Page 3 of Murder

The computer’s clock says it’s 5:15 p.m., which means I need to get moving.

I let out my version of a bear moan. Living alone, I’m free to be as dramatic as I want on any given day. With no pets or people, just me here in the forest and the bears—various distances away from me, in the enclosure behind the cabin—it’s not like my shouting, cursing, singing, dancing, or moaning is going to upset anyone. The house next door is empty. That evil bastard Haywood.

I’ve still got to get a shower, but first…

I hustle from my office into the living room, then through the half-wall opening between den to kitchen. There, inside the cabinet underneath my big, trough-style sink, I keep a bottle of Emile Pernot “Vieux Pontarlier” Absinthe for just such an occasion as this.

I twist the top off, bring the bottle to my lips, and take the smallest of swigs. The warm, licorice taste coats my throat, leaving behind a tang of bitterness as I shut my mouth. I imagine I feel more relaxed as I put the bottle back under the sink.

Absinthe aficionados would be horrified by my bastardization of their fancy drink, but whatever. Again—no one here but me.

I strip out of my workout clothes as I march toward my bedroom, set my iPhone in the Bose sound system on my dresser, grab the remote, and blast some Florence + The Machine as I quickly scrub my body, wash my hair, and dry it, tilting my head upside down and flinging my long, copper locks around like a ’70s rock star. I swipe deodorant underneath my underarms twice, because I know I’ll sweat tonight, then apply a faintly blue eyeliner that makes my brown eyes pop, followed by my signature red lipstick. I don’t care what anybody says about redheads and the color red. It’s bullshit. I can rock the red.

My phone starts playing witchy-sounding music—the theme song from the Harry Potter movies—as I shimmy into hunter green leggings, but I can’t talk to my bestie Jamie and get ready, so I decide I’ll call her from the car. After a parting eyebrow arch into the mirror, I drift into my room and spend a second staring longingly at a an oversized gray hoodie picturing the cover of one of my favorite books, My Antonia, before tossing it aside and grabbing a boring, cream sweater that hits me about mid-thigh. I have these ridiculously awesome Prada combat boots that would breathe some life into this bleh, but I don’t want to draw that kind of attention tonight, so I settle on a pair of brown Tory Burch riding boots that would only look expensive to the most discerning eye.

I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door: a trek that takes me through the office that adjoins my room, then the den—where the cabin’s front door is—through the kitchen, and into the laundry room beside the breakfast nook. The place reeks of gardenias, which are potted and blooming on every spare surface, including the top of the washing machine. I inhale deeply as I slip out the door and into my garage.

The radio in my Mini Cooper (code-named Anderson) is set to NPR, and after deliberation that lasts about the length of my long, twisty driveway, I decide leave it there, distracting myself with an interesting discussion about transgender elementary schoolers before, about two miles from my destination, I call Jamie.

“Are you thereeee?” she asks, in lieu of a normal greeting.

“Not yet.” I sigh.

“Are you ready?” she asks. “Are you still going to do it?” She sounds perhaps skeptical. I can’t tell for sure. She’s got this thing she does where even I can’t read her intonation. Tricky whore.

I sigh again. “I guess maybe. Probably,” I modify.

“You can do this.”

I sink my nails into the leather of the steering wheel and glare out at the traffic.

“It might help,” she says.

“Might.” I attack the stitching on the wheel’s side with one dark purple fingernail and make a turn toward the courthouse.

“I wish I could be there,” she says in a sympathetic tone. She’s got the weirdest accent—Southern and phonetically proper, all at once—and something about it always reminds me of Scarlett O’Hara.

“It’s okay. I know you can’t be, and it’s no biggie.”

Jamie’s a publicist for country music stars, and one of her mouthiest, most trouble-making clients is filming an interview with CMT in two hours.

“It’ll either go well or it won’t. I’m trying to prepare for either way.” I sound a lot more chilled out than I feel.

“Keep me posted. I’ll say a prayer,” she says.

“Thanks.”

I roll into the Sevier County Courthouse parking lot five minutes late, but still take the time to reapply my red lipstick before exiting the car. It’s an attitude thing. Once I feel as if my ’tude is cemented safely in place, I allow my eyes to linger on the left side of my mouth. I try to see myself the way they’ll see me. The way I saw me the first day I woke up in the ICU.

I can’t, though. Not after this long. I just look like me, and I know that’s probably a blessing: that my eyes can’t see my face with horror.

I lift my chin and practice what I used to call the duck face, back when I modeled. Eyes slightly wide, lips pressed into a pout so subtle there’s no way anyone would actually call it that. The look is requested so often by photographers in shoots because it could be anything: pouty, sexy, innocent.

The look makes me feel pouty and hopefully appear innocent—even slightly victimized—so I hold it as I walk briskly past the Dolly Parton statue in front of the building and up the steps.

I hold my shoulders up straight and even use my model walk as I make my way through the crowd and to the elevator banks.

“Shit.”

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