Got Your Number

set her jaw and growled in lieu of screeching at the top of her lungs. As her anger swelled, every muscle contracted, and she stiffened in juvenile frustration, gearing up for an all-out tantrum before she realized how ridiculous she must look. So she settled for banging her fists against her head until she saw stars. Finally, she marched to the house, already cursing Capistrano for the sleep she wouldn't get tonight. He had a lot of nerve saying those horrible things about Carl. And laughing at her dreams.
    The house was dark when she stepped inside except for a night-light Nell had graciously left on near the hallway. She stood in the shadows and listened for signs that Nell was still awake, but didn't hear anything. A touch on her leg sent terror bolting through her until she realized that it was just one of the cats copping a nib. Chester, the one that Nell doted on. Roxann indulged him for a few seconds, then tiptoed into the room she shared with Angora, not sure how she would handle the conversation about Carl. Now that she realized Angora had a crush on him, things could get awkward.
    But the awkward conversation would have to wait because Angora wasn't there. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was only midnight, and the clubs didn't close until one, so she wasn't concerned.
    And she wasn't about to let her imagination take hold of the dirty things Capistrano had said about Carl and run with them. Even if Angora was hell-bent on losing her virginity, Carl was much too noble to take advantage of her, especially considering the girls were related. Roxann lay down on top of the covers, replaying her conversations with Nell and Capistrano. Both of them had hinted that her character judgment was skewed. Was it possible that...no. Carl wasn't a philanderer any more than Angora was a murderer.
    The phone on the nightstand rang, startling her. She picked it up automatically, then remembered she was a guest in someone else's house. "Dr. Oney's residence."
    "Roxann? I...I need to see you."
    Her first thought was that it was Angora, but the voice was wrong, and the wording strange. "Who is this?"
    "Elise." She sighed, the dramatic sigh of someone under the influence trying to gather their thoughts. "I have to tell you...everything."
    "What, Elise?"
    "Not now, I'm not thinking very good. Well . I'm not thinking very well . Tomorrow...meet me at the chapel tomorrow at noon. And don't tell anyone ."
    The woman had trouble hanging up, but finally the dial tone sounded. Roxann hung up slowly, wondering if her ex-roommate would even remember making the call. It was just like her, staging a theatrical apology. Elise lived for drama. Her stories about confronting married men who had dated and dumped her were hair-raising. Elise had issues.
    But then, didn't everyone?
    She must have dozed because she was awakened by a small rough tongue licking her chin—lapping up traces of the chocolate malt, no doubt. She shooed Chester and sat up, noting that Angora still hadn't returned. The clock radio read 2:15 a.m. Plenty of time to get home after the clubs closed. Frustration and anxiety plucked at her—she didn't want to think about what her cousin might be doing with Carl. What if Capistrano was right—what if Carl was a philanderer? She doubted if Angora was equipped to lose her virginity on a one-night stand.
    She rubbed her face and made a quick decision. Carl's house was only a twenty-minute walk—she could go there and put her mind to rest and be back before anyone noticed.
    She undressed in the dark and changed into the jeans she had on earlier, and tennis shoes. A black hooded sweatshirt would keep her from being too noticeable. At the last minute, she remembered her pepper spray and stuffed the can into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. Feeling like a criminal, she slipped out the back door and stole around the side of the house. The streets were busier than she'd expected—Homecoming had brought out the rowdy in everyone, it seemed. She decided to kill two birds with one stone and jog, which would also help explain why she was out at this time of night in case anyone saw her. She felt like an idiot. She was an idiot. They weren't at Carl's house, and Angora wasn't doing things to him that she'd marked with a highlighter pen in that making-love-to-a-man book.
    A half-mile later, she was cursing herself for forgetting a flashlight. The ground was uneven and muddy, the streets dark and sinister. Lord, if Frank Cape