So Pretty It Hurts by Kate White

certainly don’t disappoint, Ms. Weggins,” he announced cockily when he saw me.
    “In what regard?” I asked, pouring a cup of coffee.
    “Your story is already up on the Buzz Web site. You’ve beaten everyone to the punch.”
    “Cap and Scott knew it was being filed. I was straight with them.”
    “I’m sure you were. It’s amazing, isn’t it, though? You so often seem to be around when a dead body turns up.”
    “I guess I’m just a lucky girl,” I said.
    “Whatever the reason, I’d be a little careful if I were you.”
    “And why is that?” I asked, taking a seat in an armchair across from him. His provocative banter on the walk yesterday had been fun, but today it seemed slicked with meanness. I wondered if it reflected the number of Bloody Marys he’d consumed so far today.
    “The police are always suspicious of too many coincidences,” he said. “Coincidences, you see, have a nasty habit of calling attention to something.”
    “Ahh, good point,” I said. “Do you think I might be a psychopathic killer and not even know it?”
    “Or just a ruthless opportunist,” he said, faking a smile.
    I didn’t like his tone one bit, but I wasn’t going to get all pissy about it. I needed to be on his good side so he’d talk to me.
    “Why not file a story yourself? Don’t you have a blog on the Huffington Post or someplace like that?”
    “I’ve decided to go the more traditional route on this one. I’ll probably do a more in-depth story for Vanity Fair .”
    “I look forward to reading it. How was your interview with the police, by the way?”
    “Mercifully brief,” he said. “There was really nothing for me to contribute. I did get the feeling, though, that the police are considering foul play. You saw the body—what do you think?”
    “There was no sign of that, from what I could see. Off the record, I’m thinking that her death might be connected to an eating disorder. She wouldn’t be the first model who died from one.”
    He stared at me for a moment, not saying anything.
    “Well, let’s face it,” he said finally. “The only thing she ever did with her food was rearrange it on her plate. It was like watching someone play three-card monte. One minute the green beans are here, and the next minute they’re over there.”
    So Richard had observed that, too. “It might have caught up with her this weekend,” I said.
    “Well, she never seemed ill, if that’s what you mean. Bored, yes—unless Tommy was around to lock eyes with—and a tad tipsy last night.”
    That was possibly the best example in history of the pot calling the kettle black.
    “Do you think there was anything going on between Devon and him?” I asked. “Or was it just for show?” I suddenly remembered something Richard had said at breakfast the day before. “I mean, you mentioned yesterday that you’d heard people scurrying around in the hallway during the night. Maybe they reconnected.”
    “Haven’t a clue, since I never opened my door. She did seem to come and go a lot, always disappearing. She may have just been sneaking off for a ciggie all those times. You know how models love to smoke.”
    “Do they? I wouldn’t know.”
    He shrugged his shoulders irritatedly, as if my cluelessness annoyed him. “You just have to look at the paparazzi shots. Kate Moss is always waving a cigarette.”
    He checked his watch suddenly, an obvious gesture of wanting to be done with our conversation. He stuck his reading glasses in the V of his sweater, flipped over the cover of his iPad, and rose to leave. Had I done something to make him so eager to exit?
    “You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Bailey? I’ve got to go cancel my dinner plans for tonight.”
    “Do you have an update on the road?”
    “Our lovely hostess Sandy informs me that a plow is headed this way. But I’d been planning to be back in the city by five, and there’s no way that’s going to happen.”
    “One question before you go. Did you, by any