Falling into Place(34)

“Hey, weren’t the police questioning Liam yesterday?”

Damn.

“Liam? You mean the guy who plays flu—oh, hey! Liam. Liam!”

They swarm around him, and Liam has to remind himself to keep his misanthropy in check before he pushes back his hood and turns around.

“Yeah?”

“You were the one who found Liz, right? What was it like?”

It’s Marcus Hills who asks. In the article, Marcus called Liz beautiful. In real life, he usually remarked upon her boobs.

I don’t need to keep my misanthropy in check. It runs wild.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


Four Days Before Liz Emerson Crashed Her Car


She woke up and decided to take a drive. She grabbed her keys and headed for the interstate, and she drove along her crash route to test the road conditions.

Dry with salt, but still icy at the edges. And it would snow between now and then, anyway, and the turn, her turn, was a tricky one even in good weather. Her accident might actually end up being an accident, and she wasn’t certain if she liked the idea.

Doesn’t matter, she decided. Same result.

The interstate rose over a half bridge, and Liz pushed down on the gas. The land sloped away, down and down and down until it melted to grass and trees.

There.

She pictured it as she drove. Onto the bridge. Tighten grip on the wheel. Accelerate. Brake. Skid. Jerk the wheel to the right. Break through the railing. Close eyes. Fall—

Liz grappled with the wheel as the car swerved, catching the interstate railing and leaving a streak of blue paint behind. She swallowed hard and took a breath. She had started following her own instructions.

Four more days.

She kept going, all the way to Cardinal Bay—still an unimpressive city, but it had a mall. Liz took the exit and parked. She headed for the closest store, even though the outside was too pink and expensive looking. Why not? What else did she have to do, four days before she died?

It sounded like a truth or dare question, the big cliché, the one that came late at night when everyone was tired and drunk and out of interesting questions. What would you do with the last week of your life?

Surely she had answered it before, or some variation. She wondered what she’d said. Travel, maybe, or skydive, or say good-bye.

She sure as hell didn’t say nothing, but that’s what she wanted to do now.

A perky bell and a perkier sales clerk greeted her the moment she stepped through the door. “Hi!” she said, and looked critically at Liz’s hips. “Two? Let me show you our jeans, they’re all on sale, this weekend only! Follow—”

“No,” said Liz. She meant to add a thanks after, but it got lost on its way out of her mouth. She wandered off by herself.

It was definitely more of a Kennie store—preppy jeans and floral cardigans, lace and frills. She felt like she was interrupting a tea party, and the store was too small to really wander through. Liz liked to wander when she shopped. She liked to weave through racks, one earbud in and the other dangling by her thigh, a cup of coffee in her hand. She liked not being watched.

“. . . um . . . I’m sorry. I don’t mean to push the issue, but . . . I don’t understand. Why didn’t I—I mean, I just . . .”

Liz leaned around the dressing rooms and saw an office at the end of the hall. She pretended to examine the discarded and rejected rack, and listened.

“I’m sorry,” a second voice said flatly. “The decision is final.”

“I respect that,” the girl said, desperate, “but I’d like to know why I didn’t get the job. For future reference.”

Liz leaned back again and caught a glimpse of a woman behind a desk. “Oh, dear, you just don’t have the image we look for here at L’Esperance.”

“What image?”

“We don’t carry anything over a six, dear. We market our clothing lines for people who are, well—shaped differently than you are. How would it look if one of our employees wasn’t even able to fit into our shirts?”

Silence, then, and the manager added, “I’m sorry, dear. Thanks for applying, but I’m afraid you just don’t belong in our store. But you’ll find something, I’m sure! Best of luck.”

Liz watched; the girl opened her mouth, closed it, and walked out. Her face was blotchy, and Liz wasn’t sure if it was because she was angry or if it was because she was crying. Liz felt like both herself. The woman followed and caught sight of Liz.