Page 132 of Killer Body

Bobby Warren presses it to his lips, then places it on the table, beneath the poster.

An involuntary shudder chills me to the bone. That pendant, that image, is what caused Rochelle’s death, and Julie’s, as well. I look up into Lucas’s eyes, and he squeezes my arm.

“Rochelle would have loved it,” he says. He doesn’t have a clue.

In front of us, Princess Gabby collapses into sobs.

The service has left me drained, with an inner pain greater than the one in my shoulder. There’s nothing more for me in this town. All I can do now is write the story and hope that, in doing so, I can start to heal.

I talked to Aunt Carey again this morning and told her what I learned. The man who met with Lisa in Los Angeles was Julie Larimore’s trainer, a bodybuilder known as Blond Elvis, who knew about Julie’s weight problem and didn’t think she’d return to Killer Body. He told Lisa more than he should. He also supplied her with the drugs she used to lose weight.

“He’s lying,” Aunt Carey said. “Lisa would never take drugs. That girl wouldn’t even swallow an aspirin.”

I didn’t try to convince her otherwise, yet when I heard the denial in her voice, I couldn’t help wondering how I was really raised, and if I got out in time.

Maybe I did. I was able to confront Pete at the boxing match that night. I was able to confront my own knowledge, my own guilt—a guilt so entrenched in the tangled roots of the past that it sometimes forces us to look away from what we know is true. Here, I’d written articles on the subject, and I couldn’t see it in my own family.

The truth is that my perfect cousin lived like the crystal she collected. Tap it, and it rings. Tap it too hard, and it shatters. Damn, will I ever get over that? No, but I will no longer deny it, not to Pete, not to my aunt, not to myself. Acknowledging it saved two women’s lives, three, if you count me. And I do.

Because I cannot drive yet, Hamilton is coming tomorrow, around noon, he said. I’m ready to go, to leave Killer Body behind. But I’m not ready to leave Lucas.

He asked me to have dinner with him tonight, but I said I have to pack. It’s more than that, of course, and we both know it.

On this late Friday afternoon, perched on the edge of dusk, a teasing breeze stirs the scents of Santa Barbara into a tantalizing aroma. Soon, the tourists will arrive, and the laid-back city will pose and preen. The tile rooftops will gleam in the sunlight. Thejacarandas will bloom, and the ocean will whisper its promises to anyone willing to believe.

Instead of returning to my motel, Lucas drives along the beach. He’s taken off his jacket, and his soft, linen shirt drapes across his shoulders.

“A detour,” he says when I question him. “I can’t give you much of a walk along this beach today, but at least we can look at it.”

He stops the car and we get out. I lean against the car’s cool surface, staring out at the ocean.

He moves slowly, trying not to limp, I know, then stands beside me, takes my hand in his. I am reminded that he risked his life for me, and that he’ll always carry the evidence of it in his leg.

“I’m leaving Killer Body.”

That startles me. I look up, see lines around his eyes I haven’t previously noticed. But I also see certainty there, resolve.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“What doyouthink?”

He’s asking much more, of course. I don’t know how to answer. “Whatwouldyou do?” I ask.If I weren’t part of the equation.That’s what I mean, what I can’t admit.

“Take some time off. Try to make some of my boat dreams come true.”

“You mean sail to Mexico or Hawaii?”

He gazes out at the blue-green ocean, then back at me. “Probably the South Seas, Tahiti. I crewed there once, and I’d like to do it again, solo. That’s every sailor’s boat dream.”

“Why don’t you, then?” I feel as if I’m tearing the words out of my heart.

“I guess you answered my question.” But he doesn’t look away, his gaze more intense than ever. That he’s not willing to settle for my platitudes makes me even less certain of my decision. “Is it that guy you work for?”

“No.” I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. “It’s too soon.” I can barely hear my own words, not sure, as I speak, that any of this is right, at all. “Too soon after a lot of things, and, yes, Den is one of them.”