, Nancy. I’m here in front of Horehead Cemetery, where as you can see, we do have an active situation. Waterford PD is on scene, including Chief Aaron Koenig, who we will be speaking with momentarily. All we know thus far is that it is in reference to the Molly Swanson investigation. We’ll keep you updated from the front lines. Back to you, Nancy.”
The screen switched back to the main anchor, and she nodded. “Thank you, Marissa…”
“Oh my God, Mena.” Sarah’s breath hitched. “What if she’s dead?”
“Then we will get through it,” I told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tugging her against me.
The phone rang, and a moment later we heard Larsen’s booming voice as he answered. I rocked Sarah gently, ignoring the commercials as I struggled to hear what he was saying.
When he walked into the room a few minutes later, as Sorcha was giving us the weather in his blue and yellow striped tie, I knew by the look on Larsen’s face the news wasn’t good.
I caught Sarah’s bloodshot eyes. “You need to call Tina. I think it’s officially time to declare this an emergency.”