One of Us Is Dead(26)

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said. But I knew it was bad. I have no idea why she decided to do that. When I saw her earlier in the night, she was put together and seemed to have everything under control.

“They booed me offstage! And my ex sang, ‘We’re never ever getting back together.’ ” She cried harder.

The driver looked at us in the rearview mirror and raised his thick eyebrows.

“Eyes on the road,” I said. Shannon had had enough people judging her for the night. His eyes snapped ahead as he turned onto her street.

“Shannon, what came over you? Why did you do that?” I asked.

She sat up straight and rubbed her temple. The car pulled up to the curb and parked. Shannon looked at me and then down at her lap. “I’m . . . not sure. Olivia was feeding me shots and being really nice to me, and she walked me to the stage and she said . . .” Shannon rubbed her temple again, willing the memory to come back.

“What did she say to you?” I asked.

“Bryce said there was a possibility we could get together if all went well.” Shannon snapped her head up and look at me.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s just toying with you because you were about to introduce him to all of Buckhead.”

“Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he meant it.” Her eyes went wide.

“Shannon, don’t fall for that bullshit. He embarrassed you right after, in front of everyone. So, that was why you talked about reuniting when you were onstage—because he led you on.” I took her hand and held it.

She looked down at my hand. “But Olivia.”

“What about her?” I asked.

The driver got out of the car and opened Shannon’s door. She didn’t get out. Instead, she stared at her lap. And then a light bulb went on. Her head snapped up and her eyes went wide. She pulled her hand away and shuffled away from me.

“Olivia said you all voted to remove me as chairwoman. That the gala was my last event. She said it was because of my divorce. Is that true?” Shannon narrowed her eyes.

My mouth dropped open. “You were removed as chairwoman, but—”

“When? When the hell did this happen?” she interjected.

I tilted my head. “A little over a week ago, but . . .”

Shannon stepped out of the vehicle with the help of the driver. “How could you, Karen? You were supposed to be my friend.” Her face was a mixture of anger and sadness. “You and I are done.”

“Shannon, wait. It’s not what you think. I—” The door closed with a slam, and she stormed off toward her apartment building without looking back. As the car pulled away from the curb, a tear escaped from my eye and ran down my cheek.





18

Jenny


I placed an assortment of lipsticks back in the slots of an acrylic organizer along with a few eye shadow palettes and a couple of bronzers and highlighters. I had considered going right to bed after the gala, but my brain was buzzing, and I figured I may as well clean up the salon since Keisha and I didn’t have time earlier. My fingers pressed a switch on the wall, shutting off all the lights in the salon. Grabbing a handful of dirty makeup brushes, I made my way to the bathroom in the back. I pulled the sink drain closed, plopped a rubber cleansing mat in it, and ran the water. The makeup brushes sunk to the bottom as soon as I tossed them in, a rainbow of colors bleeding off of them, staining the water like a tepid bath bomb.

A crash in the salon made me instantly turn off the water. It was the sound of breaking glass. My breath quickened, and I was frozen in place while my brain vacillated between fight or flight. Another crash, and then there was the chime from the front door. The alarm didn’t sound as I hadn’t set it yet. The panel was next to the back door, and it was the last thing I did before leaving at the end of each day.

There were whispers, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. The crunch of glass told me someone was walking farther into the salon. I slid off my heels quietly and tiptoed toward the bathroom door, my pulse pounding in my ears. The metal curtain rings screeched across the rod. I peeked my head down the hallway toward the back door. I could make my way out and run upstairs to my apartment, but my cell phone was in my purse on the front counter. There was a loud crash. The sound of something being knocked over and the spilling of various items. I assumed one of the vanities.

“Cool it,” one voice said.

“Just having a little fun,” another voice said.

I heard the sound of glass smashing against the floor, a mirror perhaps. They were destroying what I had built, piece by piece. Finally, before I could convince myself it was a bad idea, I started moving swiftly across the floor. I picked up one of the candleholders from on top of the vanity cabinet. It was colored like marble and extremely heavy. After a couple of deep breaths, I made my way out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into the back of the salon. It was dark. I could see the outline of a man dressed all in black. He was ransacking the place. The register beeped, so I knew the other person was on the other side of the curtains. The one closest to where I was had his back to me. He was bent over, looking through the cabinet where we kept extra bottles of alcohol.

“Veuve Clicquot. Nice,” he said, pulling one out and ripping off the seal.

The other man yelled, “I can’t get this stupid thing open!”