Page 82 of For Your Eyes Only
Thin, pale arms and bare legs are spread and bent in odd angles, but the thing I don’t want to recognize, what makes ice filter through my chest, is the gold and black robe with the distinct Versace pattern surrounding the body.
“Debbie?” Blake’s voice cracks as we all realize it’s our friend.
She’s lying face up in the gutter, on the steps of our beautiful building, broken with dark red liquid seeping from her mouth and nose.
No. A growl, tightens my jaw, and I push past the girls. “What the fuck?”
I bolt to where the police are forming a line no one can cross, doing my best to get to her.
“It’s a crime scene, sir. You have to stay back.” I don’t even look at the officer’s face as he grips my shoulders, moving me away.
A uniformed woman does a better job of covering Debbie’s body, but I hear Hana behind me. “I don’t understand… What’s happening?”
Blake has her sister, turning her from the grizzly sight. Lying on the sidewalk between me and them is a fluffy, white Louboutin slipper with Debbie’s initials stitched in black cursive across the band. An invisible hand tightens around my throat, and I try not to imagine how it flew off her foot as she fell to her death.
More police cars arrive and an ambulance, and there’s nothing I can do to help her now. I go to where the sisters are making their way into our apartment building.
Hana looks from me to her sister. “Why is it a crime scene?”
“It’s illegal to kill yourself in Manhattan.” My voice is mirthless, almost sarcastic, because we all know our friend didn’t kill herself.
I’m the only one who might know why this happened, but I can’t be sure. What I am sure of is I need a drink right now.
* * *
I’m prettyconfident none of us sleep. As the sun rises and the breakfast cart arrives, Hana replaces me on the couch, gold facial strips under her red-rimmed eyes.
“It had to be an accident.” Her voice is shaky from crying. “She just bought a closet full of designer dresses during fashion week. We were talking about all the parties we would attend at Cannes.”
A copy of the Times is on the cart, and when I lift it, my jaw clenches at the headline. “Debbie Does Death? Seriously?”
The story is below the fold, still, that idiotic headline is plastered over three columns along with an unflattering photo of Debbie at a bar on one of her worse nights.
“I guess that’s what passes for clever these days.” Blake walks to where I’m standing, then turns away from the news.
She goes to the window, looking out at our view of Central Park.
It’s a practice I understand. Sometimes looking down at all the people on the street, knowing there are hundreds of neighborhoods in this city where none of this happens, where people live good, happy lives, have children, grow old. Somehow it puts all our bullshit in the appropriate little box where it belongs.
I return the paper to the cart, which also holds three plated omelets with sausage. Assorted breads and fruit are in baskets beside carafes of coffee and juice—as if any of us has an appetite.
Uncrossing her arms, Blake goes to the bar, taking a bottle of expensive vodka from the small refrigerator and pouring two fingers, neat.
“Would you make one for me, Blake?” Hana holds out her hand.
“Me, too.”
Blake’s lips tighten, but she prepares two more drinks. “Has anyone told her mother?”
“I’m sure the authorities will find her.” Belinda is the least of my concerns.
Blake levels her gaze on me. “Shouldn’t you check on your own mother?”
“God, no.” My mother only cares about two things, and they’re both probably in her bed.
I’m rebooking my flight home when the door bursts open, and my stomach roils. Natasha Sidoro bursts into the room with her undreaged minion Rainey at her side.
“O, em, gee, Blake! Did she really throw herself off the balcony in nothing but her Louboutin slippers?” Natasha is annoying as fuck.