Genuine Lies

pain.
    Eve. Only Eve could stop the pain. And he would never hold her again, never taste her, never laugh with her or sit quietly in the garden and just be with her.
    It wasn’t supposed to be this way. In his heart he knew it could have been changed. Like a bad script, poorly written, the ending could have been revised.
    She’d left him, and this time there could be no reconciliation, no compromise, no promises. Now all he had were memories, and empty days and nights to relive them.
    Victor lifted the bottle, flung it against the wall, where it exploded. Choking against the ripe smell of whiskey, he covered his face with his hands and cursed Eve with all his heart.
    Anthony Kincade gloated. He rejoiced. He laughed out loud. As he greedily stuffed pate-smeared crackers into his mouth, he kept his gaze fixed on the television. Each time a channel segued back to regular programming, he switched, searching for a fresh bulletin, a recap of the news.
    The bitch was dead, and nothing could have made him happier. It was only a matter of time now before he dealt with the Summers woman and got back the tapes Eve had taunted him with.
    His reputation, his money, his freedom, they were safe now. Eve had gotten exactly what she’d deserved. He only hoped she’d suffered.
    Lyle didn’t know what the hell to think. He was too scared to bother. The way he figured it, Delrickio had iced Eve—and he was connected to Delrickio. Sure, he’d only been doingsome snooping, but men like Delrickio never went down. They made sure someone went down for them.
    He could run, but he was damn sure he couldn’t hide. He didn’t figure his alibi about sleeping off a fat joint all afternoon would hold much water with the cops.
    Goddamn, why had the broad gone and gotten herself wasted now? If she’d waited a few weeks, he’d have been long gone, his pockets fat, his road clear. Just his luck. His fucking luck.
    Naked, he sat on the bed, dangling a beer between his knees. He’d have to come up with a tighter alibi. He drew on the beer, racked his poor brain, then grinned. He had the five big ones Delrickio had planted on him. If he couldn’t buy an alibi with a couple of grand—and his famous, tireless dick, life wasn’t worth living.
    Travers wouldn’t be comforted. Nina tried, but the housekeeper wouldn’t eat, she wouldn’t rest, she wouldn’t take a sedative. She simply sat on the terrace, looking out at the garden. She wouldn’t even come inside, no matter how Nina coaxed or prodded.
    The police had been all through the house, poking into drawers, running their cop hands over Eve’s personal belongings. Contaminating everything.
    Through her own swollen, red-rimmed eyes, Nina watched her. Did the woman think she was the only one in pain? Did she think she was the only one who was sick and scared and uncertain?
    Nina spun away from the terrace doors. Christ, she needed someone to talk to, someone to hold. She could pick up the phone, dial one of dozens of numbers, but everyone she was close to would ask about Eve. After all, Nina Soloman’s life had begun the day Eve Benedict had taken her in.
    Now Eve was gone, and she had no one. Nothing. How could it be that one person should have such an affect on another? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
    She walked over to the bar and fixed herself a stiffbourbon. She grimaced at the taste. It had been years since she’d drunk anything stronger than white wine.
    But the taste didn’t bring back ugly memories. Instead, it soothed and strengthened. She drank again. She was going to need all the strength she could muster to get through the next few weeks. Or the rest of her life.
    Tonight. She would concentrate on getting through just this one night.
    How was she going to sleep here, in this big house, knowing that Eve’s bedroom was down the hall?
    She could go to a hotel—but she knew that wouldn’t be right. She would stay, she would get through the first night. Then she would think about the next. And the next.
    When Julia fought off the weight of the sedative, it was after midnight. There was no disorientation, no instant when she convinced herself it had all been some terrible dream.
    She knew, the moment she regained consciousness, where she was, and what had happened.
    She was in Paul’s bed. And Eve was dead.
    Aching, she turned, wanting to feel him, to press herself against warmth and life. But the space beside her was empty.
    She pushed herself up and out of bed,