Stone Cold Fox (43)
“He’s a loser, Wren.” I had to humor her. “What man wouldn’t want to be with an absolute goddess like you?” Speaking Wren’s language was easy enough for me. I just didn’t want to actively have to do it. Wren was beyond dull, but she was desperate to be my friend and I happened to have an opening so I prepared myself to listen to her insufferable chatter. She was a woman who fully subscribed to being a “girl’s girl” in the emptiest way possible. She proclaimed about wanting to lift women up, called them queens, preached being “healthy” over “skinny” as if her clavicle wasn’t a lethal weapon, love and light. Always love and light. I refilled her glass so she would keep drinking and keep talking. Then I only had to half-heartedly listen with a fake smile smacked upon my face for the duration of our journey.
“That’s right.” She grinned as I poured. “I don’t think I could get serious with another man in tech again. Too in their heads, but like, weirdly shallow at the same time. I just wanna have fun and find my best friend. Like you and Collin!”
“That’s sweet, but you know a man can’t be your best friend, Wren.”
“What are you talking about, yes they can, that’s the whole point!”
“Collin isn’t my best friend,” I said.
“I bet you’re his best friend.”
Oh my God, could we please stop saying best friend?
“I’m actually not,” I corrected her. “But you’re going to meet her shortly.”
“STAHP,” she honked, her jaw going slack, resembling a sex doll.
“Seriously. Gale is his friend from childhood,” I said. “She also just went through a breakup and I know it might seem unwise under normal circumstances, but trust me, you should totally ask her about it. You know how good it feels to bitch about your exes with someone else feeling just as miserable as you are.” Wren nodded along, downing even more champagne. Perfection. Gale would hate Wren, too, but I suspected the feeling would be mutual and I was eager to see their meet-cute in real time.
“So who is your best friend?” Wren asked me, eagerly hoping for reassurance it was her. As if.
“She’s dead,” I said, my default reply to such questions. A normal person would give their condolences and move on, but it slipped my mind in the moment that Wren was anything but normal.
“Oh my God, Bea, I’m so sorry. What happened to her?” Wren was actually summoning tears for my loss. Awful, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was in the presence of someone who openly referred to herself as an empath, a woo-woo self-diagnosis that is meant to herald emotional intelligence, but it really means the empath in question centers themselves in whatever tragedy or drama is at hand, instead of the person it’s actually happening to—classic narcissism in my opinion.
Sure, I could have just said that Wren was my best friend, avoiding the dead friend conversation entirely, but then she would have been insufferable about it all throughout the wedding planning and I’d rather spin incessant lies than seal that dark picture as my fate for the coming months. Why not lie? I was very good at it.
“She was murdered in my hometown,” I whispered, a hush in my voice, really turning it on.
“Oh my God, are you serious, by who?” Wren drunkenly smacked me across the arm. I shrugged at her before looking out the window, wistful.
“The police never solved the crime.”
“You mean her killer is still at large?” Wren exclaimed.
Ah, so she was a true crime fanatic like so many of her peers, a hobby I never understood. Grisly business that could happen to any one of us, at any time. I don’t think most women realize how close we could all be to death at somebody’s hand. Instead, they all seek out sordid stories for entertainment purposes, salivating over them, lapping up every horrifying detail. A false, not to mention sick, escape. But a breakup with tech bro Braden and consuming brutal murder investigations from the sidelines were probably all Wren’s brain waves could handle on any given day. She was a fool. Mother would have thought so, too.
I nodded at Wren, solemnly for effect, and looked out the window again, signifying I wanted a change in subject, but she kept on talking. “Jeez. Remind me never to go to Wilmington.”
I looked at her, raising an eyebrow.
“What makes you think the killer stayed in Wilmington?”
* * *
? ? ?
WE ROLLED UP to the Case compound and it was enough to send Wren into absolute hysterics again. The sheer size of the home was admittedly an arresting sight, one that I had gotten used to by then, but I delighted in her amazement at the grandiosity. Sure, I was equally agog the first time I saw the Case manse myself, the 1 percent in all its glory that very few are privy to, but I didn’t let on externally. I pranced in there alongside Collin like I already belonged there. Another lesson from Mother. One of the most, if not the most, valuable. Meanwhile, Wren Daly had no earthly idea how to behave socially. For my purposes, she was perfect.
“So does she like to be called Haven or Mrs. Case? Are his sisters nice? Oh my God, I just got so nervous. Why am I so nervous?” She had every reason to be nervous. She would not receive a warm reception.
“Just be yourself, Wren,” I said, purposely giving her terrible advice. “They’re all going to love you. Relax, this is going to be fun!” I grabbed her hand as we walked up to the door. Once again, Calliope was on greeting duty, radiating her hippie harlot energy, in a pale-yellow off-the-shoulder frock, bare feet and hot-pink toenails.