“Is that what we’re calling it?Undercover adventure at the garage.”
“It has a better ring thanbreaking and entering,” he said.
“Look who’s here? You two talk to each other now?” I recognized the rich, timbered voice immediately. George stood in my and David’s way.
Ugh.
“You,” I said, sending a killing stare George’s way. The only reason I hadn’t seen my neighbor approaching was that my gaze had been entirely fixed on David.
“Hey, George. How’s it going?” David greeted him with his charming personality fully engaged.
“Are you seriously being nice to him?” I asked, pointing at George with disdain.
“Elena, it was an anonymous source. We can’t assume,” David said patiently.
“Oh my god! I can’t believe you right now! You are so infuriatingly... you!”
David smirked, and that only made me angrier. “So infuriatingly me?”
“So you two are definitelytalkingandhumpingnow then,” George said with a tone of pure insinuation. He looked as if David and I were the latest, spiciest installment ofLove Is Blind,Too Hot to Handleor whatever reality dating gameshow he favored. “Have you heard there’s a car in the garage with the alarm sounding? They think it may be Dashing Henry’s, only it’s registered under a fake name and the cops missed it when they first found the body,” added George sotto voce. Without another word, he left in the direction of the garage.
“Have you noticed George keeps finding out about everything before everyone else?” I asked David, still mad at him for showing so much niceness with George.
“Yes, so?”
“Don’t you find that suspicious?”
We looked at each other, letting our eyes have the rest of the conversation. Could the chatterbox be the person responsible for Henry’s death? It would explain his ability to know everything before anyone else.
“Nah!” we both said in unison. George hardly seemed like a potential killer.
22
Ileft David to whatever he wanted to do and took the elevator straight to the second floor. I didn’t even ask him what had occurred to him while we were at Henry’s car. I didn’t care.
I opened his apartment with my own keys, made my way inside, feeling very much at home, and started stripping. I knew he wouldn’t mind finding my clothes littered all around the place when he came back—or he shouldn’t, anyway. And even if he took his time doing I didn’t exactly know what, chances were I’d still be in the shower when he returned. Not because I was going to be waiting for him, but because I needed a long, relaxing, hot shower so badly.
I went to David’s bathroom wearing my most daring Commando mid-rise thong and Agent Provocateur sheer bra and was about to start the shower when I saw an incoming call. I didn’t turn the faucet on because I knew the conversation would take a while. I also knew that Ihad toanswer.
I couldn’t catch a break, could I?
“Victor,” I answered, trying to sound normal, perhaps even cheerful. Have I already mentioned that I am the absolute worst? Perhaps you had deduced it even if I haven’t told you.
“Elena,” he said. Did I also have to do the heavy lifting with this conversation? You bet I did.
Several reaction lines popped in my mind:I guess you read the article in theVoice,I’m sorry I didn’t pick up before,I’ve been meaning to call you all day. This time I think I found the one combination of words that made the most sense.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I sounded sincere because I was. I should have broken up with Victor weeks before. And, since I pledged truthfulness to you, I’ll admit that I was, perhaps, using him to portray an image—that of an independent woman who had it all, including an aspiring job as a screenwriter on the brink of breaking through, and a gorgeous boyfriend. But I was broadcasting that image, the one that encompassed the highly enviable boyfriend, mainly to one viewer who also happened to be my neighbor. And by that, I don’t mean fucking chatterbox George.
I know the whole thing of pretending you’re above everything and are self-sufficient while still wanting to impress your ex all the time must be the worst paradox ever.
But I tried to stop thinking about me, for once, and put my mind to the task at hand. Nobody deserved to find out via link, the way Victor had, that their romantic partner was having a dalliance with their ex. Not even if their relationship is a non-exclusive one. I should have been the one to tell Victor.
“So it’s true then,” he said. “Because the article was so badly written, and it misrepresented your situation in such a way that I wasn’t quite sure.”
And there it was, the reason I’d never gotten to breaking up with Victor, other than my selfish will to make David jealous every single day of his existence. I liked Victor—and he got me. He was also a nice person. And, during those few first months that I was into him, he’d been quite the decent—sometimes even remarkable—lay.
“I guess I should have realized something was amiss,” he continued.
