She exhaled a pent-up breath and started walking toward her car. Then, like a schoolgirl remembering her manners, she turned back to him. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by driving home safely and contacting me if you decide to add anything to your statement.”
She slipped into her car and saluted. “Will do.”
Yeah, right. Maybe she’d drive home safely, but he knew with a bone-deep certainty she’d never contact him again of her own accord. Why not? He stared after her, frowning. Because something about the entrancing Stacy Roberts didn’t quite add up.
…
Kylie gripped the wheel and drove home with the care of a teenager taking her driver’s exam. Through the rearview mirror, she watched the patrol car follow close behind. Like a shark stalking a guppy, she thought uneasily.
Dear God, what have you gotten yourself into?
Well, she’d lied to the police, for one. She hadn’t planned to, exactly. In fact, when the first officers had questioned her, she’d been in such a daze, she was pretty sure she’d given her name. When they’d asked to see some ID, she’d opened her wallet and handed them her driver’s license, completely forgetting she had Stacy’s. By the time she’d tuned in to the proceedings enough to realize the mistake, one disturbingly observant Detective Trevor McCade stood in front of her, clearly recognizing her as Stacy Roberts, low-flying lap dancer.
Certain she could do her pathetically small part to help them investigate poor Mr. Long’s death and be on her way, she’d rolled the dice and let the mistake stand. Confessing she’d posed as Stacy would only have raised a bunch of questions and possibly gotten them in trouble with Deuces…and maybe the authorities too? Impersonating someone sounded shady—possibly illegal.
Little did she know finding the body made her a “person of interest.” Now here she was, involved in a murder investigation, trapped in a lie, facing a detective whose piercing brown eyes told her he knew she wasn’t telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Sweating like a fugitive, she pulled into the narrow, stacked parking spot in front of the apartment she and Stacy shared. Their dark apartment, she noted with a scowl. The place would be lit up like the Sunset Strip if Stacy were home. Even at…she glanced at the clock on the dash and groaned…four in the morning. Guilt immediately washed over her. Yes, she’d be sleep-deprived the rest of the day, but at least she’d have a day. Carlton Long couldn’t say the same.
The patrol car pulled to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Kylie stepped out of the car, forced a smile of thanks to her lips, and waved to the officer behind the wheel. He waved back, but stayed put while she climbed the stairs to their second-floor unit. After opening the door, she waved again and exhaled a long, relieved breath when the black-and-white slowly pulled away.
She trudged inside, kicked the door shut, and hit the wall switch. Harsh yellow light from the living room’s ugly overhead fixture bounced off cracked, tobacco-stained plaster walls.
Home sweet home. Stacy and she had done what they could to make the place livable. Cheaply framed but colorful prints of dancers graced the dingy walls. A faded rug they’d found in a thrift store covered scuffed hardwood floors. More secondhand furniture and flea-market finds filled out the rooms.
She dropped onto their slipcovered sofa, which leaned more toward shabby than chic, and set Stacy’s heavy hot-pink bag on the floor. Every muscle wept with relief. An aggrieved little voice in the back of her mind warned that in less than an hour and a half she had to be showered, changed, and on her way to her 6:00 a.m. yoga class.
Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she closed her eyes, inhaled for a count of ten, and tried to enter a sitting savasana.
Where the hell was Stacy?
Her eyes snapped open as she release
d the breath in a single, undisciplined burst. Wherever her twin was tonight, she obviously wasn’t coming home, despite—or maybe even because of—Kylie’s demand. Typical. Stacy did exactly as she pleased, whenever she pleased, and left Kylie to deal with the fallout.
Growing up, Stacy had borne the brunt of the disapproving glares and cruel comments from Two Trout’s vicious gossips, ensuring for the most part they left Kylie alone. In return, she’d assumed the role of Stacy’s behind-the-scenes rescuer, good for everything from completing homework to a 2:00 a.m. pickup from a party three counties away.
The dynamic didn’t work so well as adults. She loved her sister, and knew Stacy loved her, but they enabled each other’s worst habits. So why had she let Stacy talk her into this ridiculous switch?
Her mind replayed their conversation from five days earlier.
Kylie, Deuces is a top-tier club. It’s very exclusive, and competition for featured dancer slots is intense. If you don’t dance my shifts, I’m out of a job.
Her suggestion that Stacy find another job, preferably one that didn’t involve sliding around a pole half-naked, had fallen on deaf ears.
Name another gig where I can rake in enough to cover our expenses and still have my days free for auditions. Without a high school diploma, my options are limited.
Kylie had held her tongue instead of pointing out that her twin chose to drop out of high school their senior year. The decision still boggled Kylie’s mind.
Then again, school hadn’t exactly been a picnic. Growing up as the result of a reckless night of passion between their town tramp of a mom and some pretty-faced drifter she could never quite pin down invited comment, to say the least. The fine citizens of Two Trout had zero compassion for such irresponsibility. They considered Debbie Roberts a bed-hopping bimbo and assumed her daughters were cut from the same cheap cloth.
Stacy had rebelled by meeting quite a few of their low expectations—though not as many as the busybodies liked to think. Between fact and rumor, she’d gained her “wild twin” reputation, and a bone-deep aversion to authority in any form. Kylie, the “quiet twin,” had done her best not to give anybody anything to talk about. She’d dressed conservatively, spent her spare hours working at the library, and never, ever dated or partied.
Sadly, none of her restraint made the slightest difference. The cynics of Two Trout assumed blood would tell and it was only a matter of time before she fell off her straight and narrow path.
Yeah, well, what did they know? Just because tonight she’d made her debut as a pole-dancing stripper, found a dead body, lied to the cops—that didn’t prove anything.