Page 53 of Murder Notes

“I have power surges here. I should get batteries.”

“You should get an electrician.”

I have a sudden bad thought and say, “Hold on.” I don’t wait for an answer, rushing to the fridge in hopes my pies are not ruined, yanking the door open. Thankfully, the cold was sealed inside. “Yes,” I say.

“Yes what?” he asks.

I grab one of the pies and shut the door. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him, heading to a drawer for a fork.

“You said yes. Never mind. My date cancelled on me for Saturday night. You want to have mercy on my reputation and go with me?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, setting my pie and fork on the island counter and returning to the fridge for a soda.

“The Children’s Hospital charity event your father and Pocher are hosting.”

My father and Pocher, the lovebirds themselves. “So they’re hosting an event in the name of a good cause to get a bunch of celebrities together and ask for political donations?”

“You do have a way of cutting to the chase.”

“Yep. That’s me. Right to the nitty-gritty.” My tone flattens. “I hate those events.”

“I do, too. Don’t make me go alone.”

“No one is making you go.”

“There is always business to be done at these things.”

And things to learn about people, my father and brother included. “What time?”

“That’s a yes? Seriously? Where is the Lilah Love I know and love?”

“Why did you ask if you thought I’d say no?”

“I thought I’d have to nag you for a few days.”

“I’ll go. I assume the damn thing is formal?”

“Yes.”

“Oh yippee. I get to dress up and play Hollywood.” I grimace. “I’m hanging up. I need pie right now.”

“What? You need pie? What the—”

I hang up, set my phone down, open the lid to the pie, and dig a fork in. Strawberries, whipped cream, and a shortbread crust have me moaning. “So good,” I murmur, taking another bite. I stand there, shoving bites into my mouth, and I don’t let myself think of anything else. This is my yoga, the calm in the storm that de-juices my brain. I’m halfway through the pie when my stomach starts to stretch. I close the lid, start to put it in the fridge, and decide better. Me, my fork, pie, and gun make our way toward Purgatory, where my MacBook and that confession transcript hopefully await.

Once I’m there, I walk around the desk, my intent being to set down my pie on the desk, fork on the lid, ready for more action. And I do just that. Pie down. Fork down. Cujo still hanging out for backup. My MacBook waiting for use. All is well until I pull my chair out, and freeze-frame. In my seat is the plastic Baggie with the first note I’d received inside it. On top of it is another note that is open and reads:

D is for Deception.

“F is for aren’t you fucking funny.” I scoop up both notes, careful to touch only the Baggie, but I really don’t know why. I am never sending in something for diagnostics that might implicate me in a crime. Junior knows that. I skip placing the new note in the Baggie and shove them both into the drawer.

I sit down and grab Cujo, cocking it and ensuring the bullets are still inside, and they are. Interesting. I’ll decide how interesting later. I grab my computer and pull it to me, intending to pull up the camera footage, in hopes that it grabbed something before the lights were killed. My e-mail flashes, and sure enough, my brother is in my inbox.

Sidetracked and with good reason, I pull up the e-mail:

Agent Fucking Love,

Here it is.