AFTER
Monday, March 20
Sirens shattered the cool evening air with a piercing wail that rivaled a speed-metal concert. The bright lights of emergency vehicles spun dizzying circles through the sky, a frantic dance to the earsplitting dissonance.
Brakes squealed and doors slammed.
The sirens screamed to a stop at the apartment complex on Mockingbird Lane, and the night seemed to exhale.
Emergency workers streamed from the truck with rapid efficiency, their medical kits and blue latex gloves ready to work miracles. Only the onlookers, who wore the slack-jawed expressions of those who had seen a ghost, stood rooted to the ground, seemingly frozen in time, unable to look away from the body splayed facedown on the asphalt.
Sylvia stood between Riki and Embry, her arms crossed loosely at her chest. Their small semicircle was casual, like spectators at a parade. “Well, a body at the bottom of the stairs is sure to draw a crowd.”
CHAPTER ONE
BEFORE
Sunday, March 5
The world news section of the Sunday paper was spread across Hugh’s otherwise pristine kitchen table. Sylvia dutifully skimmed the headlines. Casualties! Crisis! Corruption! Why couldn’t they report good news? It seemed that paper sales would go up if they splashed uplifting headlines across the front page. She sipped her coffee and enjoyed the bittersweet tang of the powdered creamer she’d added. Hugh had introduced her to the chemical concoction. She’d initially mocked it, but now she was obsessed. Too much was probably deadly. She laughed to herself. The dreary news was clearly taking a toll. Doom and gloom. As much as she enjoyed her Sunday mornings with Hugh, she could do without the newspaper bit. But he loved his old-fashioned ritual, the familiar smell, and his eventual inky fingers. Trendy frameless glasses were perched on the tip of his nose, his half of the paper in a tight fold. Such a serious man. She liked that she had the power to make him smile.
He was absolutely perfect in an everyday-man sort of way. It was one of the things that made him so desirable. Would he be insulted by the everyday-man comment if she were to say it aloud? Words were funny. It was all too easy to misinterpret things when you weren’t privy to the vast array of thoughts in the other person’s head. She studied him as he read. Dark-blond hair, cool gray-blue eyes beneath the glasses. His lashes were stubby. There was really no nice way to say it, but on a man, stubby lashes weren’t so bad, were they? They were thick and full and gave him an assertive look. A reliable look, like he’d be the one to give you tax advice or walk you through the process of setting up a wireless remote. Yes, everything about him was steadfast and sturdy. Hugh was the Volvo of men. She laughed to herself. He certainly wouldn’t like that analogy. The man drove a Range Rover.
Meeting him had been a lucky fluke. He’d been wearing a wedding ring, and married men weren’t her type. But he’d pulled up a barstool next to hers at the Vertigo, and a conversation began to flow as smooth as the red wine she sipped. The lights in the bar were dim and golden, and unlike the name suggested, the place had a gentle, old-Hollywood feel. When she’d asked how long he’d been married, he laughed and slid off the ring.
“It’s a fake.” He’d proceeded to twist what she realized was cheap metal into a tiny infinity sign.
“Fake? Why?”
He’d leaned forward, eyes twinkling, and spoken quietly, like he was letting her in on a secret. “Well, it’s not like I’m fighting off women, but I’ve found that wearing a ring allows me to enjoy a drink without any weird vibes from a woman who thinks I’m hitting on her. Usually, I just want to talk.” With a humble shrug, he added, “I’m a people person.”
“And with the wedding band, you’re Mr. Safe Guy, not Mr. Slick.”
“Right.” He’d tucked the crumpled metal into his pocket. “Does that make me sound crazy?” His smile was genuine, and Sylvia found herself grinning back.
She’d inspected his face. He had to be in his thirties—late thirties, so he couldn’t be much older than her thirty-five years. Interesting that he was still single. “We’ll call it a unique approach. How’s that?”
“Fair enough.” He’d lifted his drink to hers. “I’m Hugh.”
“Sylvia.” As they’d clinked glasses, a sudden certainty had washed over her. After all the thinking and plotting and planning, he’d simply appeared in her path like a lucky penny.
Later that night, in a dark corner of the Vertigo foyer, they’d pressed their bodies together and kissed like lovers. As she drove home alone, she’d laughed to herself, amused that she’d left the Vertigo with an acute case of vertigo. Because of Hugh. How long had it been since a kiss had left her dizzy?
Truth be told, it wasn’t because he was an extraordinary kisser, though he’d been perfectly acceptable in that department. The excitement had stemmed from Hugh’s infinite potential as a partner. He would be the one to father her future child. The two of them would make a beautiful baby together. A smart one too.
The baby-wanting was a fascinating new thing for Sylvia. When the calendar had landed on December thirteenth last year, quietly sliding her from thirty-four to thirty-five, her biological clock had transformed from the steady tick of a metronome’s beat into a freight train doing doughnuts off the track. It was unusual for her to want something so badly. Sure, she could hook up with some guy and get herself pregnant, but there was risk involved. Bad genes, for one. And she wasn’t interested in a baby with a side of herpes.
Her instincts had been right about Hugh. He was free of both. She smiled at him from across the table before returning her gaze to the headlines. One in the bottom corner caught her eye. “Mad cow disease was found in a cow in San Diego,” she read aloud. “That’ll do wonders for the meat industry.”
“Huh?” He adjusted his glasses and looked at her.
“Mad cow disease,” she repeated. “It says here that humans who consume the contaminated beef could be at risk of developing prion disease, which is . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Ah, here! ‘A degenerative brain disorder that can quickly disable or kill its victims.’ Well, that sounds delightful. Do you think the cows literally go mad?” She chuckled. “Bumping into each other and mooing incoherently before they keel over? I mean, it’s kind of sad but funny too.”
“There’s nothing funny about mad cow disease, though it’s rare for humans to get it. If I recall correctly, they would have to consume infected tissue or some such.”
Sylvia smiled. “It’s rare? Do you see what you did there?”
He chuckled.
“Anyway, we should become vegetarians.”
Hugh thumped his paper to the table and slid off his glasses, awarding her with an amused look. “We’ll drink green juice and eat pounds of kale.” A kitchen timer buzzed, and he stood. “Or we can indulge in buttermilk biscuits. They’re vegetarian and they’re ready.”
“You are a prince among men. I’ll get the butter and jam.” As she took the jam from Hugh’s tidy refrigerator, her mind trailed to the cows. How could a cow go mad? They didn’t deserve to suffer that way, though some humans she knew might.
Well, even if Hugh thought she was joking, she was going to stop eating meat for the foreseeable future. Going mad by way of eating beef sounded dreadful. Sanity was something she treasured. Besides, it wouldn’t be too difficult to give up meat. She was already faking it for the neighbors in order to avoid a repeat of the dreadful cheesy-beef-and-tater-tot casserole that Embry had brought over for no discernible reason several weeks ago.