Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

But that wasn’t nice of me, was it? As penance, I forced myself to turn and look at her again. Objectively speaking, in death Layla was even more beautiful than she’d been when alive. The muscles of her face were relaxed, now that she had no reason to spout vile threats or mercilessly ridicule anyone. I looked a little closer. The woman was literally wrinkle-free. She must’ve had some work done recently.

I took a breath to steady my whirling stomach. The last thing her eyes must’ve seen was her killer aiming a gun at her. I trembled at the thought. I’d stared down more than one killer with a gun. I would hate to think that would be the last thing I’d ever see.

Then I noticed the book splayed under her arm. She must’ve dropped it when she fell. Or maybe the shooter dropped it. I reached down to take it, then stopped.

What was wrong with me? This was a crime scene. Still, my natural tendency was to rescue books, especially when they were in danger of being consumed by a puddle of blood. But there was no blood threatening to destroy the book.

I shivered again and turned to face the wall. Think happy thoughts.

“What happened?” someone called out.

“Stay back,” Mitchell warned.

I turned and saw Gina standing with Whitney and my other students at the end of the hall.

“We’re waiting for the police,” I explained.

“Again?” Alice asked in disbelief.

Cynthia joined the group just then. I could see her shoving her phone into her pants pocket; then she craned her neck over the crowd and asked, “What’s going on? Who is that?”

But Alice figured it out first. “Oh, my God, is that Layla? Oh, no. Brooklyn, is she breathing?”

“She looks dead,” Whitney said flatly, and put her arm around Alice.

“She is,” Mitchell murmured.

“Layla’s dead?” somebody asked.

“If only,” Cynthia muttered, then looked around and realized nobody was kidding. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said.

“Oh, my God.” In a heartbeat, Cynthia switched hats. “Brooklyn, I’m a board member. I should supervise this activity.”

Supervise this activity? What was she, a playground guard? And I noticed she still hadn’t shown an ounce of sympathy for the dead woman. Not that I blamed her, really, but things were getting weird.

I gave Mitchell a pleading look. “They can’t come down the hall. It’s a crime scene.”

“I’ll keep them back.” He started walking toward the group, then stopped and turned. “Don’t touch anything.”

“I know that,” I muttered, watching him jog away. Maybe he didn’t realize I was an old hand at murder scenes and knew all the rules. I even followed them, usually.

I leaned over to study the book on the floor by Layla and felt chills skitter down my spine. It was my Oliver Twist , the one I’d refurbished for her. The one I’d regretted giving her the first night of classes. The one she’d blatantly lied about. The one for which she’d given me so much grief.

I rubbed my hands together to warm up, but it wasn’t working. I was freezing.

“Brooklyn, are you okay?” Alice called out from down the hall. I could tell she was crying, but despite her own sense of loss, she was worried about me.

I gave her a grateful smile. “Not really, but thanks.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I’ll stay here until the police come.” I don’t know why, but I felt an obligation of sorts. As the first person on the scene, I would protect the area until I could pass the duty on to the police.

“I feel so useless,” Alice said, sniffling as she looked around. “Is there something we can do? Brooklyn, do you need a blanket or some water?”

“We could go outside and wait for the police,” Gina said.

“It’s too cold,” Whitney whined.

“It’s better than standing around.” Gina grabbed her friend and they ran off.

Dale, one of my quietest students, appeared at the end of the hall. “Is somebody hurt?”

I looked up as Kylie said, “Where have you been?”

“I was working on my pages. What happened?”

“The center director’s dead,” Kylie whispered.

I was glad she hadn’t said Layla’s name. I kidded myself that it sounded less personal, more clinical, to keep it semi-anonymous.

The students’ conversation stopped as Naomi pushed through the crowd and headed down the hall toward me. I met her halfway and tried to stop her.

“Oh, not again,” she said in dismay. “I leave the place for twenty minutes and somebody gets attacked again? It’s not Minka, is it?”

“No, it’s not Minka.” She tried to brush past me and I grabbed her. “Naomi, stay back.”

“Then who-” She screamed then, loud enough to pierce my eardrum. I guess she figured it out.

I pulled her close in a forced hug. She struggled to get away.

“Let me go. I need to-”

“No, you can’t go near her.”

“Let go of me, damn it. She’s my aunt, my family. I don’t-”

I shook her. “This is a crime scene. We’ve called the police.”

“Why? She’s not-”

“Naomi,” I said bleakly.

“No!”

“I’m sorry.” I wrapped my arms around her.

“No, no,” she moaned. “It’s not true.”

“I’m sorry. Layla’s dead.”

She sagged against me. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

Hell, Layla Fontaine, artistic director, mover and shaker and bitch royale, wasn’t just dead . She’d been murdered. Coldly, brutally, and audaciously. Someone had walked into BABA as bold as could be and shot her in the chest while at least twenty people worked in rooms nearby. Everyone in the building had to have heard the gunshot, so it wasn’t like the killer was trying to be stealthy. No, he-or she-had used a gun, drawing almost instant attention to his deed.

Was her killer really so arrogant? Or just pissed off? Or desperate? Or insane? Did he really think he’d get away with it? Looking around and not finding any obvious killer types waving guns in the air, I saw clearly that, so far, someone was indeed getting away with it.

Had Layla and the assailant argued about the Oliver Twist ? Was it a buyer who discovered Layla’s lie about it being a first edition? Had he thrown the book at her, then shot her in cold blood when she laughed in his face?

My imagination had taken flight and I had to reel it back in. But as long as Layla had to die, that would be the motive I would want the killer to have.

I continued to hold Naomi in my arms as she cried and moaned. I understood what she was going through. Besides being her employer, Layla was her aunt. It wasn’t easy to find a loved one lying dead in a pool of blood.

I’d been there, done that. It sucked.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Minka yelled from the door of her classroom. Her voice carried all the way across the building. And down the street and over the bridge and into Richmond County. Her clunky boots stomped across the gallery.

“Oh, God, don’t let that cow come over here,” Naomi whispered.

“I won’t.” Even in this grim circumstance, it made me smile to know I wasn’t alone in my low opinion of Minka.

Over Naomi’s shoulder, I watched Mitchell stop Minka from advancing down the hall. She stared daggers at me and I met her squinty gaze levelly. She started to say something; then her mouth slammed shut. And for that brief moment, I could see what she was thinking. She was thinking she’d gotten off easy with the gash across her head instead of a bullet hole in her chest. She was alive, not dead and lying in a pool of blood.

The sudden vulnerability I saw in her eyes made me look away. I never ever, ever wanted to think of Minka as weak or helpless. It would take all the fun out of hating her.