Page 37 of Throne of Secrets

Silence crackled over the line for a moment. “Is that what the bad thing was?”

Her breath hitched. “No.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the words out. “I tried to get my shoe out. It was wedged in the crack, and I pulled. I ended up flying backward into a bunch of garbage cans.”

“Star—”

“And I was sitting in”—she gagged—“blood and bodily fluids.”

“What?” Ethan’s voice sharpened. “Blood and bodily fluids?”

“I didn’t know it was blood,” she said quickly. Her voice cracked. “I was so mad about my shoe. I mean, Ethan, these were my absolute favorite shoes. My lucky shoes. Red soles, Ethan. Louboutins and third-hand, but still. They made me feel like I had my life together, you know?”

“Star—”

“So, I stood up, and, pissed about my shoe, I opened the trash can. That’s when I realized all the stuff on my skirt wasn’t just gross trash juice.” Her voice trembled. “It was blood, but I didn’t know it. I was mad about my skirt and my shoes because I dressed nice today. I wore a wool skirt, Ethan, in the middle of summer. For you. Because I wanted to look pretty for you. I even bought wine. Really good wine. Two bottles.”

“Star,” Ethan said, voice strained. “What happened with the blood?”

She inhaled shakily. “I opened the trash can to throw away my broken heel.” Her voice cracked. “And there was a dead body in it, Ethan. A body. Cut up into pieces.”

“Jesus.”

“I'm gonna be sick?—”

She hung up, lurched forward, and vomited onto the pavement.

The splash hit with a sickening splatter, landing squarely on the scuffed leather shoes of a very tall, tired-looking detective.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, wiping her mouth with her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

The detective stepped back, shook his shoe with practiced resignation, and gave her a faint, almost amused smile. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time that’s happened.”

A younger man in plain clothes joined him, took one look at the vomit-covered shoes, and then at Star. “Our witness?” he asked.

Star held up her hands, palms out. “No, no, no.I didn’twitnessanything. I just opened the trash can to throw away my shoe. My skirt was ruined. My shoes were broken. And I was trying to make the Q train. I didn’t see who did this. I just”—her voice faltered—“found that.”

She pointed toward the garbage can. Her stomach twisted again at the memory.

The detectives followed her gaze. The older detective’s jaw tightened. The younger one shifted uncomfortably.

Star squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a hand to her mouth. “I’m going to be sick again.”

Both men took an instinctive step back.

She swallowed hard, drew in shallow breaths through her mouth, and silently begged her stomach to settle.

Please, please, don’t let me vomit again.

Her eyes flicked toward the trash can. Blood smeared the outer rim where she'd lifted the lid. The copper tang still hung thick in the air, mingling with the sickly-sweet odor of decomposing garbage.

She clamped her hand tighter over her mouth.

God help me.

Her phone vibrated in her hand. The familiar name on the screen made her heart clench.

Ethan.

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