Page 51 of Say Yes to the Death

Claire sighed and pulled out the phone that she had stuffed in her bra not a moment before. She was only going to check a few emails. The high school marching band was supposed to send her a video of their song and formation. She threw it at him before slamming the bathroom door.

Claire opened the bag Mindy had packed for her. She lingered for a moment on a lacy black bra. What the hell. She pulled it on and paired it with a tiny pair of black cheekies. The underwear might mean a permanent wedgie for the evening, but if Luke was finally going to take a peek under the hood, it would be worth it. A cocktail-length little black dress clung to her curves. Pearls her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday curled around her neck, matching studs adorning her ears.

She twisted her wild hair up into an elegant topknot and transitioned to her evening makeup with a quick smoky eye and false eyelashes. For once they adhered without gluing her eyelids shut, and she said a small prayer that they would not wind up falling off in the middle of an amorous escapade. The large, flesh-colored bandage that covered her accidental stab wound didn’t really go with the dress, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

She emerged from the bathroom moments later, and Luke lit up when he saw her.

“You look incredible,” he said, grabbing her hand and twirling her around.

She giggled and tried not to trip in her black stilettos. A rare compliment from the Grumpmeister. “Thank you. Shall we?”

He led the way to the restaurant, occasionally pausing to point out a historical landmark or location of a childhood memory. Claire’s feet ached by the time they reached the restaurant, and her underwear was indeed burrowing into her butt crack. She shifted uncomfortably as Luke checked them in. Maybe she could dislodge the wedgie by shifting her weight. No such luck. The only thing she managed to accomplish was getting a bizarre look from the maître d’.

A waiter led them to a table by the window. They passed a dozen couples dressed in black, hunched around their candlelit tables. Would it kill them to add some color to their wardrobes?

A glass ceiling stretched above them, revealing the Eiffel Tower in all of its lit-up glory. Even at a considerable distance, it was shockingly tall.

Claire sat, unable to stop gawking. “Oh, Luke. It’s beautiful.”

“I thought you’d like it here. Red or white?”

“What? Oh, cabernet sauvignon, s’il vous plaît,” she said, seeing the waiter standing politely next to them. He made a small bow and then disappeared.

“So.” She scooted closer to the table. “Tell me more about your progress on the documentary. And when do I get to see it?”

Luke was always careful to talk about his documentary in abstract terms or from the perspective of the victims.

“Not until it’s perfect. I have so much information, so many stories to tell. At this point, I think a miniseries is going to be the best way to really tell them all, maybe even a separate forty-five-minute segment for each victim. But the producers are still after me to add a few things.” He spread his napkin over his lap and drummed his fingers on the table.

“Like what?” she asked, taking a sip of the wine that had been promptly delivered at her elbow. Pleasantly earthy and full-bodied. She glanced at the menu, but it was all in French. It would be incredibly rude to pull out her phone to translate while Luke talked about his project. It looked like Luke was going to be ordering for her.

“A couple more interviews, maybe people who knew Barney at school, that kind of thing.”

“You’re doing something incredible, you know.”

“I know,” he said, also staring at his menu. He put it down abruptly. “Wait, what specifically?”

Claire laughed. “Telling their stories. The girls—they had whole lives. They loved, they laughed, they may have smoked a fair bit of marijuana and experimented a little too much in the bedroom if my roommate Courtney was any indication. But they lived.”

“Exactly,” he said, fidgeting with the corner of his menu. “To most people, these women are just a list of names in the news. But they were so much more. Did you know that Ariel Pullizi volunteered at her local animal shelter every week? Or that Jennifer Heiser was fluent in Portuguese?”

Claire shook her head.

“That’s because the media doesn’t treat them like people—like individuals. They’re all lumped together as a set, practically anonymous. Not if I can help it,” he muttered, turning back to his menu.

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. He was so cute when he talked about work. He returned her squeeze, then took a sip of wine.

“What are you ordering?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read any of it,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if the wine was stronger than what she was used to or she was getting tipsy on the atmosphere of France, but her head was beginning to swim pleasantly. She took another sip of wine.

He smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”

Claire took another glance around the restaurant. Wine glasses and carefully polished silverware gleamed. Candlelight flickered softly. Warmth flowed from the tips of her toes to her ears. She was safe here, surrounded by tantalizing smells and free-flowing wine, a fierce and grumpy protector at her side. Whoever threatened her was thousands of miles away. And tonight, she was finally going to break her sex embargo.

When the waiter passed by again, Luke ordered for them both. She didn’t bother to ask what she was getting.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you.” She stared dreamily up at the Tower.

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