Page 10

CHAPTER 9

S tar smiled as she stepped out of the massive grocery store, juggling her bags of fresh produce and gourmet items. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the crisp air and the pleasant weight of her shopping success. Her culinary treasures were destined for Saturday night’s dinner with Ethan.

Of course, she'd have to borrow his refrigerator—her pint-sized apartment fridge was already stuffed with leftovers, condiments, and the occasional science experiment she forgot to toss. But she doubted Ethan would mind.

The thought of him made her lips curve into an even bigger smile.

She’d splurged on two bottles of very good wine. And yes, hoping their first official date ended with a stroll into bedroom territory might be a little … forward. Okay, it was wildly forward. But hey, they’d known each other for six months—that had to count for something, right?

After all, the man had seen her at her absolute worst—multiple times. He’d seen her get her hair caught in a stand mixer. He’d hauled her out of the middle of the street after she’d tripped over the painted white line and fell directly in front of a garbage truck and a pissed off driver who was more concerned about getting to his lunch than the fact her pants were ripped and her purse was scattered across three lanes of traffic. And he’d rescued her when she’d locked herself out—twice.

And he still wants to date me.

“Hallelujah and pass the jam,” she said aloud, her grin stretching ear to ear. “I'm gonna butter that biscuit and get me a taste of jam, too.”

The second the words left her mouth, she froze.

Her father used to say that whenever her mom did something he appreciated—like making his favorite pie or wearing that slinky blue dress on date night. Star had always thought it was a cute, wholesome phrase.

But now? Standing there on the bustling sidewalk with a mental image of Ethan, shirtless and sweaty after building her stairs, Star realized— holy crap .

It was totally a sex thing.

She tilted her head back and laughed, hard and loud enough to draw a few curious looks from passersby. Her dad had been a dirty old man disguised in a cardigan. She'd never known it until now.

Way to go, Dad.

Still chuckling, she resumed walking, her heels clicking against the concrete as she made her way toward the subway. Her parents had shared a deep, enduring love that had survived the stresses of work, parenthood, and life’s inevitable chaos. And they’d still flirted with each other, even when she'd been in college.

That’s the kind of relationship I want . She smiled softly. Strong, fun, and just inappropriate enough to make life interesting.

As she walked by a small bodega, she checked her watch. The Q was departing soon, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d miss it. She shifted the grocery bags in her hands and quickened her pace.

The hardware store was still on her to-do list for the afternoon. Somehow, she'd lost her favorite paint scraper. The previous night, in a fit of DIY desperation, she'd tried using a butter knife instead. That hadn't gone well.

Butter knives are not universal tools .

Also, splinters were not fun.

The fastest way to the subway station was via the narrow alley up ahead. Star slowed her pace.

Nope. Not happening.

Her parents had drilled street smarts into her head early: Never go down alleyways alone .

She checked the time again. If she didn’t make it to the entrance on the next block, she’d have to wait for the next train—and she hated waiting. She glanced around, saw a crowd forming near the crosswalk, and veered toward the outer edge of the sidewalk.

That was when the heel of her right shoe caught on a crack in the concrete.

“ Whoa— ”

Her ankle twisted. Her bags swung wildly. She stumbled forward in a flailing, uncoordinated ballet of arms, legs, and groceries. Somehow, miraculously, she managed to keep hold of the bags.

Her shoe, however, did not survive the incident.

The slender heel jammed into the crack, anchoring the shoe while Star staggered out of it.

“ Seriously? ” She stepped forward, felt the cold pavement beneath her stockinged foot, and turned back to glare at the traitorous footwear. The red-soled heel stood upright, wedged like King Arthur's sword in the concrete.

Determined, she set her bags down and marched over to it. Gripping the shoe with both hands, she pulled. Nothing. She yanked harder, twisting it back and forth. The thing wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, come on , ” she muttered, sweat prickling at her temples. “You're just a shoe. Not Thor's freaking hammer. ”

A putrid odor drifted toward her. Star wrinkled her nose and glanced at the overflowing garbage cans lined up along the sidewalk. The stink of rotting food and who-knew-what-else turned her stomach.

“Fantastic . ” She tightened her grip and gave the shoe one last, mighty tug. With a sharp crack, the heel snapped off in her hands. The sudden release sent her flying backward. She landed with a wet splat on the grimy sidewalk. “ Oh, crap! Really! ”

Stunned, she stared at the broken heel clutched in her hand. Her favorite shoes. Sure, they'd been third-hand Louboutins, but still. Expensive as heck —well, technically $62 at the consignment store, but they had the iconic red soles. And now? They were worthless.

Star inhaled deeply in an effort to contain her frustration—and instantly regretted it. The stench hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes watered as the sour, gag-inducing odor of decomposing trash filled her nose. Her stomach lurched. “Oh, gross . ” She scrambled to her feet, but the damage was done. The back of her skirt was soaked with … something. Something black and sticky oozed from beneath one of the cans.

“Oh my God . Really?” Gagging, she twisted to look at the back of her skirt. The mystery substance clung like tar. “And here I thought butter knives and Mafia hits were the worst part of my week.”

Frustrated and mad at the loss of her shoe and the probable loss of her skirt, Star lifted the trash can lid to toss in her broken shoe. But the moment the lid cracked open, a metallic tang hit her nose—sharp, coppery, distinct. She squinted her eyes, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the plastic liner. It took a heartbeat. Two. Then she realized what she was looking at.

Her breath froze. Her stomach dropped to her knees.

Beneath the layers of trash, tangled limbs twisted unnaturally. Pale skin, marbled and lifeless, peeked through torn plastic. A hand—fingers stiff and curled—rested atop the heap like some grotesque mannequin limb. Except it wasn't plastic.

Her lungs convulsed, dragging in the putrid air. She screamed. The sound ripped from her throat, loud and raw, cutting through the street noise—everything after that blurred.

Sirens. Blue-and-red lights flashing. Uniformed officers peppering her with rapid-fire questions. A patrol officer guided her away from the trash can, away from the mangled corpse, and toward the cruiser parked at the curb.

She sat stiffly on the car’s vinyl seat, hands gripping the handles of her grocery bags like lifelines. Her skirt stuck wetly to her thighs, the stench of rot and blood saturating the fabric. Her phone was still in her hand. With numb fingers, she swiped the screen and called Ethan.

The line rang twice.

“Hey,” Ethan answered, his voice warm and familiar. “Are you back already?”

“No,” she said, voice shaky. “There’s … been a situation.”

The shift in his tone was immediate. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

“Manhattan,” she whispered, glancing around for street signs. “I was running to catch the Q. My heel got stuck in the concrete …”

Silence crackled over the line for a moment. “Is that what the bad thing was?”

Her breath hitched. “No.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the words out. “I tried to get my shoe out. It was wedged in the crack, and I pulled. I ended up flying backward into a bunch of garbage cans.”

“Star—”

“And I was sitting in”—she gagged—“blood and bodily fluids.”

“What?” Ethan’s voice sharpened. “Blood and bodily fluids?”

“I didn’t know it was blood,” she said quickly. Her voice cracked. “I was so mad about my shoe. I mean, Ethan, these were my absolute favorite shoes. My lucky shoes. Red soles, Ethan. Louboutins and third-hand, but still. They made me feel like I had my life together, you know?”

“Star—”

“So, I stood up, and, pissed about my shoe, I opened the trash can. That’s when I realized all the stuff on my skirt wasn’t just gross trash juice.” Her voice trembled. “It was blood, but I didn’t know it. I was mad about my skirt and my shoes because I dressed nice today. I wore a wool skirt, Ethan, in the middle of summer. For you. Because I wanted to look pretty for you. I even bought wine. Really good wine. Two bottles.”

“Star,” Ethan said, voice strained. “What happened with the blood?”

She inhaled shakily. “I opened the trash can to throw away my broken heel.” Her voice cracked. “And there was a dead body in it, Ethan. A body. Cut up into pieces.”

“Jesus.”

“I'm gonna be sick?—”

She hung up, lurched forward, and vomited onto the pavement.

The splash hit with a sickening splatter, landing squarely on the scuffed leather shoes of a very tall, tired-looking detective.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, wiping her mouth with her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

The detective stepped back, shook his shoe with practiced resignation, and gave her a faint, almost amused smile. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time that’s happened.”

A younger man in plain clothes joined him, took one look at the vomit-covered shoes, and then at Star. “Our witness?” he asked.

Star held up her hands, palms out. “ No, no, no. I didn’t witness anything. I just opened the trash can to throw away my shoe. My skirt was ruined. My shoes were broken. And I was trying to make the Q train. I didn’t see who did this. I just”—her voice faltered—“found that . ”

She pointed toward the garbage can. Her stomach twisted again at the memory.

The detectives followed her gaze. The older detective’s jaw tightened. The younger one shifted uncomfortably.

Star squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a hand to her mouth. “I’m going to be sick again.”

Both men took an instinctive step back.

She swallowed hard, drew in shallow breaths through her mouth, and silently begged her stomach to settle.

Please, please, don’t let me vomit again.

Her eyes flicked toward the trash can. Blood smeared the outer rim where she'd lifted the lid. The copper tang still hung thick in the air, mingling with the sickly-sweet odor of decomposing garbage.

She clamped her hand tighter over her mouth.

God help me.

Her phone vibrated in her hand. The familiar name on the screen made her heart clench.

Ethan.

She stared at it briefly, then extended the phone toward the older detective. “That’s my neighbor,” she said, voice shaky. “Would you mind telling him what’s going on?”

The man frowned and crossed his arms. “Why does your neighbor need to know what’s going on?”

“He’s my, uh, boyfriend. Ish.” She rubbed her forehead with a shaky hand. “He takes care of me.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He takes care of you?” His tone was neutral, but suspicion lingered in the question. “You need someone to do that on a regular basis?”

Star sighed, the day's exhaustion settling over her like a lead blanket. “Maybe, probably … yeah, more often than you’d think,” she admitted. “Can I just answer your questions and go home?”

The detective shook his head. “Why don’t you come down to the station with us? It'll give you time to settle down. Maybe we can find something for you to wear from lost and found.” He gave her skirt a pointed glance. “We're gonna need that.”

Her eyes widened. “My skirt?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “The medical examiner will want the entire trash can, too. What we can gather from the seepage on your clothes might help.”

Her stomach flipped. “Seepage.” She gagged, forcing herself to swallow the rising bile. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

The detective’s expression didn’t waver. “I wish I were.”

She looked down at her phone again, the screen still glowing with Ethan's incoming call. “Would you ask him to bring me some clothes? Wherever you’re taking me?”

“Sure,” the younger detective said, taking the phone from her. He answered with a brisk, “Hello?”

The older detective motioned for Star to sit back in the car. “We’ll follow the patrol to the precinct once the crime scene team finishes.”

Star dropped her head against the seat’s headrest and closed her eyes. The foul stench of the alley clung to her hair and clothes. She exhaled slowly, willing herself to relax.

“Could this day get any worse?” she muttered to herself.

The older detective snorted. “Yeah, lady. It could get a lot worse.”

Her eyes popped open. “Excuse me?” How?

He shrugged, hands sliding into his coat pockets. “You could be the one in the trash can.”

Star's breath caught in her chest. “Wow.” Her voice trembled with disbelief. “You really know how to put things in perspective, huh?”

The cop’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a sardonic smile. “Lady, you’re out a pair of shoes and a skirt. That guy in the trash can? He’s never gonna take another breath.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. Fair point.”

Her eyes drifted toward the trash can, though she immediately regretted it. “Do you know who he is?”

The detective shook his head. “Not yet. The medical examiner will have to figure that out.”

Star’s pulse thudded in her ears. “Who does something like that?” she whispered. “Who could kill someone … dismember them like that?”

The detective sighed. “Been on the force for twenty-two years. You’d think I’d have an answer for that by now.” His eyes flicked to the trash can. “Could be a jilted lover. Revenge. Usually, it’s about money or jealousy. Lotta different ways to kill somebody … not so many reasons.”

Star shivered. “Could it be the Mafia?”

The detective’s brows lifted. “The syndicate?” He shook his head. “Nah. If it were them, we wouldn’t have found the body.”

Star forced a weak smile. “Yeah, I'm starting to understand that.”

The detective's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s just been one hell of a week.”

His gaze held hers for a beat longer, then shifted away. “You said you were trying to catch the Q. You live in Brooklyn?”

Star nodded. “Ditmas Park.”

His eyebrows rose. “Nice area.”

She mustered a faint smile. “My great-uncle left me an old Victorian. I’m trying to fix it up.”

The younger detective returned and handed her phone back. “That guy’s pretty thorough,” he said, nodding toward the screen.

Star took the phone and glanced at it. Ethan had sent three texts in rapid succession:

Where are you exactly?

Stay with the cops. I’m coming.

I'm bringing clothes.

She exhaled in relief. “He works in computer security,” she explained. “He's pretty smart.”

“Computer security?” The older detective huffed a dry laugh. “So, a computer geek.”

Star snorted despite herself. “Yeah, he’s got his own business.”

A uniformed officer approached. “Detectives, the ME and the crime scene unit are here. Patrol’s securing the perimeter. Ready to transport the witness?”

“Yeah. Got any paper towels in the trunk?”

The officer frowned and followed the detective's gaze to his shoes. “Oh.” He winced. “Yeah, I'll grab some.”

The officer walked away, shaking his head, while the older detective looked down at his vomit-splattered shoes and then at Star.

“I'm really sorry about that.” Her face flamed with embarrassment.

He waved it off. “Don't worry, miss. If you hadn't puked after seeing that”—he gestured toward the trash can—“I'd be more worried about you.”

Star managed a shaky nod and hugged her grocery bags tighter.

She’d never seen a dead body before. Her parents’ caskets had been closed. She’d been spared the agony of identifying them at the morgue after the accident; the police had handled it.

But this? This was different. The mangled limbs. The dismembered torso. The head—eyes wide and mouth slack in an eternal, silent scream. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was burned into her mind.

No matter how many times she tried, she would never be able to unsee it.