Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(89)

But the presentation—every garment and board and sketch and swatch—had been ruined.

He wouldn’t do this.

A knock of the door made her heart jump into her throat. She pressed a hand over her chest and tried to breathe.

But who would? Could Ellen have slipped in without being noticed?

Her own mother?

The mere possibility filled her with raw, confused pain. In a daze, Bev walked slowly over to the door but didn’t open it. “Yes?” Her voice sounded calm and far away.

“Bev?” Rachel asked.

Eager to commiserate, she reached to unlock the door—and stopped herself. For some reason she couldn’t articulate to herself, she didn’t want to let Rachel see the destruction. It would be horrible for morale, and the temptation for Rachel to gossip would be too great.

“Yes?” Bev let her hand drop to her side.

Silence. Then, “I’m done with lunch. I could meet now if you want.”

“No. Five is still better for me.”

After another long pause, Rachel said, “All right,” and there was silence again.

Bev took a deep breath, grateful she didn’t have to soothe Rachel as well as herself. She put her palm on the door and closed her eyes.

Think.

All she’d done since Liam had left was think. Nobody was left to talk to—she’d alienated her aunt, her mother, her sister, and now Liam.

She turned back around and stared at the carnage, jaw clenched. If not Liam or her family, then who would do this?

Who wants me to fail?

Her foot caught on a balled-up sweatshirt on the floor. She picked it up. It was the charcoal hoodie Liam had wanted Annabelle to wear, marked up with the dusty wheel-marks of an office chair.

Her first design, and he’d liked it.

She sank down in Liam’s chair, picked up the plastic hangtag gun on the edge of the desk and pointed it at the door where she’d last seen him.

Unsatisfied with her target, she pointed it at her own head, the small metal needle poking her in the temple, and squeezed the trigger.

“Pow,” she said.





Chapter 22

“Liam, it’s for you.”

It was late Tuesday afternoon. April stood in the doorway waving the phone while Liam scraped the last stripes of peeling paint off his bedroom dresser. “I’m busy. Who is it?”

“You haven’t slept in days. Take a break already. Lord.”

“Who is it?”

“Not her. Unfortunately.”

Warily Liam put down the scraper and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his wrist, studying April’s face for any hint of matchmaking. Since Sunday she’d been the All Bev, All the Time channel, as though she’d never seen him have trouble getting over a woman before and suddenly was obsessed with uniting him with his one true soulmate.

He took off his gloves and snatched the phone out of her hands. “You just want the condo to yourself,” he muttered, then into the phone he asked, “Hello?”

“Hi, Liam,” came a depressed, familiar voice. Kimberly Jaeger, his ex, now at Target. She sounded even unhappier than usual.

“Hey, good thing you called,” he said. “Change of plans—”

“Oh, thank God,” Kimberly sighed. “I was feeling guilty.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t say it.”

“I can’t do it. If it was just you and me, unofficially chatting, you know, catching up—”

“You can still do that. Just do that with Bev.”

The phone went quiet. “I can’t.”

“There’s no difference. It’s the same product line. Just I won’t be there.”

“Why do you care? You quit.” She paused. “What happened—did she get too serious? I thought that was why you never fooled around at work anymore.”

Liam frowned. “Who told you—?” he cut himself off and stared at the roll of blue masking tape on the floor. “Come to think of it, who told you anything? How did you know I left?”

“I used to work there, big guy. Things get around.”

“Not to Minneapolis.” He paced his room, kicking aside lumpy drop clothes and wishing he had a different way of working through depression than starting major home renovations. “Who, Kimberly?” His heart was starting to pound. “Other shit happened, weird shit. I need to know.”

“It’s nothing like that, I shouldn’t have—”

“Was it Ellen? You know she—”

“I would never talk to that bitch. Are you kidding?”

“Who, then?”

“I won’t tell you. She’s—it’s an old friend.”

“Jennifer.”

“No, I told you, I’m not squealing.”

He took a deep breath. Time to try a new tactic. “You never were much of a squealer,” he said, loading his voice with innuendo.

“Very funny.”

But he could tell she was smiling. “Whoever it is, it’s nobody you liked more than me. Right?”

“I didn’t like anyone more than you. That was the problem.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m cured,” she said. “Now I can cancel meetings with you without any qualms whatsoever.”