Page 1 of Over Her Dead Body

PROLOGUE

Who knew it could take five to seven increasingly bad days to ruin your life? I would have guessed longer. And I would certainly have expected to recognize the occasion while getting dressed.

Depending on how you count Portugal, I am somewhere in that range now. The clock is still running, which I have decided to take as good news. I’m trying to be generous about what qualifies.

At present, I have three options.

One: the window. Third floor. The drop is not nothing, and I have already looked at it twice. The second time, the man by the door noticed. I don’t mind his knowing I’m interested in the view. I would rather he didn’t know I’m assessing how much of me would survive it.

Two: the door I came in through, which is no longer a door so much as a man whose entire professional purpose is to keep it shut. The gun helps.

Three: keep talking.

I am good at talking. I make a living telling people things they do not especially want to hear, then persuading them to keep listening. I have been at it for seven minutes here, and so far it has kept me vertical. Under the circumstances, that qualifies as a win.

The problem is that the man across the desk has stopped answering.

I would welcome an argument. An objection I could pick apart. Even an insult would give me something to work with. Instead, he watches me with the patience of someone who has nowhere else to be.

I have several places I would like to be. None requires much imagination.

I keep my hands visible and my fingers loose, as though this is still a meeting and I am merely allowing him time to consider my position. It takes more effort than I would like. My fingers want to curl into my palms, which would hurt for an entirely separate reason. My left knee wants to bounce. I have to keep reminding the individual parts of me that we are trying to look like a woman who expects to leave.

There is blood on the floor. Not mine. A detail I’d like to keep current.

It belongs to someone who was here twenty minutes ago and is no longer anywhere. The man by the door cleaned up most of it. Not all. The part he missed is next to my left foot, and I am not looking at it.

I am looking at the man across the desk as though this is still a conversation between professionals. As though, once we have cleared up a few misunderstandings, I will stand, thank him for his time, and be shown out.

I would be very gracious about the time.

The part I am going to have trouble explaining later is that I came to this house willingly the first time. I was pleased to have arrived. There are probably people who can look back on the worst decision of their lives and say they had a bad feeling about it.

I had several. I just assumed they were meant for someone less capable.

The man across the desk opens a drawer.

“Your left hand,” he says.

I draw my left hand toward me. “I’m using it.”

He places a thin sliver of bamboo on the desk between us.

“Not for long.”

I turn my left hand slightly, studying the pale pink polish as though that is why he asked for it. He is not ruining a perfectly good manicure. I am planning to take it home, pour myself something expensive, and lie about how frightened I was.

Neither man appears to have considered that possibility.

They are waiting for me to do what I’m told. I take another moment with the nail polish. It is a very small delay, but at least it belongs to me.

Then I bring my attention back to the desk, the window, the gun.

I am good at reading rooms. Usually, there are clues: the person everyone looks at before answering, the thing no one will discuss, the chair you are expected to take. People tell you a great deal before they begin speaking. I have built a career on paying attention.

I have never read a room like this.

So I read what I can.