Page 22 of Fallen

Her reaction seems genuine. Shock, after all, is difficult to fake. But I’ve been around long enough to know certain individuals are masterful at deception. It’s too early in the game for me to tell, so I proceed with caution.

“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Yesterday morning. I passed her in the hall when she was on her way to get coffee. I was on my way to the shower.”

“When’s the last time you talked to her?” Tomasetti asks.

“Last night. On the phone. Late.” She sets her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. “I gave her hell because I didn’t know she was spending the night here. I’m like, oh, thanks for telling me.”

As if remembering harsh words between them, she closes her eyes. “I was a shit. I didn’t know that would be the last time we…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Was Rachael having any problems with anyone?” I ask. “Any arguments or disagreements? Did she have any volatile relationships?”

“Who wasn’t she having problems with?” Choking out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob, she lowers her face into her hands. “Every relationship she had was volatile. That’s just the way she was.”

Tomasetti makes a sound of irritation. “Straight answers would be a big help about now.”

She raises her head. Misery boils in her eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is that for better or for worse, Rachael spoke her mind. Didn’t hold back. That was one of the things I loved about her. I mean, the girl was on fire and burning hot, you know? She lived and breathed controversy. Anyone who disagreed with her? She ate them for lunch.” She makes the statement with a fondness that tells me she’s probably a bit of a rabble-rouser herself. “I told her one day it was going to catch up with her, but she just laughed.”

“Who was she close to?” I pull out my notebook and pen.

“Jared Moskowski.”

I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. “Boyfriend?”

“Fuck buddy,” she says. “And he’s a jealous, insecure, and petty son of a bitch. Rachael was too much for him to handle and he knew it.”

“Did they fight?”

“All the time.”

“Did he ever hit her?” Tomasetti asks. “Or physically abuse her?”

“Not that I saw, but their relationship was … screwed up.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t man enough to handle her.”

“Did they fight about anything in particular?” I ask.

“The frickin’ weather, for God’s sake. All I know is they didn’t get along. They were always pissed at each other.” She presses her lips together. “I don’t know why she was so crazy about him.”

She turns her eyes on me, outrage flashing, her mouth tight. “Did he do it?”

I ignore the question. “Is there anyone else Rachael didn’t get along with?”

The woman’s brows draw together. “I guess you know she used to be Amish. She’s from Painters Mill. Her parents are religious fanatics and shunned her or whatever the hell they do.” Resentment rings hard in the laugh that follows. “For God’s sake, even the Amish were pissed at her.”

“What about you?” Tomasetti asks.

She looks at him as if the question is a personal affront. “Are you kidding me?” Her gaze flicks to me. “She’s dead and you two bozos are looking at me? That’s rich.”

“You can answer the question here, or we can do it at the police station,” I tell her. “Your choice.”

“Look, Rachael and I were friends. Real friends. We were roommates. Business partners. So yeah, there was some occasional conflict.” Her eyes fasten onto mine, unshed tears glittering. “I’ll be the first to tell you she was difficult. But I loved her anyway. She was like a sister to me, and you’re a damn fool if you waste any time looking at me.”

“How did you meet her?”

“I was the style editor at a boutique magazine in Cleveland and wrote a piece on how Rachael went from Amish girl to restaurateur. We met for drinks, got to talking. It didn’t take long for me to realize she was one of the most ambitious and fascinating women I’d ever met.” She smiles as if remembering. “I told her that her story would make a compelling book.” She lifts her shoulders, lets them drop. “She had the story. I knew how to write. The rest is history.”

“You cowrote the book?” I ask.