Pretties in Pink

11. Hallie

11

HALLIE

Had I lost my damn mind?

Ford Prestia had offered to make me a drink, and I’d actually considered accepting. And I never took food or drink from people I didn’t trust. In the evenings, I frequented two restaurants—Il Tramonto and Rhodium—because Oliver part-owned them, and I knew he got Blackwood to vet the staff. If I wanted a night out, the only club I’d go to was Black’s, and that was because it belonged to Emmy. I always went with friends or colleagues, and even then, I didn’t take my eyes off my drink.

Prestia was a virtual stranger.

He was in my apartment.

And for reasons I didn’t understand, I hadn’t totally freaked out yet.

I’d gone through every possible emotion this evening, and now I settled on bewilderment. Ford Prestia was in my living room with my parrot. Take a load off, he said, but I had so much nervous energy I couldn’t bear to sit down. I didn’t bring men home with me, and if Mercy saw him here, she’d freak. I grabbed my phone and typed out a quick message.

Me: Any idea what time you’re coming back tonight?

How soon would I need to get rid of Prestia? The reply appeared almost immediately.

Mercy: I’m going to stay over—Bradley’s here, and we’re having a movie marathon. Want to come? We made obleas.

By “here,” Mercy meant Cora’s place, and although thinking of obleas—crispy wafers filled with dulce de leche and jam—made my mouth water, I couldn’t face the idea of Bradley’s boundless energy this evening. Not when I wanted to curl up and cry.

Me: Thanks, but I’ll pass. Need to sleep.

I filled the kettle and set it to boil. Until a month ago, we’d had a pretty red stove-top kettle, but since it would only have been a matter of time before Pinchy copied its whistle, we’d packed it away in a cupboard and bought a shiny silver electric kettle instead. It took ages to boil, but at least we wouldn’t need earplugs.

Why didn’t I just use the coffee machine, you ask? Because at some point over the past three days, our old drip machine had vanished, and in its place was a small spaceship. At least, that’s what it looked like. I couldn’t even work out where the beans went. At this time of night, instant decaf was the way to go.

I spooned granules into two mugs, wondering what to say to Prestia. I couldn’t just ditch him. After everything that had happened this evening, he was still with me, and that in itself was a miracle. Never had I been so grateful for Pinchy’s big mouth. He was carrying the conversation for me. Even now, I could hear him cursing Prestia out in the living room.

Why did I feel so uncomfortable with Prestia here? So out of sorts? Knox often came over for dinner, as well as Ryder, who worked in Special Projects with him, plus Kellan, who’d started in Investigations a month before me. But they all knew about my past, about Mercy’s past, and they stayed on their best behaviour, probably because they’d have Emmy or Rafael to answer to otherwise.

But Prestia… He didn’t know the rules. Didn’t even know there were rules.

And even if somebody enlightened him, how could he be expected to stick to them when I’d already breached the “no touching” edict myself?

I had no idea what to anticipate next, and that left me jittery.

“Do you take sugar?” I asked. Prestia was standing by the window, looking out at the street below. “Milk? Cream? Uh, I don’t even know if we have cream. Maybe half-and-half?”

“Black is fine. Did you call Oliver?”

“Uh, no.” Dammit. “I’ll do it now.”

“Need a hand with the drinks?”

“I’m okay.”

But once I checked in with Oliver, then poured the water and tried to pick up the mugs, I found I wasn’t okay at all. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Actually, could you just…”

Prestia picked up both mugs and carried them through to the living room coffee table with Pinchy still riding on his shoulder. I had to hand it to the bird—at least he had taste. When Prestia settled onto the couch, I paused to watch him for a moment. Despite the drama, he’d been good to me. Treated me well. Shared snippets about the investigation and acted like a gentleman. And now I had a decision to make.

Did I make the easy choice? Keep him at arm’s length for the remainder of the case, then back away? Or should I let him in? Explain why I’d melted down tonight and hope he understood? Blackwood had done their best to clean up my past, to make sure the dirty details were swept under the rug, never to see the light of day, but even they couldn’t erase an entire police investigation. If Prestia dug deep enough, he’d be able to find little threads.

When it came down to it, the question was simple—did I want him in my life?

And the answer…was yes.

Which meant I had to tell the truth. If not the whole truth, then most of it.

“Penny for them?” he asked.

“We need to talk.”

“Now I’m worried.”

That made two of us. “I need to talk.”

“I’m listening.”

I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t look at him. Instead, I took his spot by the window and stared at my reflection in the glass. I’d put on weight since I came to Richmond, filled out a little, and I liked my face better now. Before, I’d been gaunt. During my time as a prisoner in Florida, nervous energy had consumed every calorie I ate, and I’d felt too sick to face food most of the time.

“Earlier, you asked what made me become a PI, and I said because mysteries had always fascinated me. Which wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.” I took a deep breath. “When I got accused of murder, the police refused to investigate properly, and I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands.”

“Well, s**t. That wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Asshole,” Pinchy put in. Thanks, dude.

“And what were you expecting?”

“I figured an ex knocked you around, and that’s why you get jumpy. Who’d they think you killed?”

“A property developer from Kentucky. A guy I’d never even met until I woke up next to his body.”

“What the hell…?”

“The killer drugged me. Drugged me in a club and arranged my unconscious body next to a dead man to frame me. I guess that’s why I find it easier to give Micah Ganaway the benefit of the doubt—because I know how it feels to be accused of a crime you didn’t commit.”

Prestia nodded toward my untouched mug. “And also why you make your own drinks.”

“Right.”

Perceptive, wasn’t he?

“Sheesh. After what happened in the garage tonight, I knew you’d had a difficult past, but I didn’t realise it was that bad.”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

I took a steadying breath. The only way I could talk about this, put the nightmare I’d lived into words, was to…kind of detach from my own mind. Otherwise, the breath stuck in my chest and I struggled to get enough air.

“The downside of doing everything yourself is that it costs money. Gas money, phone call money, lab testing money. So I had to take on extra work to pay for everything.”

“What job did you do back then?”

“I was a waitress in a shitty diner. But I answered an ad looking for event staff, and the interview went real well. The guy hired me on the spot, even offered to give me a ride to the hospitality gig he wanted me to waitress at, and I woke up in a Florida brothel.”

“A brothel? He drugged you?”

“Of course he freaking drugged me! You think I’d have gone there voluntarily?”

“No, but fuck.” Now Prestia stood, took a step toward me, and then stopped. “s**t, I don’t know what to do.”

Join the freaking club.

“Welcome to my life.”