The guy looked her over again. This time studying her so intensely, Aster was sure he recognized her as the girl in the picture, right next to the one of Madison, featured on the cover of the newspaper he’d recently abandoned to the far side of his desk. But all he said was, “No short terms allowed.”
He was back to ignoring her, but Aster had no intention of giving up so easily. Leaning against the desk, she flashed him the best grin she could manage, considering the scab bisecting her lip. “Just because they’re not allowed doesn’t mean they don’t happen. . . .” She slid a thick roll of bills toward him and pushed her lips wider.
“You two together?” He glanced between her and Ryan, who was wandering around the lobby.
Without hesitation, Aster shook her head.
The guy paused as though considering whether or not to believe her.
“Fine.” He relented and slid a plastic key fob toward her. “Twelfth floor, unit seven.”
“And the price?”
“Two K a week, plus a five-hundred-dollar deposit.”
Aster nodded and made her way toward the elevator bank. She’d just hit the call button when she heard the guy address Ryan. “Hey, bro, you need something?”
“I’m wondering what you can you tell me about this piece.” Ryan gestured toward the large painting Aster had recognized from her last visit.
“Local artist. Signed at the bottom.” The guy shrugged, frowned, and went back to his phone.
“Yeah . . .” Ryan bent to get a closer look at the bottom right corner. “I can’t quite make it out.” He glanced between the guy and the painting.
The elevator chimed, the doors slid open, and Aster stepped inside. Last thing she heard before the doors squeezed shut was the guy’s annoyed voice telling Ryan, “It’s by H. D. Harrison.” Followed by, “You know there’s no loitering, right?”
Aster rode the elevator all the way to the twelfth floor, trying to think of why the artist’s name was so familiar. By the time the car arrived, she’d given up and gone in search of unit seven.
She tapped the key fob against the reader and felt a small burst of triumph when the light flashed green, allowing her entry. Despite all the mental prep she’d put herself through, the moment she stepped inside, her heart clenched like a fist and she
was forced to grasp frantically at the glass console in an effort to steady herself.
This was it. She was sure of it.
The oversize modern furniture with its leather couches and mirrored surfaces, and the black satin sheets in the bedroom (the sight of which made her skin crawl), all of it was familiar—terribly, hauntingly familiar.
She was glad she’d made Ryan stay behind. He meant well, she knew, but this wasn’t the sort of moment she was willing to share. While she had no idea what had transpired here, chances were it wasn’t good. Either way, she couldn’t afford any distractions when there was so much she needed to process.
After peering inside the closet and drawers and finding them empty, she sighed in frustration. The events of that night remained as elusive as ever.
Was Ryan right? Had someone gone to the trouble to drug her? Ira had poured the champagne, and yet she had a hard time believing he was responsible. Maybe she was being naive, but really, why would Ira go to the trouble to frame her, only to go to even greater trouble to help her disentangle herself from the mess? It just didn’t make sense.
She moved through the apartment. There was no telling how many people had occupied the space since she’d left. But who had rented it that night? And had they done so with the sole intent of setting her up? Surely her attorneys could subpoena the records, but that would require her to confide that she’d been here, and that she wouldn’t, couldn’t do.
There had to be another way.
She took pics of all the rooms, including the one where, according to the DVD, she’d acted out her shameful striptease. First standing in the spot where the person with the camera might’ve stood, and then from the place where she’d danced. She closed her eyes and tried to rewind to that night, when she heard the muffled sound of something moving beside her.
Her eyes sprang open, her pulse jammed into overdrive, and she whirled all around, trying to determine who had managed to sneak in without her noticing.
She heard the sound again, insistent but hollow. “Ryan?” she called in a shaky voice that betrayed the full extent of her fear. Her body tensed, she crept toward the door, nearly tripping over her bag, which had fallen to the floor.
What the—?
The sound repeated, followed by a soft knock at the door. Slinging her purse onto her shoulder, she crept toward the entry and peered through the peephole, then frowned as she let Ryan in.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she whispered as her phone vibrated from inside her purse and she recognized it as the sound that she’d heard.
“I sent you a text.”