Page 38 of Again with Feeling

“And who’s that? Your—”

Someone tapped on the glass in a way that could only be described as pugnacious, and then, their voice muffled as it passed through the window, Fox called, “I’m his titi.”

“Oh my God,” I said under my breath.

“AND I’M HIS SISTER!”

(No glass in the world could mufflethatone.)

“Nope,” I tried.

“And what are you?” Candy asked Keme.

“His big brother,” Keme said without missing a beat. “I’m the one who wants the tattoo.”

“He’s not—” I began.

“Oh my God,” Candy said, “I can totally see the resemblance!”

For a single, spluttering moment, there was only, um, spluttering. And then I said, “You can?”

“Candy said you’re the best,” Keme said to Ricky. “I’m thinking something minimalist. Maybe a scene fromJohn Wick.”

“Not one single thing aboutJohn Wickis minimalist,” I began, “and you arenotgetting a—” But then I caught Keme’s look (the translation was somewhere betweenHow stupid are you?and one of those wordless noises of pure frustration), and I realized what he was doing. “Uh, okay. Maybe I could chat with Candy really quickly while you talk about it. Andonlytalk about it.”

Keme ignored me, of course, and pulled out his phone as he moved over to Ricky, apparently to show him what a minimalist tattoo of a scene from aJohn Wickmovie might conceivably look like.

Candy stayed where she was, looking up at Ricky, clearly hoping to be included in the conversation—or at least acknowledged. But Ricky was, apparently, a true professional, and now that there was work at hand, he seemed to have forgotten Candy entirely. After a few more seconds, she heaved herself to her feet with a sigh and came over to me.

“What?” she said.

“Sorry about—”

“Oh, it’s okay. I get it, trust me. Big brothers are theworst.”

I almost—almost—descended into sputtering again. But I managed to keep my cool (on the outside, anyway—I mean was it the hair? He was seventeen, for heaven’s sake. Was it because of all the testosterone?). “Right. Well, I was hoping I could ask you a few more questions about Richard.”

She lowered turquoise-shadowed eyelids and squinted out at me. Slowly, she said, “Okay.”

“One of the things that I’m still trying to figure out is where you were the night Richard disappeared.” (I didn’t add that the reason I was still trying to figure it out was because the first time I’d asked, she’d avoided the question.) “I was hoping you could tell me what you were doing that night.”

Her silence lasted a beat. And then she said, “Excuse me?”

“This is part of making sure the case is airtight—”

“The caseisairtight,” she said, and the words were starting to get pitchy. “Vivienne killed him. I already told you that.”

“I know, but you understand that to prove that, the police are going to need more than your word for it.”

“I told you about all of it. How they were all fighting. And the money. She hated Richard, and she killed him, and she took the money and left.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me. But you know that defense attorneys do background checks on everyone involved in a case like this—including witnesses. So, I need to nail down exactly where you were that night.”

“I was at home.” She said it so fast that nobody would have believed her.

“Uh huh. So, the thing is, another name came up in the investigation, and I’m afraid it’s…complicating the timeline.” (How about that for some grade-A BS?) “What can you tell me about Zane Potthof?”

Underneath the inches of makeup, her face went white. It was like someone ripped the stuffing out of her—her shoulders slumped, and she sagged inside her tube top (try not to visualize it). Then she rallied. She struggled to pull herself upright, crossed her arms under her, uh, bosom, and said, “Who told you about Zane?” And before I could say anything, she said, “It washer, wasn’t it?”

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