Page 3 of Wicked Fortune

Or I thought she was. She should be able to read my mind, and the fact that she’s not jumping on the Jenny train has me sighing with exasperation.

“Jenny,” I repeat as Bree looks up, brushing a fingertip under each glistening eye. “She was in my dream,” I add softly, undone by Bree’s tears. I’ve always been the emotional one. Even after the hell she went through with the kidnapping and the blackmail, she’s the practical, self-controlled one. Comparatively speaking, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s okay. Tell me. Did you learn something? Do you know why she …?” She trails off with a shudder, then draws a breath as if steeling herself. “Do you know why she did it?”

In lieu of an answer, I cock my head toward the kitchen. She nods, then heads into the galley-style kitchen like she owns the place. Which, actually, she does. I used to be her roommate. Now she’s my landlord, having decided that moving out to live with her new husband after the wedding would be a jolly good idea.

Thankfully, she’s not here to collect the rent.

I watch as she pops bagels into the toaster and starts a pot of coffee. When the bagels pop back up, she grabs two plates, two knives, and the tub of cream cheese. She slides it all onto the newly retiled kitchen bar, courtesy of yours truly’s labor and Bree’s credit card. Then she comes around and hops on the stool next to the one I’ve claimed.

“Shouldn’t you be off banging your husband?” I ask. “It’s only been three months. Don’t tell me the honeymoon’s over.”

“Yes, alas, we’re done with all of that.” She digs into the cream cheese and starts slathering her bagel. I do the same. “Now all I do is walk around in a frumpy housecoat while he repairs appliances and scratches his balls.”

“Living the good life.” We share a grin. “Is it horrible that I’m insanely jealous of how happy you look?”

Bree cocks her head, giving me that look.

I stop her with a hand up. “Nope. Nada. Nyet. This is not Neuroses on Parade. I’m okay. Really.” And that’s true. Mostly. For the time being I’m doing just fine with toys in lieu of a guy. Complete control and all the attention focused on me. That’s the dream, right?

And as to the small issue of my current unemployment and empty bank account … well, that should be remedied soon.

She narrows her eyes. “Come on, Aria. This is me. Whatever it is, I can help. Do you need to skip this month’s rent?”

Yeah, she knows me well. I have to smoosh down the urge to say yes so that I can shake my head. “No,” I say. “I told you. It’s not me who needs help. It’s Jenny.”

TWO

“Help?” Bree’s expression tightens as she glares at me. “What the fuck, Ari? That’s a horrible thing to say.” Tears fill her eyes as she struggles to speak. “We sh—should have been helping her before she killed herself.”

“That’s my point,” I say, forcing the words out past a clog of my own tears. “I don’t think it was suicide.”

A slideshow of emotions passes over her face. “What are you talking about?”

“She asked me to help her. Don’t you get it? She didn’t kill herself.”

“Ari …”

“But—”

“It was just a dream,” she snaps. “You’re sad and upset. I am, too. But⁠—”

“Dammit, no. It was more than a dream.” I’m certain of it. But I can see the doubt all over Bree’s face. “Please.” I taste the salt from an errant tear. “Please. We can’t just ignore her. She needs our help.”

“Ari …”

“Listen to me. Jenny wouldn’t kill herself. Plus, hello, she told me she didn’t.”

“In your dream.” Her voice is flat. She’s talking to me with the kind of voice she might use to tell a little kid that why, yes, of course fairies are real.

I’m about to say exactly that, but she cuts me off with, “Come on, Ari. You know that you⁠—”

“I am a little bit psychic,” I insist as I go into the kitchen, yank out the carafe, then pour our coffees, my back to her.

“Ari … I want to believe you,” she says, as I slide the coffees onto the bar. “You have to know that. I hate that something was so terrible she felt like the only way out was to kill herself. But she’s gone now. And we⁠—”