The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(17)

“Where’s your sister tonight?” he asked.

Frankie was about to answer when a voice called from behind him: “I’m here, I’m here!”

Pam threaded her way toward the table through the Friday crowd. She had a way of parting the seas as she walked. A shopping bag from Nordstrom Rack dangled from one finger. With a toss of her long bottle-blond hair, she slid into the chair opposite Frankie and gave Virgil a grin. She slid off her sunglasses.

“What should I have tonight, V?” she asked.

“Depends. Are we looking to flirt, celebrate, or get drunk?”

“All three.”

“Sounds like a Bellini martini,” he said.

“Done.”

Virgil left, and Pam gave an exaggerated sigh as she settled herself at the table and fluffed her hair. Every motion Pam made was designed to draw attention to herself. And it worked. Around the bar, men stole glances at her. Anyone looking at the two of them could see that they were sisters, but Pam got the attention when they were together. It was partly her looks. Pam had spent some of her college money on breast implants, and she dressed to show them off. Her legs had the golden glow of time in the sun. But it was her attitude, too. Something about Pam screamed of sex.

“Where’s Jason?” Pam asked.

“He had to work late.”

Pam shook her head. “All work and no play. You should play with that boy more.”

“Life’s not all about play, Pam,” Frankie said.

Her sister rolled her eyes. Frankie couldn’t blame her. Whenever she was with Pam, she lectured her like a child. It had been that way their whole lives. When Pam needed rescuing, Frankie was there, and Frankie in turn made her feel like shit. They may as well have been jealous teenagers.

As they sat there, Frankie heard her phone ping. She had a new e-mail at her personal address. When she checked her phone, she saw that it was the same sender as before. This time he wrote, I remember you.



Her sister read her frown from across the table. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Frankie put down the phone and put the message out of her mind. Someone was playing games with her. “Nothing at all.”

Virgil brought Pam her martini, which had an amber glow and an orchid flower draped over the rim of the glass. Pam took a sip and licked her lips with her tongue. “Perfect, Virgil. You are my savior.”

“Sorry, Frankie and I covered religion. We’re all going to hell.”

“Dibs on that,” Pam replied.

Virgil left them alone, and Pam eyed the crowd around them, taking a survey of the male faces. When someone smiled at her, she smiled back. Frankie wanted a report on Pam’s day, but she knew she’d have to drag it out of her.

“How did the job interview go?” Frankie asked.

Pam didn’t look back. “Fine. Great. I’m sure I got it.”

“Did you even show up?”

This time, Pam stared at her, and her look was deadly. “Excuse me?”

“Did you go, or did you blow it off?”

“Of course I went.”

“If I call, is that what they’ll tell me?”

“Call them,” Pam said. She took a sip of her drink and added, “It’s so refreshing that you trust me.”

Frankie shrugged. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

The truth was that Pam had never given anyone in the family a reason to trust her, but Frankie didn’t bother pointing that out.

Living with a family of type-A academics, Pam had deliberately gone in the opposite direction. She dropped out of college after a year. She bounced from job to job—dancer, waitress, model—and along the way, she developed an addiction to cocaine and went through rehab twice. Five years ago, she married a Portuguese web developer she’d met in a Mission District nightclub. He abused her. She cheated on him. When he kicked her out, she moved into Frankie’s spare bedroom, and she was still there.

Pam had money now. Their father had left them a small inheritance, but the way Pam was spending her share, Frankie didn’t think that the nest egg would last more than a few years in her pockets. Pam couldn’t think that far into the future, but Frankie did, and she’d been maneuvering to get Pam a job. Any job. The latest interview was with a PR firm that Frankie had worked with when she testified in a litigation case. Public relations was all about looking good, and Pam fit the bill.

Frankie’s phone pinged again.

Another e-mail.

She hesitated, but she picked up her phone. The message was from the same person. It read, What’s your worst memory?



This time, Frankie angrily tapped out a return e-mail with her slim fingers: Who is this?



She sent it before she could think twice and then slapped her phone down on the table. Pam noticed.

“What’s up?”

“Just a troll. Tell me about the interview.”

“What’s to tell?” Pam asked.

“What kind of questions did they ask?”

“I don’t know. PR questions. Are you comfortable lying to a reporter’s face? Would you sleep with a client to keep their business? That kind of thing.”

“Funny,” Frankie said.

“Come on, I’d be eye candy for them, and that’s all. You know it. I know it. They know it.”