Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Well, certainly not on the counter, where three days’ worth of coffee cups, dirty glasses, and Lean Cuisine trays littered the chipped tile.

Her stomach still aching, she made her way to the bathroom, told herself she couldn’t let this town beat her down.

Hadn’t she suffered through bulimia?

Hadn’t she done whatever it took?

And even if she wasn’t classically beautiful, she’d been told her face had “character” and “intelligence.” Her auburn hair was still vibrant; the skin around her green eyes and full lips without too many telltale lines.

With a glance in the mirror over the sink, she cringed as she wedged herself into the tiny bathroom. Despite the pep talk to herself, the years were beginning to show, if only a little. She used a ton of products to keep her complexion flawless, and she wasn’t into Botox. Yet. Though she wasn’t ruling it out. Then again, she wouldn’t rule anything out that might force Father Time back a step or two.

But he was a persistent son of a bitch, she thought and pushed the flesh on the sides of her jaw backward in an attempt to see if she really needed to be “tightened up.”

Not yet, thank God. She didn’t have the money for any kind of “work.” And she wasn’t ready to write some kind of trumped-up tell-all book, which her agent had mentioned. She wasn’t even thirty-five yet, for God’s sake, at least not for a few more days; she wasn’t ready to spill her guts just yet. And truth to tell, she didn’t have that much to write about; her life had been pretty dull compared to a lot of her peers.

Noticing the whites of her eyes were a little bloodshot, she removed her contacts, then found the bottle of Visine she kept in the medicine cabinet. After unscrewing the bottle cap, she tilted her head back, blinked in the drops, and resealed the bottle. She closed the mirrored front of the cabinet and caught a glimpse of a shadow behind her.

What?

Her heart clutched and she jerked around. The room was empty; the door behind her open to the living room and the sliding door to her patio.

Her flesh prickled.

“Lana? Is that you?” she called as she stepped into the living area again, the edges of the room blurry from her myopia and the drops that hadn’t quite settled. “Kitty?” Where was the damned cat, a calico she’d named after her favorite movie icon? “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang again but decided the cat, who often played a game of hide-and-seek, was lurking in the shadows somewhere, ready to pounce. More than once Lana had leapt from behind the framed pictures set upon the bookcase, scattering the photos, breaking the glass, and, plumping up to twice her size, had startled Shelly. Scaring her was the cat’s favorite pastime. “Here, kitty, kitty . . .”

True to her independent temperament, Lana didn’t appear.

Shelly stood barefoot in the living room. There was something about the apartment, a stillness that suggested no one, not even the cat, was inside.

Which didn’t make sense.

Shelly had left Lana sleeping on the back of the couch when she’d gone out earlier. She was certain of it and remembered the cat desultorily flicking her tail as she lay curled in the soft cushions.

So why did it feel as if the rooms were empty, devoid of life? She heard dry leaves skittering across the patio, bits of brown and rust dancing eerily.

For the love of God, what was wrong with her? It was just the wind, nothing more than dead leaves, for crying out loud. Still, the hairs on the back of her arm lifted.

“Get over yourself.”

Another sharp cramp to her midsection. “Ooh.” She doubled over, the pain intense. This time she didn’t wait. She crab-walked to her purse and fumbled for her cell phone.

The damned thing wasn’t in its usual pocket. “Come on, come on!” This was no time for the phone to be missing. Fingers shaking, she fished through the interior of the purse, then as the pain increased, dumped the contents onto the tile floor. Keys, eyeglass case, wallet, receipts, coins, pack of cigarettes, tampon holder, and her tiny canister of pepper spray went skittering across the tile.

No phone.

What?

She’d had her cell at the bar. Sh

e remembered turning it to vibrate, and . . . hadn’t she shoved it back into her purse? Or had she left it at Lizards, on the top of the sleek counter that was fashioned to look like snakeskin?

“Oh, God,” she whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead, her pulse jumping. She didn’t have a landline; there was no way to call for help except for—

Sccrrraape!

The dry, rasping sound seemed to echo through her head.

What the hell was that?