Thankless in Death

just dead. She’d never known anyone who’d been murdered, much less spent time with anyone who had been the way she had with Jerry’s mom and dad.
    She really believed, down to her heart, it was all a terrible mistake. Yes, Jerry could fly off—and that time he’d hit her had shown her a side of him she couldn’t love or live with. But a couple of slaps, as wrong as they’d been, weren’t murder .
    She’d thought about tagging him, but Kasey put the kibosh on that majorly. And had even insisted, when she’d just wanted to go home, they spring for a cab. No walking, no subway. It had taken some seriousshoving to convince Kasey she didn’t need or want her to stay at her place.
    She just wanted to go home, be alone, try to figure it out.
    And she needed to cry some. Maybe a lot. For Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold, and for Jerry, too. For what she’d once imagined might be.
    She shifted the shopping bags full of things she no longer wanted, keyed herself in. Because she wanted to get inside quickly, and she’d walked her ass off that day already, she took the elevator up. It clunked on her floor, creaked its way open.
    And Ms. Crabtree pushed out of her own apartment before Lori reached her own.
    “There you are! I was worried.”
    “I … I did a lot of shopping.”
    Ms. Crabtree narrowed her eyes. “You’ve heard. About that Jerry.”
    “Just a little while ago. I think there must be a mistake, because—”
    “Honey, the police were here. Twice. Looking for you.”
    “Me? Why? Why?”
    “Just to talk to you, about him. Why don’t you come on in here, and I’ll fix you some tea. No, hell with that. I’ll pour you a big glass of wine. I’ve got a nice bottle I’ve been saving since my birthday.”
    “Thanks, but I just want to go home, and … I just want to go home and … be quiet, I guess.”
    “All right. All right now.” Crabtree stroked a hand down Lori’s glossy, chestnut hair. “You look so pretty.”
    “We … went to the salon.”
    “I like your hair, the new color. New’s good. Here, this is the cop who came first. She wants you to contact her as soon as you can. I think you might feel better once you do.”

    She’d never actually talked to any police—not officially—and it made her feel a little sick. “But I don’t know anything.”
    “You never know what you know.” Ms. Crabtree tried a bolstering smile. “And this one struck me as smart. So you go ahead in and tag her up. If you change your mind about that wine and company, you just knock on the door. It doesn’t matter how late, okay?”
    “Okay.” Lori looked at the card, read: Lieutenant Eve Dallas . “Oh, she’s the Icove cop. She’s Roarke’s cop.”
    “ That ’s what it is.” Crabtree rapped her knuckles to her temple. “I knew I recognized something, but couldn’t bring it up. See, you never know what you know.”
    “I guess you’re right. Thanks, Ms. Crabtree.”
    “I’m right over here,” Crabtree reminded her, and stepping back into her own apartment, relaxed again.
    Tucked in. Safe and sound.
    Lori locked her door, added the deadbolt, the security chain.
    She started to just dump the bags—the contents no longer interested her, in fact, made her feel guilty and ashamed. She’d been out, shopping for things she didn’t really need, indulging in manicures and facials, laughing, drinking wine at lunch—and all the while Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold were dead.
    She wanted to talk to her mother, she realized. She wanted to talk to her mom and dad—and that’s what she’d do. But first she’d do what they’d raised her to do.
    What came next.
    She’d put her things away, then she’d call the police.
    She moved through her small, colorful space to the alcove of her bedroom. She’d separated it from the living area with its single bold blue sofa and padded crates she’d painted lipstick red by a curtain formed from stringed beads.

    Maybe a convertible sofa would’ve made more sense, but she just refused to sleep in her living space.
    By next year, she could upgrade to a one-bedroom, hopefully in the same building. That was her next goal, anyway, which had taken a hit when Jerry had taken the rent money and her tip savings and blown it in Vegas. She needed to make it up now, and make up the spree she’d just had.
    But she’d so needed to just get out, cut loose for one day. And it had made her feel better, and more like herself. Kasey had been right. She’d brooded over her Big Mistake,