Page 11 of The Last Housewife

I dug my thumbnail into the steering wheel. “Sitting in a parking lot at Whitney.”

He whistled, the sound low and sharp in my ear. “Perfect. Stay in town. I’m on my way.”

“Wait… What do you mean?”

“I’ll take the train from the city and meet you tonight.”

“I’m investigating her death, Jamie.” The statement was blunt, and nothing more than bravado, since I’d had zero luck so far. But still, I felt the urge to stake my claim.

“That’s great,” he said. “We can do it together.”

“I know you’re the journalist, but I’m not going to follow your lead.”

“When have you ever?” Jamie made a noise of amusement. “Look, you can call the shots, as long as you’re okay with me covering the story for the podcast.”

“Not to be glib, but aren’t there more exciting dead women to cover? Women who were definitely murdered?”

He was silent for a moment. “I think your friendwaskilled, Shay, and the police are withholding information or incompetent. I want to know the truth. I have copies of the police files, you know.”

I did know. It was why I’d called, after all.

“All right,” I agreed. “Meet me for drinks at the River Estate. That’s where I’m staying.”

Jamie whistled again. “Look at you. Shay Evans, all grown up and fancy.”

I chose not to correct him.

***

I was already seated at a table in the hotel’s candlelit restaurant when Jamie walked in. I told my body to stand, but my legs were weak and disobeyed.

I’d known Jamie since we were five years old, so I’d seen him through every phase: when he was the smallest boy in class, skinny-elbowed and bespectacled; then gawky and acne-prone; then tall and deep-voiced, unsure what to do with his long limbs. The last I’d seen Jamie was senior year of college, when there’d been only a glimmer of the man who walked toward me now.

He was beautiful and didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t register the eyes that flitted to him in the restaurant, seemed unaware of the head tilts. That kind of ignorance was a luxury I’d never had, but never mind. Growing up, people had sometimes asked if Jamie and I were brother and sister. He had hair as midnight black as mine, though his was longish over his forehead and styled with some sort of product now, a new trick. He’d grown a beard, a week or two beyond a five-o’clock shadow, and wore dark jeans and one of those well-tailored hoodies that somehow manage to look urbane. But the best part about Jamie had always been his eyes: bright and dancing, even from far away.

It was rare to see an old friend. I drank him in until he stood in front of my table, and my body finally rose.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. I hugged him quickly, then slid back into my chair. Jamie slung his duffel on the floor and took the seat across from mine. We studied each other from opposite sides of the table.

“It’s good to see you,” I offered.

His grin grew wider. His was not a face for podcasts.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to make contact with you for years. I wasthisclose to begging your mom on my knees to give me your number. I even talked to the old crew from Heller High.”

“Painful.”

“Then I actually pleadedin publicfor you to contact me. So yeah, it’s pretty fucking great to see you, too. I feel like I conjured you.”

“I’m sorry it’s been a while.”

Our waitress slid up to the table, flipping her hair and flashing a smile that lingered a second or two longer in Jamie’s direction. I recognized the move from my own restaurant days. “What can I bring you?”

Jamie smiled. “Whiskey, please. Neat.”

“Look who evolved beyond Shiner.” I looked at the waitress. “A glass of Sancerre, please.”