Page 7 of Say Yes to the Death

“Not now.” She turned without signaling at the next intersection. The news van blew past her. Success! Suck it, Channel Eight News.

“Geeze, okay. Are you on your way home?” Luke’s voice, as sweet and hot as molasses in July, poured out of the speaker.

“To your house, yes,” Claire said, noting the distinction. With the exception of the previous evening, she had barely been in her apartment since she was abducted. But that didn’t mean Luke’s sprawling country estate had earned the title of “home.” He didn’t even have a laminator.

“You’ve been there almost every night since the incident. What’s the harm in calling it?—”

“Luke, they’re chasing me again,” she interrupted. She swung into the left lane and glanced in her rearview mirror. Another news van was hot on her tail.

He swore. “Which street are you on?”

“Astor, by the park.”

“Try losing them in the underground parking garage beneath the Wilmington. Then you can take Fourth Street to Susquehanna Ave. If that doesn’t work, let me know and I’ll call Detective Smith to escort you. Do you still have your gate opener?”

Claire glanced at the button that was clipped to her visor. “I do.”

“Good. I’m on my way back from Harrisburg now, but it’ll be at least an hour till I’m there. I’ll bring dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling slightly better. “Chinese?” Surely the sweet sting of General Tso’s could erase the tide of horrific memories that had been dredged up today.

“Of course. Did you change your bandage today?”

“No, Luke. You insist that I keep doing it wrong, so I didn’t bother.” She rolled her eyes as she swung back into the right lane. The Wilmington Hotel—thankfully not a business owned by the hotel tycoon who had stabbed her—loomed large on the next block.

“That’s probably for the better.”

“Shut up. How was your day? Did Mrs. Rathfon agree to the interview?” Carly Rathfon, the mother of Widowmaker victim Shawna DeLong, had been ignoring Luke’s phone calls for a week.

“We don’t have to talk about it. Your day sounds shitty enough already.”

Claire bit her lip. The hotel was half a block away. “I’m still interested. It’s not your fault that the subject of your next documentary tried to kill me.” It was, however, Luke’s fault that he suspected Claire was the next intended victim of the West Haven Widowmaker and neglected to tell her about it, but she was over that. Well, almost.

She swerved into the underground parking lot without signaling. A jolt of fear struck as the sky disappeared, replaced by concrete pillars. Fluorescent lights glowed ominously overhead. The marks on her wrists burned.

Taillights lit up red in her mirror, but she was free. She tore through the parking lot as fast as she dared and out into the afternoon sun. Freedom!

“She did,” Luke said calmly, as if Claire wasn’t breaking ten traffic rules at once. “I could tell she was ready to slam the door in my face at first. She said the press has been relentless, especially since he got caught. But I explained the premise and gave her Ariel and Kayley’s mothers’ phone numbers so she could talk to them first. I’m confident that she’ll call me back.”

“That’s great. I’m sure she will.” It was hard to be a good (maybe) girlfriend in the middle of a sensationally crappy day and medium-speed car chase.

“Something else is bothering you. Your angry music is playing. Are you nervous about dinner with my mom tomorrow? I don’t blame you. She’s basically an irritable dragon in a pantsuit. We could pretend you’re sick.”

It was a tempting offer. A dragon-like mother of her maybe boyfriend was not likely to improve Claire’s week. “No, that’s not it. We’ll talk about it when you get home. I mean, to your house.”

He chuckled. “Okay. Are they still following you?”

She flicked her gaze to her rearview mirror. Surely the press weren’t hiding in the Amish buggy cantering along behind her. “I think I lost them. I’m leaving town now. Should be there soon.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

She smiled as she hung up. Claire had given up on men after Jason had slept with Wendy in a bathroom at the Chamber of Commerce awards ceremony the previous year. Everything changed when Luke stormed into her apartment eight months later demanding a meeting for their joint project. Despite her best efforts, she was actually developing real feelings for the grumpy filmmaker who disparaged her career path at every turn. But they weren’t really together. Were they? There had been some very steamy kisses that ended in a trip to the hospital, but they hadn’t defined the relationship.

The apartment buildings and corner convenience stores of West Haven fell away behind her. As much as she loved her little apartment in the city, she couldn’t deny the appeal of the wide-open spaces of the country. At Luke’s house, no overly sensitive neighbors smacked the ceiling with a broomstick when she dared to watch TV past ten p.m.

She turned onto a state highway and drove past an expansive dairy farm. The cows lay in the field, staring judgmentally at her as she passed. She searched the sky, but there weren’t any storm clouds on the horizon.

Rain was supposed to be good luck on your wedding day. And today had nearly been hers. The clock on the dashboard read 1:37. As hard as she tried to put it out of her mind, she had memorized every second of the wedding day schedule. She should have been taking first look photos with Jason right now. Instead, he was headed home to a scheming shrew, and Claire was recovering from a stab wound at the home of a hunky, if grumpy, filmmaker. And her beautiful, one-of-a-kind wedding dress was covered in blood, hanging in an evidence locker.

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