since.”
“How sweet of you,” Hurley says with no small amount of sarcasm. I suspect he’s wondering, like I am, how much stuff Catherine skimmed for herself during her shopping sprees. “How is it you ended up here in Sorenson, Catherine? My research shows you were living in Chicago not too long ago.”
“I was. But circumstance led to some hard times for me, and I had to leave. The cost of living there is outrageous.”
“Really?” Hurley says. “I would have thought you were pretty well off after you inherited your ex-husband’s estate. Are you saying all of that money is gone?”
Catherine blinks twice in rapid succession—the only sign that she’s surprised by Hurley’s knowledge of her past life. “I made some bad choices,” she says, avoiding a direct answer. She is clearly growing nervous and starting to squirm, so I decide the time is ripe to jump in and ratchet things up a bit.
“How often did you stay at the Sorenson Motel?” I ask.
Catherine turns to me, looking momentarily puzzled by the sudden shift in topic. “Once a week or so.”
“That must have pissed you off, having him kick you out that often.”
“He did not kick me out,” she snaps. She straightens up, her back rigid and her eyes spitting sparks of indignation at me. “It was my choice.”
“Really?” I respond.
Catherine opens her mouth to answer. Before she can get a syllable out, I ask, “Who paid for your room when you stayed at the motel?”
“I did.”
“With what, may I ask? Do you have a job, Catherine?”
“I don’t have any regular employment at the moment, if that’s what you mean,” she says, her voice tight.
“That’s exactly what I mean. I’m trying to figure out if you were supporting yourself at all, or if you were freeloading off Jack for everything.”
She narrows her eyes at me and shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I resent your implication.”
“I’m not implying anything, Catherine. I’m stating facts. It seems you have a bit of a history for hooking up with wealthy men who later end up dead. And you can drop the phony British accent. You no more grew up in London than I did.”
Hurley turns sharply toward me. Catherine sputters for a few seconds and then says, “I most certainly did.”
“No, you did not,” I counter. “First of all, your accent is as phony as a three-dollar bill. One of my stepfathers was born and raised in London, so I’m pretty familiar with the way Brits talk. And, aside from your accent, which you lose when you get defensive, by the way, you possess none of the little dialectal idiosyncrasies someone raised in London would have. I know, because I’ve been there several times. When I was a teenager, my stepfather took us there once a year for five years running. That’s also how I know that Notting Hill isn’t anywhere near the London Bridge or the Tower Bridge—something that anyone who has ever been to London, much less someone who lived there, would know.”
Catherine’s lips constrict into a hard line and her stare turns flinty. She leans back, taking her hands from the table and dropping them into her lap. “Fine,” she says, her accent suddenly gone. “So I embellish my history a little to make myself seem more appealing. Where’s the crime in that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I tell her.
“Jack and I were in love. We were planning to get married.”
“I’ll bet you were,” I quip. “It worked out so well for you the last time.”
Catherine’s eyes narrow and the two of us stare at one another, waiting to see who will blink first. I can almost see the steam coming from her ears. After a few seconds, she turns to Hurley, pouts prettily, and says, “I don’t like her.”
Hurley grins.
I start to bristle. Though I try to contain myself, I can’t. “I’m not here to be your friend, Catherine,” I say. “And when you lie to us about your past, try to dupe us with your fake accent, and try to
“How sweet of you,” Hurley says with no small amount of sarcasm. I suspect he’s wondering, like I am, how much stuff Catherine skimmed for herself during her shopping sprees. “How is it you ended up here in Sorenson, Catherine? My research shows you were living in Chicago not too long ago.”
“I was. But circumstance led to some hard times for me, and I had to leave. The cost of living there is outrageous.”
“Really?” Hurley says. “I would have thought you were pretty well off after you inherited your ex-husband’s estate. Are you saying all of that money is gone?”
Catherine blinks twice in rapid succession—the only sign that she’s surprised by Hurley’s knowledge of her past life. “I made some bad choices,” she says, avoiding a direct answer. She is clearly growing nervous and starting to squirm, so I decide the time is ripe to jump in and ratchet things up a bit.
“How often did you stay at the Sorenson Motel?” I ask.
Catherine turns to me, looking momentarily puzzled by the sudden shift in topic. “Once a week or so.”
“That must have pissed you off, having him kick you out that often.”
“He did not kick me out,” she snaps. She straightens up, her back rigid and her eyes spitting sparks of indignation at me. “It was my choice.”
“Really?” I respond.
Catherine opens her mouth to answer. Before she can get a syllable out, I ask, “Who paid for your room when you stayed at the motel?”
“I did.”
“With what, may I ask? Do you have a job, Catherine?”
“I don’t have any regular employment at the moment, if that’s what you mean,” she says, her voice tight.
“That’s exactly what I mean. I’m trying to figure out if you were supporting yourself at all, or if you were freeloading off Jack for everything.”
She narrows her eyes at me and shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I resent your implication.”
“I’m not implying anything, Catherine. I’m stating facts. It seems you have a bit of a history for hooking up with wealthy men who later end up dead. And you can drop the phony British accent. You no more grew up in London than I did.”
Hurley turns sharply toward me. Catherine sputters for a few seconds and then says, “I most certainly did.”
“No, you did not,” I counter. “First of all, your accent is as phony as a three-dollar bill. One of my stepfathers was born and raised in London, so I’m pretty familiar with the way Brits talk. And, aside from your accent, which you lose when you get defensive, by the way, you possess none of the little dialectal idiosyncrasies someone raised in London would have. I know, because I’ve been there several times. When I was a teenager, my stepfather took us there once a year for five years running. That’s also how I know that Notting Hill isn’t anywhere near the London Bridge or the Tower Bridge—something that anyone who has ever been to London, much less someone who lived there, would know.”
Catherine’s lips constrict into a hard line and her stare turns flinty. She leans back, taking her hands from the table and dropping them into her lap. “Fine,” she says, her accent suddenly gone. “So I embellish my history a little to make myself seem more appealing. Where’s the crime in that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I tell her.
“Jack and I were in love. We were planning to get married.”
“I’ll bet you were,” I quip. “It worked out so well for you the last time.”
Catherine’s eyes narrow and the two of us stare at one another, waiting to see who will blink first. I can almost see the steam coming from her ears. After a few seconds, she turns to Hurley, pouts prettily, and says, “I don’t like her.”
Hurley grins.
I start to bristle. Though I try to contain myself, I can’t. “I’m not here to be your friend, Catherine,” I say. “And when you lie to us about your past, try to dupe us with your fake accent, and try to
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