means there’s someone you’ve stopped dating more recently than you stopped dating me. Did you finally shake off the cop?”
“Go away, Peter.”
His delight was maddening. “You did. Damn, I have great timing. Invite me in.”
“I’m on my way out.”
He looked me over, starting with my semibrushed hair and moving a bit too slowly down to my bare feet. “Really.”
“Peter”—I sighed—”why are you here?”
He held up his copy of the Post , offering me my first look at the picture of me, Adam, and Jordan. It looked like a cross between a football tackle and Martha Graham choreography. The headline read: WHO’S COME BETWEEN THEM?
Peter pulled a mock frown. “What exactly is going on here?”
I almost didn’t want to know the answer, but still I asked, “What does the caption say?”
Peter read, “‘Jordan and Adam Crowley fight over a woman, or at least around one, after Jordan’s sold-out show at Mars Hall last night. Reps for both declined to comment or to identify the woman.”
Which meant someone asked Claire what happened and she told them she wasn’t going to talk to them. I’d known Peter long enough to be sure that the same approach wasn’t going to work with him. Closing the door and ignoring him would only challenge him to pursue whatever he thought the story was with greater vigor. “I’m doing a profile of Olivia Elliott.”
Peter held the newspaper close to his face and squinted, pretending to examine the page microscopically. “And where is she, exactly?”
I snatched the paper from him, not sure whether I should shred it on the spot or place it lovingly in my scrapbook. After all, I hadn’t done anything wrong, I’d just been standing between two famous semisiblings who had come to blows. And threatened each other’s lives. That still sat uneasily. It’s problematic to parse a statement that someone spews in the heat of the moment, but I kept coming back to Adam saying, “I can take care of that, too.” Too. Implying he had previously taken care of something similar. And since the topic at the time had been “the next one to go,” it wasn’t all that wide a conclusion to jump to Adam saying he’d been a part of someone else “going.” Was Olivia looking in the wrong direction by blaming Claire for Russell’s death?
I’d never been in this situation before, with this number of people simultaneously pointing fingers at one another and/or themselves over a death. Especially one that had been ruled accidental. Maybe it was all stress bubbling to the surface and hauling up years of emotional baggage with it. But it felt increasingly as though there were more to Russell Elliott’s death than met the official eye. Which meant it was a great story. Which meant I had to keep Peter Mulcahey far, far away from it.
So, feeling a little like Granny letting the Big Bad Wolf through the door, I invited him in. For a moment. “Let me grab my shoes and I’ll walk out with you,” I said, opening the door wider. He took back the newspaper, but he followed me in.
I led him into the living room, discreetly scanning table-tops and hoping I hadn’t left too much research in evidence. The cascade of CDs on the coffee table—everything I had by any of the Crowley men—was the most telling material visible, but I hoped it would escape Peter’s notice.
“Have a seat,” I suggested, pointing at the armchair farthest from the CDs and continuing on to the bedroom. My hope was that I could grab my shoes, handbag, and notebook and have Peter back out in the hallway before he started nosing around. “Just take a second.”
“You still haven’t painted,” he said, not sitting down and surveying the room with a slight frown.
“I keep changing my mind about the color.”
“Why don’t you like to commit?”
He couldn’t have stopped me colder if he’d beaned me with a book from my desk, where he stood now, baldly and boldly poking at the stacks of paper sliding into one
“Go away, Peter.”
His delight was maddening. “You did. Damn, I have great timing. Invite me in.”
“I’m on my way out.”
He looked me over, starting with my semibrushed hair and moving a bit too slowly down to my bare feet. “Really.”
“Peter”—I sighed—”why are you here?”
He held up his copy of the Post , offering me my first look at the picture of me, Adam, and Jordan. It looked like a cross between a football tackle and Martha Graham choreography. The headline read: WHO’S COME BETWEEN THEM?
Peter pulled a mock frown. “What exactly is going on here?”
I almost didn’t want to know the answer, but still I asked, “What does the caption say?”
Peter read, “‘Jordan and Adam Crowley fight over a woman, or at least around one, after Jordan’s sold-out show at Mars Hall last night. Reps for both declined to comment or to identify the woman.”
Which meant someone asked Claire what happened and she told them she wasn’t going to talk to them. I’d known Peter long enough to be sure that the same approach wasn’t going to work with him. Closing the door and ignoring him would only challenge him to pursue whatever he thought the story was with greater vigor. “I’m doing a profile of Olivia Elliott.”
Peter held the newspaper close to his face and squinted, pretending to examine the page microscopically. “And where is she, exactly?”
I snatched the paper from him, not sure whether I should shred it on the spot or place it lovingly in my scrapbook. After all, I hadn’t done anything wrong, I’d just been standing between two famous semisiblings who had come to blows. And threatened each other’s lives. That still sat uneasily. It’s problematic to parse a statement that someone spews in the heat of the moment, but I kept coming back to Adam saying, “I can take care of that, too.” Too. Implying he had previously taken care of something similar. And since the topic at the time had been “the next one to go,” it wasn’t all that wide a conclusion to jump to Adam saying he’d been a part of someone else “going.” Was Olivia looking in the wrong direction by blaming Claire for Russell’s death?
I’d never been in this situation before, with this number of people simultaneously pointing fingers at one another and/or themselves over a death. Especially one that had been ruled accidental. Maybe it was all stress bubbling to the surface and hauling up years of emotional baggage with it. But it felt increasingly as though there were more to Russell Elliott’s death than met the official eye. Which meant it was a great story. Which meant I had to keep Peter Mulcahey far, far away from it.
So, feeling a little like Granny letting the Big Bad Wolf through the door, I invited him in. For a moment. “Let me grab my shoes and I’ll walk out with you,” I said, opening the door wider. He took back the newspaper, but he followed me in.
I led him into the living room, discreetly scanning table-tops and hoping I hadn’t left too much research in evidence. The cascade of CDs on the coffee table—everything I had by any of the Crowley men—was the most telling material visible, but I hoped it would escape Peter’s notice.
“Have a seat,” I suggested, pointing at the armchair farthest from the CDs and continuing on to the bedroom. My hope was that I could grab my shoes, handbag, and notebook and have Peter back out in the hallway before he started nosing around. “Just take a second.”
“You still haven’t painted,” he said, not sitting down and surveying the room with a slight frown.
“I keep changing my mind about the color.”
“Why don’t you like to commit?”
He couldn’t have stopped me colder if he’d beaned me with a book from my desk, where he stood now, baldly and boldly poking at the stacks of paper sliding into one
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