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Maddy: So excited for you. Does that mean you’re coming back?
Molly: Stop pestering her. So, when are you coming back?
I couldn’t help chuckling as the texts came flooding in. My phone notifications went mad. Deciding I’d let them burn themselves out before answering, I took my favorite mug that says Blow me, I’m hot and poured myself a celebratory cup of coffee. But before I could get back to my phone, there was a knock at the door.
Peeking out the peephole, I saw it was a petite woman.
“Um, Ms. Garrison? Do you have a minute?” she asked through the door. “I really need your help.”
I wondered why on earth someone needed my help.
Unlocking the deadbolt and leaving the chain intact, I opened the door. “Hi, who are you?”
She looked up at me with long lashes and a shy smile. “I’m a model. Could we talk?”
She looked so small and helpless, so I unlocked the door. “What’s the problem?”
Striding into my apartment, she spun as I closed the door. “Well, you see, I read your article and I think I saw him the other night. That photographer? I really wanted to talk to you about it.”
I shook my head. “Oh, but I’m not the police.”
She nodded and looked down at her hands where she wore mittens making her look even younger. “I just don’t know if I should go to them or not. But, um, if you’re busy,” she trailed off, turning.
I held my hand out. “No, it’s fine. We can talk. Would you like some coffee?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Looking around, she took in my apartment. “Nice place. Big window over there.”
I studied her while we exchanged small talk, then gestured for her to sit on the sofa. She was just a waif-like girl, older than I’d originally thought now that I was closer to her, but she could pass for much younger. Her hair was brown and hung in waves over her shoulders. Her face was painted, but in natural hues. She seemed pleasant enough, but completely superficial.
I offered her an encouraging smile. “Where do you live?”
She pointed over her shoulder. “Upper East Side, in an apartment with about six other people,” she giggled nervously. “My agent said he’d get a place for me, but I didn’t realize it meant sharing with so many people.”
“Oh, an agent?” I prompted. “You’re working as a model?”
Glancing away, she gave a self-deprecating smile. “I want to be, but I lost the weight and now they tell me my boobs are too small when I go to the casting calls. And then there’s my facial structure.”
I shook my head. “Your body is beautiful just the way it is.”
She scoffed. “No, it’s not. My face is constructed all wrong. It makes me look different. Directors hate different.” She held up her hand to tick off a list. “My eyes are too close together. My forehead is too sculpted. My lips sag downward. And my nose is too distinct.”
I tilted my head and wondered why she seemed familiar. “What do you think I can help you with?”
Her eyes teared up so fast, I was startled. “I’m scared, Ms. Garrison. You wrote that article about women in the fashion industry being killed and that could be me! I mean, how can I stay safe when I have to go to these parties? I could be targeted.”
I studied her face and was shocked at the sudden lack of expression. “Have you been accepted for magazine covers yet?”
She stared at her mittens. “Well, ah, no.”
I nodded. “Have you been booked for modeling gigs overseas? London? Paris?”
She lowered her gaze. “Not yet. But it’s coming. I can tell.”
Something seemed off with her. “Of course. So, you’re probably not in danger until you get to that point. Besides, the police have someone in for questioning, a person of interest. Hopefully, they’ve got the Shadow Reaper. In the meantime, stay vigilant at your home. Since you don’t live alone, chances are you’ll always have someone else around. The killer only looked for people who lived alone.”
“Oh, like you?” she asked rising.
I took a sip of coffee to cover my newfound nerves. “Um, well, yeah, I live alone. But I’m clearly not a model.”
