by Joy Fielding
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” she heard Paige say.
“Sure you are,” Heather said now, hearing the ping of a text message come through on Paige’s cell. “Well, what do you know? You took off so fast, you forgot your stupid phone.” She sidled over to where it lay charging on the counter and picked it up, then stole a glance over her shoulder, as if Paige had snuck back into the apartment and was hiding in the corner, watching to see what she would do.
“No need to hide,” she said out loud, as if Paige were in the room. “I’m happy to show you.” Heather checked the phone to see the beginning of a message from someone calling himself Mr. Right Now.
Hey, Wildflower.
Mr. Right Now? Wildflower? “You’ve got to be kidding.”
No problem. And no rush. I’ll be waiting at Anthony’s Bar whenever you…
If there was more to the message, Heather couldn’t get at it. In order to access her cousin’s message page, she needed to know her password, and while it was tempting to spend a few minutes experimenting—her own password was the year of their birth—she could almost hear her father’s snide comment that Paige would never choose anything so obvious.
Talk about obvious. “Wildflower,” she scoffed. “Mr. Right Now.” Clearly their online aliases. So, Paige’s big date was someone she’d met on a dating site, someone it appeared she was meeting in person for the first time tonight.
Heather reached into her pocket for her cell and quickly connected to Match Sticks, the most popular of Boston’s online dating sites, scrolling through the seemingly endless number of male pictures and profiles until she found the one she was looking for. “Wow,” she said, staring at the tiny photo of the man calling himself Mr. Right Now. “Aren’t you the handsome one.” No wonder Paige had been in such a hurry.
“Oh, well. Too bad, so sad.” Paige wouldn’t be able to make their date after all. Nor would she have any way of texting the poor man her predicament. He’d be left to cool his heels, figuring he’d been stood up. Although it was safe to assume that any man who looked like that wouldn’t be alone for long.
Heather smiled, the beginnings of an idea taking shape in her admittedly addled brain.
People were always saying she and her cousin looked enough alike to be twins. She was familiar with Anthony’s Bar, and it was relatively close by. Assuming Mr. Right Now looked anything like his picture, she’d have no trouble spotting him, and with the bar’s dim lighting, she’d have no trouble passing herself off as her cousin. So, all she had to do was introduce herself as Wildflower, and see how things progressed from there.
She laughed out loud. What could be more perfect? She couldn’t have scripted this any better.
But first, of course, she needed something to wear. Couldn’t very well meet the potential man of Paige’s dreams in shorts and an off-the-shoulder blouse. Besides, she was still chilled to the bone from the air-conditioning in the lobby. “I’ll be lucky not to catch my death from the cold,” she said out loud, and laughed. Catch my death, she thought. What a strange expression! How did one “catch death”?
Yes, she definitely needed something to wear. But there was no time to go shopping, and besides, why go shopping when there was a whole closetful of clothes down the hall? She and Paige wore the same size and had similar taste, even if Paige generally favored more conservative fare. She was bound to find something.
Heather floated out of the kitchen and down the hall to Paige’s bedroom. “This must be the place,” she giggled, crossing to the small walk-in closet and opening the door. “Well, well. Let’s see what we have here.” Her hand rifled through the various clothes on the hangers, passing up the silk blouses, straight skirts, and cotton dresses she pictured Paige wearing to work. “God, you’re even more boring than I thought.” Did her cousin not own anything with a plunging neckline? Did all her dresses have to reach her knees? “Surely to God, you have something you wouldn’t feel comfortable being buried in,” she said, dissolving in a fit of giggles.
Which was when she saw it—the perfect outfit in which to meet Mr. Right Now. A pearl-gray dress trimmed with lace, with a V-neckline that, if it wasn’t exactly revealing, at least hinted at cleavage. Sexy without being slutty. The kind of dress that said “maybe,” not “you bet!”
Heather slipped out of her shorts and top, then wiggled into the dress. “Perfect,” she said, going through Paige’s shoes, and selecting a pair of high-heeled black pumps. “A little tight, but manageable.” She ran into Paige’s bathroom and helped herself to her cousin’s blush and mascara, then fluffed out her hair before borrowing one of Paige’s lipsticks. “Hmm. Good color. Think I’ll keep this one.”
She took one last, satisfied glance in the mirror over the sink. “Okay. Looking good.” She laughed, a feeling of pride surging through her body, like an electrical current. Score another one for Heather, she thought. “Mr. Right Now, here I come.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
He spots her the minute she walks through the door.
Something is off, he thinks from his hidden vantage point at a table in the corner of the crowded room, although he can’t put a finger on what it is. She looks much like he remembers: the dark, shoulder-length hair, the slim build, the pretty face. More makeup than the last time he saw her. A little fuller in the chest. Not quite as sophisticated-looking as he’d been expecting, despite the obviously expensive dress she’s wearing.
Has he been kidding himself, thinking she was different from the women he usually “dated”? Did the fact that she had an actual career as opposed to just a job, that her messages made her seem genuinely smart as opposed to passably clever, fool him into thinking that she had greater depth than she did, and would prove a more challenging, more satisfying kill?
Clearly, he’s read too much into her messages.
Clearly, he’s been expecting too much.
He takes a deep breath, hoping to quell his disappointment. Maybe he’s just pissed off about her being so late, despite her promise to be there at “six on the button.”
Or maybe he’s just nervous.
Which is strange, because he’s never nervous. Oh, he gets a little anxious, but more from anticipation than fear. Usually he can’t wait to get this show on the road, which is, of course, where he’ll be taking it after tonight’s final Boston performance. So maybe that accounts for his slight case of jitters. The fact that he’ll be closing up shop, moving in the morning to another city, in another state.
Buffalo, he’s decided after much consideration. He’s heard that the city has improved greatly in the last few years, become much more cosmopolitan. It’s also close to Niagara Falls, where, surprisingly, he’s never been. And the Baseball Hall of Fame is only a four-hour drive away, and might be worth a visit. Always nice to include a few touristy things into the program. So, a few months there shouldn’t be too intolerable before he crosses over into Canada in time to take in the magnificent dying of the leaves.
He spent the day packing. Not that he has much to pack. Just one suitcase for his clothes and a few boxes, two of them still empty, awaiting his good china and cutlery, his wineglasses, his fine Irish linen tablecloth, and of course, his envious collection of knives, all of which can’t be tucked away until they’ve served their purpose. Nor can he load anything into the trunk of his car before morning. Other than Wildflower, of course. He snickers inwardly, his face remaining an immobile mask that reveals nothing beyond its handsome features. Judging by Wildflower’s slim physique, he doubts she’ll require much space.
But he’s learned through experience that dead bodies can’t always be depended on. For one thing, they usually take up more space than one thinks they will, their stubborn limbs often refusing to bend or cooperate, and he hasn’t got much time to fiddle around. He’s decided it will be best to dispose of Wildflower’s body in the early morning hours, while it’s still dark, b
efore rigor has a chance to set in, or Jenna Lebowski comes snooping around to check that he’s vacated the premises as promised. He’ll get rid of the rope and handcuffs at a rest stop along the highway tomorrow morning, en route to Buffalo and the tiny bungalow he’s rented through Airbnb.
The changes to his dating profile will be made once he’s settled in. He’ll have to pick a new name, although he’s grown rather fond of his current moniker. Mr. Right Now has served him remarkably well these last months in Boston.
Still, it’s never a good idea to get too attached to anything—person, place, thing, or name—and a new city deserves a new online identity. He already has a few handles in mind. Hamlet is one. Prince Hal is another. A nod to his high school English teacher, the glorious Miss Brenda Williams. She of the long red hair and coral-colored lips, the mellifluous voice and love of all things Shakespeare. “Isn’t that splendid?” he can still hear her sigh after reciting several lines of the Bard’s poetry to a roomful of indifferent teens. He’d often go to sleep dreaming of making her recite those lines with his hands around her throat. “Isn’t that splendid?” he’d ask as he choked the life right out of her.
So, maybe Hamlet or Prince Hal. Or maybe something simpler. Something like Miller or Smith. Yes, he thinks, deciding on the latter. He likes Smith. It has a nice, clean ring to it. So, Smith he will be.
“Hi,” a voice chirps from somewhere beside him.
He jumps at the sound.
“Sorry,” she says, the word accompanied by an annoyingly girlish giggle. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Mr. Right Now, I presume?” She cocks her head to one side, like an inquisitive puppy.
Is it possible she really doesn’t recognize him from their previous encounter?
“Wildflower?” he asks, further surprised she has managed to sneak up on him this way. He notes that her voice is coarser, less tentative, more openly flirtatious than the voice he heard on the phone last Saturday, the voice he was looking forward to hearing tonight in person.
“That’s me,” she says, accompanied by another annoying giggle. “Have you been waiting long?”
He checks his watch. “Forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry about that.”
You don’t sound sorry, he thinks. But you will be.
“My cousin dropped over unexpectedly, and she wouldn’t take a hint. I practically had to shove her out the door.”
That’s it? he wonders. That’s your lame excuse for making me cool my heels for the better part of an hour? “Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters. What are you drinking?”
“Champagne?”
“A glass of champagne for the lady,” he calls to a passing waitress, suppressing the urge to shout, Why the question mark? Do you want champagne or don’t you?
“So,” Wildflower says, settling into the seat beside him, “what do you think? Am I what you expected?”
“Even better,” he lies. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice.” No point in mentioning that they’ve met before, since she obviously doesn’t remember.
Her smile indicates this is exactly what she was hoping to hear. She leans forward, allowing him a slight peek down the front of her dress. He’s furious to find her so obvious. She’s proving to be a major disappointment, and she will be punished severely.
“What about me?” he asks.
“Much, much better,” she says, another giggle following. “I think you know you’re pretty hot.”
He glances toward the floor, as if embarrassed by the compliment.
“So, Mr. Right Now,” she says, taking the lead. “What is it you do?”
The question catches him off guard. He’s already told her what he supposedly does for a living, and the fact that she doesn’t remember means she either has a very poor memory or he’s just one of many men she’s been meeting online and it’s hard to keep track, which again, is as infuriating as it is unexpected. Not that it matters. He intends to be the last man she meets, online or otherwise. “Stockbroker.”
If that rings any bells, she gives no such sign. “Must be challenging.”
“It has its moments. And you? Heard back about your interview yet?”
The expression on her face freezes, almost as if she has no idea what he’s talking about. It makes him wonder how much of what she’s told him is true. Perhaps she’s as good a liar, as skilled a game player, as he is, an unexpected twist he finds exciting.
Because this is a game where there can be only one winner.
And, Wildflower, he says with his eyes, you’re looking at him.
“Nothing yet,” she says, recovering. “Hopefully soon. But let’s not talk about work. It’s too depressing.”
“Fine by me. What would you like to talk about?”
“How about you start by telling me your name. I mean, I can’t keep calling you Mr. Right Now.”
“It’s Smith,” he says, deciding to try it out. What the hell? It’s not like she’ll get the chance to tell anyone.
“That’s your first name? Smith?”
“It was my mother’s maiden name,” he says. Another lie. His mother’s maiden name was Ukrainian and virtually unpronounceable.
“I like it. It’s very sexy.”
“Glad you approve. And you?”
She hesitates. “It’s Heather,” she says finally.
Heather? Why, you lying little bitch, he thinks, deciding she might make a worthy adversary after all. “You don’t sound sure,” he says with a smile.
“Well, it’s…complicated.”
“I look forward to hearing why,” he says, as the waitress approaches with the glass of champagne.
“Maybe later. After I know you better.”
“To later.” He clinks his glass against hers.
“To later,” she repeats, taking a long sip. “Hmm. Good stuff. But I warn you, this is probably going to go straight to my head. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You’re not on some crazy diet, are you?”
“God, no. No…it’s…”
“Complicated?”
“A little.” She giggles, then takes another, longer sip of her champagne.
“Looks like we’ll have lots to talk about…later,” he says. “If you haven’t eaten all day, you must be very hungry.”
“Starving.”
“Do you like steak?”
“Love it.”
“Because I happen to know a place where they make the best steaks in town.”
“Seriously? That would be absolute heaven. But do you think we’d be able to get a reservation this late?”
“No problem at all. The chef happens to be a great friend of mine.”
Heather downs the remaining contents of her glass and pushes herself to her feet. “Then what are we waiting for?”
He laughs, his hand curling around her slender waist. “My sentiments exactly.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
She looked so pale, so small, so vulnerable, lying there.
Paige shuddered as she approached the bed, her eyes searching for signs of life. It took a moment, but eventually she was able to make out the subtle rise and fall of Chloe’s breath beneath the stiff, white hospital sheets.
She’d come so close to dying. The doctors said it was a miracle she’d pulled through. They’d given her only a slim chance of surviving the six-hour surgery, and less than a fifty-fifty chance of making it through that first critical week, and yet here they were, fifteen days after the shooting, and Chloe was out of the ICU and on the road to a full recovery. There was even talk of sending her home next week.
“Hi, you,” Chloe said, eyes still closed.
“How’d you know I was here?” Paige asked.
“ ’Cause you’re always here for me,” Chloe said, eyes fluttering open, her lip
s quivering into a smile.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. I was just resting my eyes. What time is it?”
“Almost one o’clock.” Paige reached for her friend’s hand beneath the covers. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty damn good, considering. How are the kids?”
“Wonderful. My mother is absolutely adoring playing grandmother. You might have a hard time convincing her to give them back.”
“I can’t thank you both enough…”
“Oh, please,” Paige said. “The fact that you’re alive is all the thanks we need.”
Josh and Sasha had been staying with Paige and her mother since their father’s arrest. The Amber Alert had led to a flood of sightings, and Matt’s car had been spotted in the parking lot of a motel on the outskirts of Pittsburgh at around ten o’clock that night. Fortunately, the children were asleep and unharmed. They’d been returned to Boston, where Matt was currently in jail, being held without bond, awaiting trial for kidnapping and attempted murder.
The phone on the side table rang.
“Would you mind getting that?” Chloe asked.
Paige reached past the beautiful arrangement of white and yellow roses her mother and Harry had sent over the previous day and picked up the phone. “Hello. Chloe’s room, Paige speaking.”
“Paige, how are you?” There was no mistaking Jennifer Powadiuk’s distinctive growl.
“It’s your mother,” Paige mouthed. “I’m fine, Mrs. Powadiuk. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” came the answer. “And it’s Mrs. Girard now. How’s Chloe doing?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Paige handed the phone to Chloe.
“Hi, Mom.” Chloe held the phone out so that Paige could hear her mother’s side of the conversation. “How are you?”
“About as well as can be expected, I guess. All this worry about you has taken more than a few years off my life.”
Paige rolled her eyes. It was so like Chloe’s mother to make her daughter’s shooting all about her.