and lilies that she suddenly needed. She glanced jerkily around the house, unable to shake the sensation of being caught in the crosshairs of a rifle scope.
Perfect. Now her paranoia came with details.
Outside, a soft, hot Mississippi breeze rustled the trees in this quiet suburban neighborhood. She could hear the shouts of children playing in their yards, smell suppers cooking on grills nestled on patios opening onto neatly manicured lawns.
It was the kind of neighborhood she'd dreamed of living in when she was a little girl. Quiet and clean.
Safe.
Her reality, however, had never been any of those things. Her reality had leaned more toward rusted-out trailer houses with weedy dirt yards where mangy dogs fought rats for the garbage rotting in overflowing trash cans. And where crack houses flourished every four blocks.
Instead of flower scents, she remembered the scent of stale, spilled beer or, if her mother had scored a "visitor," the whiskey that had been her drink of choice.
"Come on, snooks."
She started when Max's voice and bracing hand on her arm brought her back to the moment.
"Let's get you out of here. If the local Barneys want to talk to you again, they've got mine and Jase's cell numbers."
She didn't argue. More than anxious to leave, she let Max guide her out the door as Wilson dealt with the throng of reporters lurking like gnats and yapping like dogs and help her into the waiting Lincoln they'd rented at the airport. An hour later they were airborne in her private jet.
Janey closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the plush leather headrest, and steadied herself by breathing deep of perfectly conditioned air. Alice Perkins was dead. She'd died a violent, solitary death outside a run-down bar—probably at the hands of someone whose blood alcohol level had rivaled that of the woman whose life had been taken.
Liver disease. Suicide. Janey had always thought that was how it would end for her mother. That was the call she'd always anticipated. But this. This was just one more grievous insult to a sad and wasted life that could have been so much more.
She wished she could cry. She wished she could feel something ... something more than empty ... as if someone had used a rusty knife to carve a gaping hole in her chest.
How a hole could have a presence she didn't know. But the weight of it stayed with her—along with a persistent, nagging sense that someone was watching every move she made.
Friday, July 14th, Atlantic City Hilton, New Jersey
"You're not going to believe what happened." Chris Ramsey wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and rummaged through her suitcase for her green silk blouse. She liked the way it looked with her red hair. Liked the new short and sassy cut she'd gotten before joining Sweet Baby Jane's Fire and Soul tour.
Quincy Taylor, Chris's longtime lover, an independent movie producer, was sitting poolside back in California.
"Babe, I'd believe damn near anything you told me after some of the tape you've sent. This documentary is going to make you the most sought-after videographer in L.A."
Which was exactly what Chris was shooting for when she'd wangled her way into Sweet Baby Jane's inner circle. She'd begged. She'd bribed. She'd called in favors. And it was all paying off. Janey Perkins's mother—a drunk, from what Chris had been able to dig up—was dead, the victim of a hit-and-run. This kind of drama was going to be the power boost that propelled Chris's career to that A-list level.
Quickly, sparing little detail, she filled Quincy in on Alice Perkins's death. "And on top of that, Edwin Grimm—the guy who was convicted of stalking her three years ago? He's been released from prison. They've hired a full-time bodyguard to protect her because of it."
"Holy shit."
Almost giddy with the scent of success, Chris laughed and flopped to her back on the hotel bed. "I'm
Perfect. Now her paranoia came with details.
Outside, a soft, hot Mississippi breeze rustled the trees in this quiet suburban neighborhood. She could hear the shouts of children playing in their yards, smell suppers cooking on grills nestled on patios opening onto neatly manicured lawns.
It was the kind of neighborhood she'd dreamed of living in when she was a little girl. Quiet and clean.
Safe.
Her reality, however, had never been any of those things. Her reality had leaned more toward rusted-out trailer houses with weedy dirt yards where mangy dogs fought rats for the garbage rotting in overflowing trash cans. And where crack houses flourished every four blocks.
Instead of flower scents, she remembered the scent of stale, spilled beer or, if her mother had scored a "visitor," the whiskey that had been her drink of choice.
"Come on, snooks."
She started when Max's voice and bracing hand on her arm brought her back to the moment.
"Let's get you out of here. If the local Barneys want to talk to you again, they've got mine and Jase's cell numbers."
She didn't argue. More than anxious to leave, she let Max guide her out the door as Wilson dealt with the throng of reporters lurking like gnats and yapping like dogs and help her into the waiting Lincoln they'd rented at the airport. An hour later they were airborne in her private jet.
Janey closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the plush leather headrest, and steadied herself by breathing deep of perfectly conditioned air. Alice Perkins was dead. She'd died a violent, solitary death outside a run-down bar—probably at the hands of someone whose blood alcohol level had rivaled that of the woman whose life had been taken.
Liver disease. Suicide. Janey had always thought that was how it would end for her mother. That was the call she'd always anticipated. But this. This was just one more grievous insult to a sad and wasted life that could have been so much more.
She wished she could cry. She wished she could feel something ... something more than empty ... as if someone had used a rusty knife to carve a gaping hole in her chest.
How a hole could have a presence she didn't know. But the weight of it stayed with her—along with a persistent, nagging sense that someone was watching every move she made.
Friday, July 14th, Atlantic City Hilton, New Jersey
"You're not going to believe what happened." Chris Ramsey wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and rummaged through her suitcase for her green silk blouse. She liked the way it looked with her red hair. Liked the new short and sassy cut she'd gotten before joining Sweet Baby Jane's Fire and Soul tour.
Quincy Taylor, Chris's longtime lover, an independent movie producer, was sitting poolside back in California.
"Babe, I'd believe damn near anything you told me after some of the tape you've sent. This documentary is going to make you the most sought-after videographer in L.A."
Which was exactly what Chris was shooting for when she'd wangled her way into Sweet Baby Jane's inner circle. She'd begged. She'd bribed. She'd called in favors. And it was all paying off. Janey Perkins's mother—a drunk, from what Chris had been able to dig up—was dead, the victim of a hit-and-run. This kind of drama was going to be the power boost that propelled Chris's career to that A-list level.
Quickly, sparing little detail, she filled Quincy in on Alice Perkins's death. "And on top of that, Edwin Grimm—the guy who was convicted of stalking her three years ago? He's been released from prison. They've hired a full-time bodyguard to protect her because of it."
"Holy shit."
Almost giddy with the scent of success, Chris laughed and flopped to her back on the hotel bed. "I'm