by Amina Akhtar
But my day got marginally better when Detective Hopper called. He needed to see me, asking if he could come up to the office. I wanted to be flattered, but we both knew this was about Zhazha. Even in death, that bitch was mucking up my life.
When he showed up wearing a killer gray wool coat and a black suit, I nearly swooned. Disarming your opponent with your amazing fashion sense was quite the skill. I ushered him into Celia’s empty office.
“We won’t be bothered in here,” I said.
“Where’s Celia?”
“Emergency Botox,” I replied. If she had to do another funeral with the requisite press, her forehead muscles would need time to settle.
“No, seriously?” I stared at him until he got the point and cleared his throat. “This is such a bizarre world you work in. I don’t know why you do it.”
“Let me guess . . . I’m too smart to work in fashion?” I rolled my eyes.
“Try too sane.”
I snorted at his response. “Right. So what’s up?”
“Where were you December twenty-fourth at eight PM?” Right to the chase, no foreplay.
“Christmas Eve? I was home.”
“Alone?”
I shrugged. “I don’t have any family to spend the holidays with,” I reminded him.
“Can anyone verify that you were there?”
“I’m sure my doorman can.” I had doled out hefty tips for Christmas.
“Okay, good. Now tell me all you know about Zhazha.”
“Everything?”
He nodded.
“Well, she definitely wasn’t who she said she was.”
“She was a fraud?”
“Her whole story of being Russian royalty was bullshit. She was just a pretty girl with an accent.”
“Who brought her in to La Vie?”
“I did. But that was after she was making it big as a blogger.”
“Can you explain that to me?” He was adorable.
“Of course. So there’s street style, you know? Like photogs snap pics of girls with great style. And those girls with huge social followings cash in with campaign deals.”
“They make money just from the photos?”
“Well, yeah. It’s their brand. Anyway, Zhazha was getting pretty big. Here, look.” I pulled up her Instagram. “See, she was fabulous. Look at how natural she was when she posed. The camera loved her. Such great angles. Anyway, we met during Fashion Week, and then I brought her on here.”
He nodded. He was a logical, just-the-facts kind of guy. Logic was good. Emotions were too messy.
“So if she was outed as a fraud, you’d be held accountable? That’s a lot of motive right there for you, Anya.”
I shrugged. “No one cared if she wasn’t really from Siberia. They cared how she looked wearing clothes. You know what they say . . .”
He raised his brow. Just one. God, it was hot.
“Fake it till you make it. She did.”
“So who didn’t get along with her?”
“Oh, that’s easy. She and Sarah hated each other. Just because Sarah fell with Z nearby and swore that she’d been pushed. And then Zhazha kind of stole her boyfriend.”
The look he gave me wasn’t happy. I had been holding out on him. “You didn’t tell me any of this.”
“You didn’t ask. You know how Sarah was sleeping with Greg and was superjealous? Well, then Zhazha came into the picture. Sarah was furious.” Okay, look, I know we weren’t BFFs anymore, but should I be doing this? Snitching on Sarah? Be logical, Anya. What would Sarah do in my place? She’d rat me out and then put on lip gloss.
“So she had issues with Mulberry, Cassie, and Zhazha . . . all of whom are dead.”
“Oh, and Lisa. She and Lisa Blitz fought a lot.” His jaw did a hot thing when he clenched it. I could see the muscles. “I don’t want to say she killed them because I have zero proof. But if anyone had motive . . . She and Z even had a very loud fight in the office. It was a scene.”
He kept writing in his notebook. What had he written about me? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine, Detective.
“This is all very helpful. Oh, one more thing. You mentioned we could talk to your therapist.”
Dammit. “Shrink. Yep.”
“What was his name?”
“Dr. M! He’s the best. Dr. Moritz.”
He gave me a strange look before nodding. “Jacques Moritz?”
“Yes, why?”
“Nothing, just something I need to check on. Listen, you should probably keep your distance from Sarah Taft until we have everything sorted out. She could be a very dangerous person.”
What did he need to “check on”? Dr. M and I had nothing to hide. Absolutely nothing. I was a model patient, he’d tell the police. He’d say he wished everyone was as compliant as me. That’s what good shrinks do. They help you.
I nodded solemnly. “I’m trying. I asked Celia to not have her sit near me. But unless she’s locked up or I quit, we will have to work together.”
“Just be careful.”
Was he worried about me? O-M-G, he was! It was a start, right?
* * *
Making amends is supposed to be vital to helping you move forward. You have to recognize the damage you’ve done in order to become a better person. That was what I had to do now. So here I was, laying my soul bare, telling all my sins to the world, waiting to be judged. Come on, throw your stones, people. I deserved it. I hit publish on my opus, my grand confession, letting everyone read it.
“Why I Cheat on My Diet: A Confession” told the horrible truths about eating bacon, bread, macaroni and cheese, and fried chicken. How I detoured home from events to stop at Popeye’s because no one made biscuits quite like them. And that every time I was pushed to eat less and do more, I binged in the security of my apartment.
Dr. M and I had both agreed that this was a huge step forward for me, being so open and personal like this. He even made sure I had extra Klonopins around in case I got too stressed out over it all. And it was stressful. The comments were pouring in, mostly supportive, some asking how I wasn’t five hundred pounds. (Metabolism? My insane workout routine? Lugging dead bodies around really did burn the calories right off.)
But it was Celia’s response that I was most curious about. She read it and asked me to come in. I sat across from her in silence, waiting for her to speak.
“You know, Anya, we’re a lot alike. When I get stressed, I eat. Just last week, I had some Pinkberry. So I understand you completely. What you did was so brave. So brave. Especially with everything going on here.”
“Thanks, Celia—”
“And it was smart. We needed a distraction, to get everyone talking about something besides the bodies piling up.” She grimaced. “Sorry, that sounded so crass. But you know what I meant. This is a new news cycle. Well done. Now have you spoken with your police friend?”
“Detective Hopper? Yes, he’s looking into Zhazha’s history and people who didn’t like her.”
“You mean Sarah.”
“He heard about that big fight she had with Zhazha.”
“Sarah is going to be the death of us all.” She rubbed her temples.
“I hope you’re joking, because honestly, she just may be.”
“Ugh, I can’t take this stress. I’m going for a massage. If anyone needs me, I’m unreachable. Oh, and Anya? Get back on your diet.”
I wasn’t sure who’d need her. No one knew where Sarah was, and Greg wasn’t going to pop by. He had gone low profile since the cameras were discovered. Once the videos went online, he all but disappeared. He had said something about not trusting the office anymore. But so far, Sarah hadn’t faced any repercussions. There was no proof she put the cameras up without permission. And her lawyers told our company’s legal team that there was no expectation of privacy in the office. Sarah could get away with anything, it seemed.
Celia was right about one thing: distractions were needed. I was obsessing—what to wear to Zhazha’s
funeral, what to say next to Detective Hopper, how I was ever going to get Sarah to finally let me braid her hair. I needed to give my mind a rest. Which was why I decided that weekend was time to redecorate my apartment. Or decorate it at all. I’d kept the walls pristine white. Barren. Just furniture and clothes, nothing more.
Though I hummed at the thought of bloody red walls, I decided against painting—the smell would drive me crazy. Instead, I opted for hanging some framed magazine covers—vintage ones from La Vie’s past. Start small, and if I liked the way they looked, I could add more. I got out my hammer and nails (every girl needs to have her own toolbox) and attempted the job—but the nails sank right through the dry wall. New York apartments were total crap. Next I tried the whole stud-finder thing, but that didn’t help much either. The prints would have to be in very odd locations if I used the beams.
Finally, I gave in and bought those anchor thingies, a nail gun, a new drill (mine was a bit worn down), and I tried again. It took three hours, but the prints were on the wall. I had to admit, they looked kind of cool—five separate ones in a gallery format. I was pleased, if a little tired. Determined to relax and enjoy the fruits of my labor, I posted photos of my work to my Twitter account.
Sarah immediately replied, Sucking up even at home, Anya?
That fucking cow. I typed my reply and then stopped. Celia would probably yell at me for fighting publicly. I had to take the high road. I ignored Sarah, and instead, I took the nail gun and used it over and over and over on another part of the wall, on pillows, on shoes I didn’t like—until the Pop! Pop! Pop! noise soothed me. I imagined it was Sarah’s head the nails were going into. Pop! Into her eyes. Pop! Pop! Pop! Nailing her mouth shut. Pop! Pop! Pop! Into her forehead like a metallic bindi. Pop! That’s what you get for not liking me! Pop! Pop! BFFs support each other, you stupid bitch! Pop! The exercise almost calmed me down, but I needed more. I needed to know what it felt like going in to actual flesh.
I pulled my rib-eye steak out from the fridge. I was planning on cooking it later, but fuck it. This was better. I pumped it full of nails until the meat was officially tenderized. Oh, God, that felt heavenly. I shot more nails into it, spelling out, FUCK YOU. Childish, yes. But damn it felt good. Something was still missing though. I needed to see blood oozing out. Meat juice hardly counted. There was only one option.
I took the gun in my right hand and aimed it over the fleshy part of my left hand, where the thumb and palm meet. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the trigger, the nail shooting into my tissue.
“Motherfucker!” I screamed, blood pouring everywhere. But holy fuck, that felt good. The pain was almost blinding. The thing with intense pain is that it forces you to focus; it almost clears your mind. It’s like the fast-track to meditation. You can either close your eyes and chant for ten years or just shoot yourself in the hand. Either way, you’ll get clarity. I wondered how long I could leave the nail in my hand. I Googled heavy-metal nail poisoning, but the results were disappointing. I finally grabbed pliers and pulled the nail out, gritting my teeth. I yelled the entire time. So much for being strong. Thank God Frank couldn’t hear me.
I ran the hand under water. It no longer seemed like my hand. It felt removed from me. After washing it, I mopped up the blood and wrapped it up, covering it with Band-Aids. Shit, I realized belatedly that I needed a Tetanus shot.
Four hours later, I was injected, stitched up (seven stitches!), and bandaged. Looking good, Anya. I tweeted a photo of my hand with the caption I’m no Martha Stewart. Ow! #Notsohandy.
My apartment was decorated and I had an alibi against power tools. Two birds, one nail gun.
* * *
The next day at the office, Sarah decided she was going to sit at Zhazha’s desk no matter what. And she was wearing Z’s heinous Georges Pike bracelet, from his new Zhazha line. It had been left in one of the desk drawers. Of course Sarah pounced on it. She was a taker.
“Wow, what happened to your hand?” She gestured to my overly bandaged wound. The doctors at Mt. Sinai had been a little overeager, but I was still proud of my little show-and-tell.
“Ugh, decorating accident. I was not put on this planet to wield power tools.” I made a face.
“Ha, apparently not. You should just hire someone to decorate for you.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe I can do a story about it.”
“Yeah, probs.”
“Isn’t that Zhazha’s bracelet, Sarah?”
“This? Yeah. But she can’t wear it, so I may as well keep it.”
“But it was made for her, so people will know. That may come off as tacky. Maybe you should send it back to Georges?”
“Send it back?” She looked at me blankly.
“Maybe he’ll send you one for yourself?”
“Ohhh! A Sarah bracelet! Great idea, Anya!” She picked up the phone and started dialing. It was strange that the girl couldn’t remember what she had for lunch yet somehow knew every designer’s phone number by heart.
“Georges? It’s Sarah. Taft, from La Vie. Hi, darling. What? Oh, I know, what horrible news. Listen, I’m going through all the boxes on my desk, and I see a bracelet for Zhazha. Can I send it back? It’s not in my taste. Perhaps you can send something that’s more . . . me? . . . I see. It was a special gift . . . What do you mean you can’t send me anything? Don’t you know who I am? Well, see if you ever land in La Vie again!” She slammed the phone down.
I grinned. “Did it not go well?”
“How dare he! He said no! To me! Well, I’m keeping it. I’ll show him.” Before Zhazha came along, before me, no one said no to Sarah. I felt a moment of satisfaction. Sarah held her wrist up, admiring the tacky piece of shit. Why would anyone combine leather, chains, crystals, beads, studs, and charms on one piece of jewelry? Georges Pike had never heard of editing. No wonder Zhazha loved him so much.
“Maybe he’s doing you a favor, Sarah. That thing is hideous.”
“It is not! He’s a genius.”
“A genius who’s not interested in you. Seriously, toss it.”
“No.” She pouted. “I am going to prove him wrong. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be begging for my forgiveness.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to work, adding a jewelry story to our editorial calendar (“Ten Statement Jewelry Pieces to Die For”). Sarah sighed loudly. I ignored her. I was working on being more logical. And my brain was telling me to not give in to Sarah’s needs. She sighed again, this time setting her head down on her desk dramatically.
“Jesus, what?”
“Jack’s ignoring me.”
“So sort it out. What the hell do you want me to do about it?” I was dancing with fucking joy on the inside. Jack and I were chatting and texting nonstop. I had to reinforce to him what a bad friend Sarah was so I’d been typing up my (real and fictitious) conversations with Sarah: Jack, she said she hated your capes today. Ugh, what a see-you-next-Tuesday.
That bitch, he wrote back.
“I thought you’d care.” She looked wounded, as if I’d nail-gunned her hand instead of mine.
“We’re not friends, remember? You said so yourself.” Be strong, Anya.
“Ugh, I was just mad at you, hello?”
I didn’t reply. My mind was ultraclear still after my nail-gun experiment. I could actually think. I could see outcomes in ways I hadn’t before. This was what I needed to be doing. Clarity was such a precious gift. I was going to go see Dr. M today. He’d be so proud of me.
* * *
When I got back from my lunch, Sarah was gone, making the rounds at all the jewelry designers and pointedly skipping Georges Pike. She was determined to write the roundup to end all jewelry roundups and wanted everyone to know.
Greg finally showed up while Sarah was out. He was pacing up and down the hallway, walking in the shadows, jumping when anyone came near him.
“Greg?”
He jumped. “Oh, Anya. Hi.” His skin was sallow, almost waxy looking. He�
�d been skipping his spray-tan sessions, and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks.
“Um, can I help you?”
“Y-you haven’t seen Sarah around, have you?”
“No, I think she’s at an appointment. Do you need something?”
“No, no, that’s good. D-Don’t tell her you saw me.”
“Greg, is everything okay?” I asked. He motioned to me to follow him into Celia’s office. She was at some spa.
“She’s crazy!” he stage-whispered.
“Who is?”
“Sarah! When she found out about me and Zhazha, she went ballistic. She put cameras up! She spied on me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I-I think she killed her.”
“Greg, did she threaten you?”
His eyes widened.
“Do you need help?”
He somehow grew paler.
“Listen, why don’t you call the detective working the cases? He’ll help you, okay? Here’s his number.” I wrote it down on a Post-It.
“Okay. Thank you, Anya.” His eyes teared up.
I recoiled. Greg was a mess. He needed to be more logical, like me. He should fire her. But he wouldn’t. He was so weak. Sarah could claim harassment, but she hadn’t yet. I’d seen several suit-wearing people going in and out of Greg’s office over the past few days. Legal was working on it, figuring out how to come out on top. Circling the wagons, assessing risk . . . insert jargon here.
I should give them something to really worry about. And I would.
18
Before Zhazha’s memorial that Thursday, Celia took me, Dalia, Evie, Sarah, and a few others to Narcissa for dinner. She figured if we were going to drink vodka in honor of Z, we needed actual sustenance too. I couldn’t fault her reasoning, except none of us were actually allowed to eat in front of her. She ordered tuna tartare, a pear salad, carrot fries, oysters, and a few entrées. We had four bottles of wine and nibbled on the salad. When Celia got up to say hi to someone at the bar, Dalia leaned over and whispered, “We are getting pizza later, right?”
“Oh, obvi,” Sarah answered.
“We’re going to have to,” Evie added.
“Just don’t tell Celia,” I chimed in.