Body Movers Books 1-3

“I’m fine,” she said. “She’d been drinking, and she accused me of fooling around with you behind her back. Why would she think that?”

He made distressed noises. “I don’t know. And I’m so sorry that Angela made a scene. I hope it didn’t get you in trouble at work.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m only sorry that the jacket must have been a sore spot between the two of you.”

“When a marriage is going south, petty things tend to get blown out of proportion.”

“I thought you’d love the color,” she said, fishing. “Brown always looked good on you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It was thoughtful of Angela.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. The jacket was gray. Maybe Angela had bought it for someone else. But if so, why would Peter pretend otherwise? Or maybe he was just too overwhelmed with everything else to remember details like the color.

“Peter,” she said carefully, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to call me, considering everything that’s happened.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “I thought you were my friend, but you’re right—it was wrong of me to call.”

She closed her eyes, frustrated with her warring emotions. She was suddenly afraid—afraid he would ask her to come over, to comfort him in his grief, and that in a moment of weakness, she would. “I am your friend, Peter. I’m trying to advise you as to what’s best, that’s all.”

“I know, Carly. You’re the only person in my life who ever truly cared about me, and I ruined everything.”

She bit down on her tongue. The pain helped to clear her head. “Peter, I don’t think now is the time to discuss the past. You have other things to worry about. You’re not going to be alone tonight, are you?”

“Sort of. I couldn’t stay at the house, so I checked into the Ritz-Carlton for a while. Room 539.”

“That’s good,” she murmured, shifting on the bed but unable to find a comfortable position. Did he think she’d offer to come to the hotel and keep him company? She couldn’t do that, but somehow she wound up writing the room number on a notepad next to the phone.

Peter heaved a sigh. “Angela and I were having problems, but I never thought it would end like this.”

A chill went through her at the despair in his voice. Was he on the verge of making a confession? “Peter, I really don’t think I’m the person you should be sharing this with.”

“You’re right, of course. I won’t bother you anymore, Carly.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said quickly, her mind racing. “But you need to take care of yourself. Try to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, sounding disoriented and childlike.

She gripped the phone, not wanting to let him go. “Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Carly.”

She put down the receiver, her heart squeezing painfully, her head spinning. Why did life have to be so hard? Useless tears pressed on her eyelids as she fought the push-pull emotions she felt for Peter. She wanted to believe him, but could she? He had betrayed her trust once, and now he seemed remorseful, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Shouldn’t he be too consumed with grief to be worried about anything else?

She huddled down in the covers, turned up the volume on the television and immersed herself in the figures moving across the screen. As always, watching the exotic lives of the rich and the beautiful helped to remove her from the turmoil raging in her life and in her heart.

Even after paid programming came on at 3:00 a.m., she fought sleep. She didn’t want to go where she couldn’t control her thoughts and fears. There were too many faces to haunt her, too many questions pulling at her—her parents’ disappearance, the loan sharks’ lurking presence, Peter’s betrayal and their illicit reunion, and now, Angela’s death.

And the chief tormentor in her fitful dreams was Jack Terry, who prodded and poked at her, demanding to know the truth about her parents, about their lives, about her feelings for Peter, about her suspicions regarding Angela’s drowning. He pursued her, crowded her, menacing and relentless, his eyes all-seeing, his big hands reaching for her, as if he were going to wring the truth out of her—

“Carlotta.”

Her eyes popped open and she shrieked, scrambling away from the voice.

“Sis, hey, it’s just me.”

She blinked through the morning light and Wesley’s concerned face came into view. “Oh.” Her muscles relaxed in abject relief.

“Hard night, huh?”

She nodded against her pillow, then alarm seized her anew and her gaze flew to the clock. “What time is it? Oh my God, I overslept. Lindy’s going to fire me for sure!” She flung back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“I left you some breakfast on the table,” Wesley said. “I have to take off—I’m working with Coop today.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, her head heavy as she stood. “What time did you get in last night?”

“Late.” He was headed toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “We ran into some trouble at the morgue with the Ashford woman’s body, and then—”

“Trouble?” she cut in, pushing her hair out of her face. “What kind of trouble?”

“The chief M.E. almost refused the body, said his examiner determined the death accidental and he wasn’t going to do an autopsy. There’s some history between the guy and Coop—they argued. I think they used to work together, but Coop didn’t want to talk about it.”

Carlotta waved her hands to dismiss the details about Coop—who cared? “Is there going to be an autopsy or not?”

“Not, from what I could tell. We had to leave the body there because we had another run, but we picked it back up a couple of hours later.”

No autopsy. She went limp with relief.

“I’ll be late again tonight,” he said. “Weekends seem to be a popular time to die. Don’t wait on me for dinner.”

“Okay,” she said, but he was already gone. Another glance at the clock had her jogging into the bathroom for a quick dip in and out of the shower before the water even had time to warm up. As she toweled off, her mind raced ahead to the things she had to do today and suddenly, the events of last night came rushing back full force. Angela Ashford was dead. And Peter Ashford was behaving suspiciously.

Before her thoughts became paralyzing, she pushed them away and forced herself through her morning routine at lightning speed, pulling a red jersey DKNY “emergency” dress from her closet. A gray cashmere shrug would pass for a jacket and trusty black Miu Miu slingbacks would get her through the day sans Band-Aids. She turned on the local-news radio station, and just as she was flossing her teeth, there was mention of Angela’s death.

“A Buckhead woman, Angela Ashford, was found drowned in her home pool yesterday. Alcohol is believed to have been involved. In other news…”

Carlotta paused in her flossing. Two sentences? Angela’s life and death had been acknowledged in two lousy sentences. She was here, now she’s gone, with the implication that her death had been her own darned fault. The woman was no saint, but still, it hardly seemed fair.

But life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t that lesson been her own constant companion over the past ten years?

Traffic was surprisingly light, so she wasn’t as late as she might have been when she crashed through the door and tossed her belongings into a locker in the break room. Still, Lindy Russell glared at her as she slid into place behind an available counter and offered to assist a customer. Carlotta moved like a zombie through the morning hours. Her department was busy, even for a Saturday, but everywhere she turned, she pictured Angela Ashford’s body lying next to the pool, with water streaming from clothes that she had bought here. She felt detached from what she was doing, as if she were floating above her own body. She kept telling herself that Angela’s death being ruled an accident was a good thing, but her conscience nagged at her.

Michael appeared midday, his eyes glittering and wide. “Did you hear about Angela Ashford?”

“I heard,” she offered noncommittally.

“She drowned,” he barreled ahead, “in her own pool. Can you believe it?”

“No,” she replied honestly.