Chapter Thirty-One

I couldn’t shake the kicked-in-the-gut feeling. I’d left the house without seeking out Billy. Maybe he would’ve driven me, but I had been too busy trying not to cry to be able to ask. And it was probably the best thing anyway. If he had taken me anywhere else, I would’ve felt like too much of a personal connection had been made.

Not that I was kidding myself. They could find me if they really wanted to. But I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

And now that I was…I was regretting it.

I had dragged myself onto the bus that would take me right to Blair’s house, and found a seat. But she lived on the opposite side of the city, and as house after house blinked by through the bus windows, the trip was even longer than usual. It gave me too much time to dwell.

I’d just barely managed to begin to clean the slate of the sorrow I’d felt about losing Jeanette, and now it was all dirty again, this time with the hurt of rejection. Why did it cut me in so similar a way? I’d been young when she died, and I was probably already a mess waiting to happen. Her death had just been the thing to push me over the edge.

This isn’t the same, I told myself.

But it made me hurt in such a similar way.

You’ll get over it, I told myself harshly.

I was sure it was true. Or pretty sure anyway. It had taken years for me to get over losing my sister. But she had raised me. It had even taken me years to get over Dean, and I hadn’t loved him, not really. Or at least, I hadn’t felt the same passion as I had when I was with—I cut myself off and I gave myself a mental kick in the rear end. We’d only had three days together, and it had been for business purposes.

But for some reason it was like a lifetime had passed.

The bus finally made its wheezing stop a few houses down from Blair’s place. I thanked the driver in a forcedly bright voice and took a breath. My friend was going to be pissed at me. And she had a right to be.

But I need her. It was selfish, but I walked quickly to her door anyway.

I knocked hesitantly, knowing she was already mad, and knowing she’d be even madder when she heard the scanty details I was willing to share. I’d already decided I would keep my promise of relative silence. I wouldn’t tell her about the money John had offered me. I wouldn’t tell her about his questionable career choices, or about exactly what had happened with Monato. But she was still my best friend.

I knocked again, and she still didn’t answer. Had she seen me through the window and chosen not to come to the door? I resisted an urge to call her name loudly. The upstairs neighbour was a cranky, eighty-year-old man who wouldn’t appreciate the disturbance after eight o’clock in the evening.

I glanced into my purse. I had seen it sitting by John’s front door and grabbed it. I dug through it until I found my cell phone. Dead, of course.

And even if it wasn’t…Blair might not have answered my call anyway, I admitted.

Tears welled up again and I fought them back.

“I need you to forgive me, Blair. Quickly,” I said up into the air.

A hand on my shoulder made me jump and spin around. My friend’s grumpy neighbour glared at me. He was dressed in mismatched plaid pajamas and brown slippers.

“Sorry, Mr. Reimer,” I said automatically.

“Don’t think she’s here,” he grumbled. “Lots of ruckus about an hour ago. Been quiet since then, though.”

“What kind of a ruckus?” I asked.

“Shouting. Heard a crash. Thought maybe she was fighting with a boyfriend.”

An immediate chill made me shiver.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” I stated.

I turned and banged on the door.

“Blair!” I yelled, and I could hear the frightened edge in my own voice.

There was still no response.

“Blair!” I shouted again.

“Did you try the handle?” Mr. Reimer asked.

“What?”

The old man rolled his eyes and reached for the doorknob. When he turned it and pushed, the door swung open easily.

“Easy peasy. Need anything else? No? I’m going back to bed,” Mr. Reimer told me.

I waited until he’d disappeared around the side of the house, then took a breath. I stepped into my friend’s suite.

“Blair?” I called a little more quietly, and not honestly expecting an answer.

The state of the living room made me feel sick to my stomach.

Blair’s favourite antique lamp had been knocked to the ground, and the light bulb was in pieces. Her wooden rocking chair was on its side. A glass carafe was shattered on the coffee table, and orange juice was spread out in a sticky mess across the carpet. Blair’s keys, purse and cell phone were sitting in a pile on the sofa. A crumpled hand towel was wedged between the seats.

I reached down and picked up the towel. Even before I got it close to my face, the familiar and nauseating smell of ether hit me.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

My thoughts tumbled quickly through my head.

This is my fault.

But Monato is dead!

Should I call the police?

And then a sharp blow to the back of my head cut me off.