Authors: Stephanie Bond
decor of the previous decade—he and Carlotta hadn’t
changed anything. His mother’s perfume bottles stil
littered her vanity, his father’s ties were stil draped over
his valet stand. E. walked into the room and to the closet.
She opened the door, revealing their clothes, stil hanging
as they’d left them, crammed into the small space, the
closet about a third of the size of the one in the house that
they’d lost.
They had traveled light when they’d left. E. closed the
closet door and walked back to him. “I think we’re through
here,” she said quietly.
He exhaled in relief, closed the bedroom door and
fol owed her back to the living room where she picked up
her purse. “I just need to take a look in the garage, and
then I’l be on my way.”
He grabbed the remote control and walked out to raise
the door. Once in the garage, E. scanned the cluttered
shelves, and cupped her hands to peek into the Miata. “Is
this yours?”
“My sister’s,” he said. “But it doesn’t run.”
“Too bad,” she said, then opened the door and pul ed the
lever to open the trunk.
The woman was thorough, he conceded.
She lifted a blond wig and a high-heeled boot from the
trunk and looked at Wesley. He shrugged and she dropped
them back inside, closed the lid and clapped the dust from
her hands.
“Thanks for the cookie,” she said with the faintest smile.
“See you next Wednesday.”
“Okay,” he said, feeling oddly proud of himself as he
watched her walk down the sidewalk to her car. But as she
drove away, he remembered the gun, which wasn’t even
his.
Wesley removed his glasses and raked his hand down over
his face. Where the hel could it be?
38
Carlotta was already awake when her alarm went off the
next morning. Awake and miserable, having spent the
night vacil ating between hiccupping crying jags and
nonsensical optimism that Peter’s confession would
somehow turn out to be a mistake, that the real kil er
would be apprehended, and that she and Peter would live
happily ever after.
She would have gladly spent the day wallowing in bed if
not for that pesky paycheck that she needed to earn.
Working for a living was so damn inconvenient sometimes.
She inched out of bed, her limbs heavy and her heart
down around her ankles. Showering and getting dressed
seemed to take forever, despite that since she’d cleaned
out her closet she had less to choose from. To lift her
spirits, she put on her most gorgeous and most
uncomfortable shoes: a pair of Valentino leopard-print
pumps that were a half size too small, but she’d had to
have them. They were, she acknowledged, turning in front
of a ful -length mirror, devastating. She was stil
inconsolable, but she was inconsolable and exquisitely wel
shod.
Concealing the circles under her eyes required more
makeup artistry than usual, although the bounty from Dr.
Suarez’s office came in handy.
While she made herself a cup of coffee and ate eleven
chocolate-chip cookies, she thought about Peter and
wondered if he’d turned himself in this morning, as his
attorney had promised he would. She was wounded to the
marrow that she had so grossly misjudged him, and
worried that he might be desperate enough to do
something to himself.
She pushed away the thought as soon as it entered her
head—she couldn’t imagine a world without Peter in it.
Even if they weren’t together al these years, it had been
comforting on a base level to know that he was walking
around, breathing in and out.
Like her parents.
When she walked out onto the stoop, she scanned the
yard and the street, looking for green cars, mobster-
mobiles and Detective Terry’s black sedan. Nothing
seemed amiss on this gorgeous morning, the sun already
simmering around the edges as it climbed in a cloudless
sky. The cheeriness of the day belied the gloom in her
heart, its stark brightness only highlighting the eerie
feeling of impending doom.
She frowned at the long scratches on the side of her car.
Filing a claim with her insurer was just one more thing to
do. When she realized how the episode might have ended,
she shuddered. Worse was not knowing if it had been an
accident or one of Wesley’s thugs.
Gone was the theory of someone trying to shut her up—
unless it had been Peter. She worried her lip. When he had
come to her house the night that Lisa Bolton had been
kil ed, hadn’t he begged her to stop asking questions? Her
thoughts flew to the dark loaner car in his garage. Had it,
by chance, been dark green?
She swallowed hard and climbed inside the Monte Carlo,
securing her seat belt tighter than normal. She kept an eye
on her rearview mirror on the way to work, in between
skimming the newspaper at red lights. The Buckhead serial
kil er story was on page three. The husband of one of the
victims had confessed to her murder, the article said.
Peter Ashford, age thirty-three, was expected to turn
himself in today.
She was all cried out, but her face hurt from the pressure
behind her eyes and nose and throat. By the time she
reached the parking garage, she was shaking from the
caffeine, the sugar and the stress. As she drove in, she
waved halfheartedly at Akin Frasier, who patrol ed the
entrance like a mercenary. She drove up to the second
level where she normally parked, and pul ed into the
space, thinking how ludicrous it was for her to go to work
today when she was likely to get nothing done. Yet what
else was there for her to do but maintain her routine?
It was, she had learned, how people coped with the
unthinkable. They kept moving, pretending to be okay,
until one day they were okay…or some version of it.
She’d just turned off the engine when suddenly the
passenger side of her car opened. She cried out in alarm
when Peter swung inside and closed the door. There was
at least two days’ worth of beard on his jaw and his
clothes were disheveled. And he was very drunk.
“Peter,” she said, gulping air. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you, Carly,” he said in a monotone, his eyes
glassy bright.
“I thought you were…turning yourself in today.”
“I am,” he said, his voice low and desperate. “I’m trying to
make everything right.”
“If you kil ed Angela,” she whispered, “then turning
yourself in is the right thing to do.” Her throat constricted.
“Why did you do it, Peter? Because you found out she was
taking money for sex?”
His eyes rounded in horror. “You…you know about that?”
She winced. “A friend of Wesley’s was the one who
identified her from the picture in the paper. Wesley told
the police yesterday.”
He pressed his hand against his forehead as pure panic
registered on his face. “You mean, everyone knows?”
“Not everyone,” she whispered. “Although there’s always
the chance that it wil get out to the papers.”
“Oh my God,” he said, bowing his head. “This can’t be
happening.” He clasped his hands together so hard they
shook. “I found Angela’s appointment book in the pool
house and figured out what she was doing. I couldn’t
believe it. When I confronted her, she said it was my fault,
for not loving her, that I drove her to find companionship
elsewhere. She said her johns made her feel…desirable.”
He began to sob. “And I knew who had talked her into it—
Lisa Bolton.”
Carlotta’s heart shriveled. Oh, God, he’d kil ed Lisa, too?
He pivoted his head. “Why couldn’t you just keep your
mouth shut, Carly? If not for that stupid autopsy, they
would have let Angela rest in peace. They wouldn’t have
started digging into our lives.”
Tears rol ed down her cheeks.
“If only you had left things alone, everything would have
smoothed over, and you and I could have been together.”
She reached for the door handle, but he leaned over and
locked her door. Then he put his hands on her shoulders,
turning her toward him. “I made a terrible mistake. But we
can stil be together.”
“Peter.” She tried to pul away and realized she stil wore
her seat belt. Fear invaded her organs. “You’re scaring
me.”
“Why?” His combustible breath was hot against her cheek.
“Are you afraid I’m going to strangle you, like you think I
strangled Angela and Lisa?” His hands closed around her
neck and he laughed as he applied pressure with his
thumbs. “You have no idea how much you tormented me
over the years, Carly, how I searched for some way to
forget about you.”
Terror descended, tearing a mewling noise from her
throat. She struggled against his grasp and used her elbow
to stab the car horn. The blast startled him, making him
more agitated. “I just want things to be the way they used
to,” he cried, anguish in his eyes. “But that will never
happen now, wil it?”
She clawed blindly for the door handle. “Peter, don’t do
this. I…I love you,” she gasped, not sure if she said it out of
desperation or because she meant it.
He froze, the glazed look in his eyes clearing for a few
seconds as a wondrous smile spread over his face. “You
do?”
She wheezed under the pressure of his hands, then
abruptly the pressure on her throat was gone, and Peter’s
mouth was on hers, kissing her as if his life depended on it.
Then al hel broke loose. A loud bang on the car
momentarily distracted Peter, and then the passenger-side
door opened and a pair of big hands reached in to drag
Peter off her.
“Peter Ashford,” a familiar voice said, “you’re under arrest
for the murder of Angela Ashford.”
“This is a mistake,” Peter said. “Call my lawyer. This is all a
big mistake.”
She saw him being handcuffed, heard the click of the
metal and brought her fist to her mouth to stifle the cry of
grief trapped in her throat. Then Detective Terry’s face
appeared as he leaned into the car. “Are you all right?” he
asked her, his jaw hard.
She nodded, wiping her eyes. He disappeared from view
and she watched him in the rear and side mirrors lead
Peter to his car and put him into the back seat. Then the
detective returned to her car. She fumbled with the door,
but finally managed to unlock it. He opened the door and
knelt to her level. “Are you really okay?”
She nodded, stil feeling a little dazed. He reached around
her to unbuckle her seat belt and she recognized on a
visceral level that his touch was different than Peter’s—
aloof, yes, but…protective…safe. “Were you fol owing
me?” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he said. “I figured Ashford might try to see you
before he turned himself in.”
“I guess you were right…about a lot of things.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “For the record, I’m not happy
about it.”
She averted her gaze, her chest and throat wracked with
the pain of helplessness. Senseless murders, lives
upended…and the nagging sense of denial that she stil
didn’t believe what was unfolding in front of her own eyes.
Her love for Peter was blind…and deaf, dumb and
paralyzed.
“Did he tel you anything?”
She looked up, expecting to see a smug look in the
detective’s eyes. Instead she saw…compassion? Maybe
there was a heart hanging behind those hideous ties. She
nodded.
“I’l need for you to come down to the station and make a
statement. Are you okay to drive, or do you want to ride
down with me?”
Her gaze darted to his car. Peter sat in the rear seat with
his head leaning back, a man in total surrender. It was
heartbreaking.
“I’ll drive.”
“Okay,” he said, his expression solemn. “Carlotta, you did
right by Angela Ashford, in spite of your feelings for her
husband. I know it cost you.” He gave her a little smile,
then walked back to his own car and climbed inside.
Carlotta watched as the detective backed up, then pul ed
away. Peter turned his head and looked at her, his face
beseeching.
Her heart twisted in her chest as the detective’s words of
praise rang in her head.
If she’d done the right thing, why did she feel so damn
lousy?
39
“Breakfast,” Wesley announced from the doorway of
Carlotta’s bedroom.
She groaned and threw back the covers. “It’s too hot to
eat.”
He leaned on the door frame and gestured to her Betty
Boop pajamas. “So why don’t you wear something to sleep
in that’s less wal to wal ?”
She frowned, remembering what had happened the last
time she’d worn something other than ful -coverage
jammies to bed. She sat up and shook her finger at him. “If
that snake of yours gets out again, both of you can get a
new address.”
He laughed. “What does Einstein getting out of his cage
have to do with your pajamas?”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “None of your