Page 114 of Murder

She scoffs. “Of course he has a job. I asked Mom after he left, and she said he works in Hollywood.” Jamie beams.

I can’t help rolling my eyes. “He probably works in a bar.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. He does something with movie production. Something on the business side, with money. That’s what Mom said. She said Mayor Ferrara was really bummed he wasn’t interested in politics, but Niccolo and Casper have a different mom than John, the younger one, so they haven’t lived in Colorado with the mayor since they were children.” She lowers her voice. “Word is Mayor Ferrara cheated on Niccolo’s mom with John’s mom.”

“Well that’s original.” I pull the towel off my head and frown into the mirror at my eyebrows. They really need a wax, but all I’ve got time to do right now is pluck them.

“Anyway…” Jamie pulls her fleece sweater over her head, then wiggles out of her insulated snow pants and, in just underwear and her hoodie, starts to rummage through her suitcase. “The point I’m making here is you know how we were going to maybe meet up with the guys from last night if we got bored? Now we’re meeting up with them for sure… at 9:30.” She smiles her pretty, lipsticked smile and holds her head up high.

I flop back against the bathroom door. “Boooooo.”

Jamie has been single since our sophomore year of college, since her honey was caught making out with Duke’s all-star history professor in a campus bathroom. I can’t even remember the last time she took a shine to someone, so two hours later, we’re bumping along the isolated mountain road toward downtown Breck in her mother’s white Range Rover.

Jamie looks hot in black leggings and a red designer parka, with silver-gray fur-lined boots. She’s wearing fun earrings and her signature red lipstick, which always seems to make her teeth look radiantly white. I’ve got on a thigh-length, gold-brown sweater hoodie over dark brown leggings, and my own pair of fur-lined boots, which are caramel suede.

I intentionally skipped the lipstick and allowed myself to wear my ridiculous peacock feather earrings, hoping the two choices will lead to decreased male attention.

After almost twenty minutes struggling to find a parking spot on Breckenridge’s snowy-as-hell Main Street, I tug on my beanie, Jamie hides beneath her jacket hood, and we trudge toward Gemütlichkeit, a German “beer bar.”

The place is small and probably what a more people-friendly person would consider “cozy,” with lots of dark wood and mounted animal heads, plus a giant fireplace that makes me sweat within the first five seconds.

I see a hand shoot up in a dark corner of the place, followed by the friendly, bearded face of a man with dark eyes and a receding hairline.

“Come on! That’s Nic!”

Jamie grins as we move toward their table.

The guys seem drunk already, like they’ve been here for at least an hour or two, which in Niccolo’s case isn’t even possible. The table is littered with beer bottles, and almost as soon as we sit down, the arrogant guy we met last night—Michael—starts trying to convince me to share a beer bowl with him.

“It’s like a fish bowl, but with beer, and it’s craft beer. Really good shit.”

I decline his offer twice in the first ten minutes. After that, I walk toward the bathroom, getting distracted as I pass a wooden door on the side of the building that’s painted with the word SMOKE and bears a pitifully rendered, hand-painted cigarette.

I haven’t smoked for years—it’s terrible for the voice—but I’m just bored and desperate enough to slip outside despite that.

It’s snowing hard, and the building only has a small awning on this side. I stand with my back against the wall and wonder why I’m so unhappy. Two girls burst out, laughing.

“He looked grumpy!”

“But that hair…”

They’re paying so little attention to where they’re going, one of them crashes into me.

“Oh my God!”

The other girl looks me up and down. “Do I know you? Is she— Sheri, she looks like—”

They both shriek, “Jessica!”

Half an hour—and two cigarettes, and six swigs from a rhinestone flask later—I teeter back inside, feeling pleasantly buzzed.

Before returning to our table, I call Elvie from the women’s bathroom. He’s in New York. Times Square, where his parents are part of the celebrity countdown. The first time I call, someone hits the “fuck you” button. I call right back and someone answers wordlessly. I can hear the roar of guitar amps and laughing. I hear some girl’s voice coo “Elvie.”

I hang up the phone and run my hands under the cold sink water till my heart stops racing.

TWENTY TWO

BARRETT

---