Page 85 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

“Sure, I will.” But Olivia wasn’t sure of anything right now.

When their conversation ended, she stowed her phone in her tote and gathered up the rest of her things. As she came out of her dressing room, she glimpsed a figure ducking around the corner. The shadowy light at the end of the corridor made it impossible to see whether it was a man or a woman, but something about the way the person moved seemed furtive. Still, too many things seemed furtive these days, and she no longer trusted herself to judge what was real and what wasn’t.

She passed Sarah Mabunda on her way out of the building. The Muni’s current Aida walked by without a word.

* * *

“Let me see your driver’s license,” she told Thad as she slipped into the front seat of a very expensive snow-white Chevy Corvette ZR1 that looked as if it belonged on a NASA launchpad. She’d wanted to call an Uber, but she wasn’t up to the confrontation that would surely follow.

He flipped open his wallet to show her his temporary license. “For future reference, sending two of the town’s most recognized jocks to the DMV together wasn’t your best idea. We nearly caused a riot.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

As he pulled out onto West Kinzie, she began to unwind. His presence didn’t exactly relax her. How could she relax with memories of all their creative sex acts ping-ponging in her brain? Instead, being with him, absorbing his self-confidence and energy, made her feel as though she might be able to regain control of her own life.

“I’m guessing you want to stop by your place first to pick up some of your things,” he said.

“I phoned my real estate agent this afternoon. He’s going to find me a safer furnished rental in the next few days. Moving in with you is only temporary. Very temporary.”

“It better be. I’m not sure how long I can handle having a high-strung roommate. And if you get into any of my beauty products, I’m kicking you out.”

She smiled. As far as she knew, his only beauty products were a bar of soap and a tube of sunblock.

He parked in the garage next to her beloved old BMW, and they rode the elevator up to her apartment. She unlocked the door and gazed at the mess she’d left. Unfortunately, no magic elves had appeared to unpack all her suitcases.

Except . . . the dagger Thad had been toying with . . . She distinctly remembered watching him set it next to the inkpot instead of by the Lady Macbeth crown where it belonged. Now, it was lying on an end table next to the couch.

Someone had been in here.

16

The small suitcase that held her toiletries lay on its side. Two more suitcases didn’t seem to be where she’d left them. There were other small things. The bedroom door had been closed when she’d left, and now it was open. She hadn’t used the master bathroom this morning, but the drawer next to the sink was ajar.

Not surprisingly, Mr. Chill lost his cool, erupting with an astonishing string of locker room obscenities that concluded with his insistence that they immediately go to the police. This would be her third visit inside a police station in a little over two weeks—a record she’d never counted on achieving.

All she wanted to do was curl up in her pajamas with a glass of wine and some good jazz. But she knew he was right.

His “friend” in the Chicago Police Department turned out to be a leggy brunette about her age, and, if her suspicions were correct, a former girlfriend. Olivia confirmed the details he’d already given Lieutenant Barbie in a telephone conversation they’d apparently had earlier in the day. And calling her “Lieutenant Barbie” was totally unfair. Lieutenant Brittany Cooke was efficient, competent, sympathetic, and Olivia was a jealous disgrace to the sisterhood.

“I’ve talked to the police in New Orleans and Las Vegas,” the lieutenant told her. “And I’m making some inquiries about your ex-fiancé’s sisters and one of your superfans.”

Olivia glared at Thad. “Rupert is not part of this!”

“Just following protocol,” the lieutenant said with a soothing smile. “For now, be smart about what you do and where you go.”

Thad looked as if he had something to say about that but kept his mouth shut.

* * *

Thad’s condo was exactly what she would have expected a multimillionaire bachelor with excellent taste to own. Modern and spacious with sweeping windows showcasing both city and lake views. The decor was contemporary, mostly tones of gray, steel, and blue with unexpected hits of color here and there. But with the exception of a full bookcase and a great vinyl collection, Thad himself was missing. No personal photos sat on display. Nothing that reflected the people he’d met over the years, the places he’d traveled. And not one object that testified to his many accomplishments on the field.

“I’m putting your things in the guest room,” he said, “but I’m requesting that not include your actual body.”

She tugged on her necklace. “We need to talk.” But Thad had already disappeared with the two suitcases she’d brought along, and he either couldn’t hear her or chose not to.

She took in an abstract painting she recognized as a work by the famous American street artist Ian Hamilton North—a vast, multicolored kaleidoscope that took up most of a wall.

She had to find a new place quickly. Definitely by the time the show opened. She’d talked to her real estate agent twice already today, and he’d assured her it shouldn’t take long to locate a more secure apartment. Definitely by the time the show opened. Maybe she could find a temporary rental. Or maybe . . .

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