THIRTY-ONE

Every muscle, nerve ending, tendon, and blood vessel in Reese’s battered body throbbed with pain. It was two weeks after the accident, and she still felt as if she’d had a head-on collision with an immovable object, which in fact she had. The painkillers administered by the hospital only dulled the constant, searing jolts. If her leg wasn’t hurting, her pelvis was; if that wasn’t inflamed, then her arm was killing her; and if that was soothed, then her ribs throbbed with every breath, though usually everything ached all at once. But the biggest pain of all was the mental anguish she suffered every time she took a look in the mirror. Her once-beautiful face was an ugly mess of stitches, black-and-blue bruising, grotesque swelling, and semihealed gashes; in other words, she looked like shit.

Fortunately she remembered nothing of the actual crash, only the terrifying seconds beforehand when she realized what was about to happen, and that nothing could stop the inevitability of Paulette’s car’s careening off the hillside. Her next moment of consciousness was when she woke up screaming in the hospital, surrounded by grim-faced doctors and tight-lipped nurses. They were all uttering nonsense among themselves about how lucky she was to be alive. It was easy for them to say.

A few days later she woke up again to find Gillian at her bedside, looking down at her with such pity. Reese despised that look, knowing what it foretold. It wasn’t until the next day, when she felt a bit stronger and she asked the nurse to hold a mirror up to her face, that she knew the full extent of her facial injuries. She was unprepared for the gruesome sight that greeted her, and screamed with fright at what was left of her once beautiful face. Gillian tried to soothe her, to tell her that it would be all right, but those words were empty; they meant nothing to Reese, who’d spent her entire life trading on the now-depleted currency of her good looks. For her, there was no other reality. She was nothing without her Cover Girl appearance.

She vaguely remembered Gillian breaking the news to her that Paulette had died in the car crash, and even that didn’t register; the only thing she could think about was her own pain. She would rather have been dead herself, than lying in a hospital bed, the object of such pity.

When Chris brought Rowe to visit, she heard her soon-to-be ex’s audible gasp, the quick intake of breath, and she burst into tears. Even the thought of his $15 million settlement offer did nothing to ease her anguish. If she’d been strong enough to physically get out of bed and kill herself, she would have done it without a second thought. She saw no point in living—until she saw her son.

She hadn’t seen Rowe in a month, and was surprised by how much he’d grown. He was bigger, taller, and quite the handsome little boy. When he saw her, he put his small hands on hers and said, “Don’t worry, Mommy; everything’ll be okay. The boo-boos will go ’way; you’ll see.” And he nodded his head very confidently for a five-year-old. Rowe seemed instinctively to know that she needed him now, and he was determined to be a big boy for his mother. She was mesmerized by her son, who seemed to radiate such hope. For the first time, her thoughts were centered on something, or someone, other than herself.

When he was born, Rowe was simply a necessary inconvenience to assure her cash flow. She’d never really viewed him as a part of herself. Perhaps for the first time, lying in bed with nothing else to hold on to, she felt pangs of true maternal love for her child, and tears rolled down her face. He dabbed her tears away with the sleeve of his shirt, and said, “You’re still beautiful, Mommy, and I still love you.” And she could tell that he really meant it. Here was a person who loved her, despite the fact that she wasn’t perfect, beautiful, or glamorous. Maybe that was what people meant by unconditional love. After he left, she cherished the memory of his cute face, and lived for the sound of his sweet words when he called her every day.

Two days before her scheduled release, she had another unexpected visitor. This one wasn’t nearly as pleasant. She opened her eyes to find a tall, dark-skinned man at her bedside, staring at her as though he could read her thoughts, even as she slept.

“Mrs. Nolan—or is that Miss yet?” he asked a bit sarcastically.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Harris,” he answered, flipping open his badge. When she didn’t respond, he said, “I’m investigating the murder of Paulette Dolliver.”

“Murder? But it was a car accident.”

“I see you’ve not been told.”

Gillian had insisted that the hospital remove the television from Reese’s room, fearing that news of the tragedy would only deepen her depression. “Told what?” If she could have sat up in bed she would have, but because of the broken ribs she needed help just pulling herself upright.

“The brake and steering lines were deliberately tampered with. It was murder, Mrs. Nolan, and, I suppose in your case, attempted murder.” He seemed to enjoy watching the repercussions after dropping the bomb.

A shudder of fear ran through her body, amplifying the pain. Reese was shocked; she had no idea that the accident was the result of anything other than Paulette’s bad driving and her being too upset to be behind the wheel of a car. She remembered thinking that Paulette needed to pull over, and seconds later she had lost control. They were barely a mile from Gillian and Brandon’s home when it happened.

“But why?” she asked. More than most people, she knew that Paulette could be a deceiving bitch, but hell, so could she; that was no reason to kill someone.

“That’s exactly what I was hoping you could tell me.” He sat down in the chair at her bedside, uninvited, and gave Reese an accusatory look, as though she had killed Paulette and nearly taken herself out in the process.

“How would I know?”

“From what I understand, Miss Dolliver had quite a few enemies, and since you two were so close, I imagine that you would know. You two did live together, didn’t you?”

“Temporarily.”

“While you were waiting for your big settlement from your husband?”

“That’s correct.”

“A settlement that Miss Dolliver was involved in securing for you, isn’t that right?”

“She gave me referrals,” Reese skirted.

“And paid for their services,” he added, pulling out a copy of the contract and payment to the private detective.

“So?”

“So, I imagine that your husband might not be so happy with either one of you, especially having to cough up fifteen million dollars, when you were close to settling the week before for two hundred thousand. For lots of people that’s a damned good motive for murder.”

Reese had never once considered the idea that Chris would do anything other than write the check and pout about it, but on the other hand, those pictures had hit below the belt, and maybe they had also pushed him over the edge. After all, she never thought he’d have the wits to set her up with Shaun either, so maybe he was full of even more surprises.

“I don’t know,” she said, weighing her options. What if Chris was convicted of murder—what would happen? Well first off, she’d get full custody of Rowe, which would also mean more money, and possibly control over the rest of his estate. Maybe Chris did do it.

“What did the private detective find out, Mrs. Nolan?”

She knew that if she told him about the pictures they could build a pretty good case against Chris, and if it got out to the press, he’d be as much as convicted. “Pictures. He took some pictures of Chris.”

The detective raised his eyebrow. “Pictures of Chris doing what?”

Reese thought about the luxurious home she’d been unfairly forced to leave, and of her son, who’d been taken away from her, and how she’d need every possible luxury and security possible now that she’d most likely be disfigured for the rest of her life, unable to make it on her looks alone. “He was in a compromising position.”

The detective sighed impatiently, “With a woman?”

“No, with a man.” There, she’d said it.

Detective Harris looked like he’d just won the lottery. This case was getting freakier by the minute. Talk about a motive—this was almost too good to be true. Even though Chris had an alibi on the day of the accident, it was common knowledge, since his prior arrest, that he hung around a rough, drug-dealing crowd, so he could have easily paid someone a lot less than $15 million to do the job. Detective Harris was nearly salivating at the career boost he’d get for bagging a superstar NBA player for murder. “I need to see those pictures.”

“They’re in New York,” she said to stall him. Since Paulette had handled things with the private detective, she actually had no idea where they were. She did remember her saying something about their being put away for safekeeping, but she had no idea where that was.

“Tell me where and I’ll send an officer.” Now, this was good! Even if Chris Nolan didn’t have anything to do with the murder, it would be quite a coup to have pictures of him getting it on with another man. The guys at the precinct would go nuts! He could probably make a fortune selling them to one of those gossip rags. Then he could be rich and fucked-up himself.

“No, I don’t know exactly where they are. Paulette put them away for me, so I’ll have to find them first.” Finding them would be her first order of business once she got out of the hospital. They had to be either in Paulette’s L.A. bungalow or in her New York apartment.

He didn’t like that answer, but couldn’t force her. Besides, she seemed motivated enough. He could almost see the dollar signs flashing behind her swollen and blackened eyes. “When do you get out?”

“In a couple of days.” She would be discharged tomorrow and would stay with Gillian overnight, and the next day they would both fly to New York to get her settled in.

The detective pulled his card from a breast pocket and wrote his private cell number on it. “Call me the minute you have those pictures in hand.” He laid the card on her tray and stood up.

“Certainly,” she said, happy for him to be leaving. On top of her other aches and pains, a massive headache was now looming.

“Before I leave, tell me about Lauren Neuman, Paulette’s cousin, whose husband she was having an affair with.” He chuckled. He seemed to be genuinely amused by the crazy antics of these black people who obviously had too much money and time on their hands, and not enough good sense. There was one cousin fucking the husband of the other, best friends telling on each other, and now an NBA player caught with some guy. Worst case, he could sell the movie rights for this one, but it was so crazy that even Hollywood wouldn’t believe it.

“Lauren is a nice person, and would never do such a thing.” She was really thinking that Lauren didn’t have the balls to do such a thing.

“What about her husband?”

Reese hadn’t had time to consider that possibility. She had to admit it wasn’t a bad one, either, since the accident would have gotten rid of Paulette and the bastard child.

Two birds, one stone. Just as in Chris’s case.