Page 47 of The False Flat

CHAPTER 19

TWO GIRLS AND A PAIR OF JIMMY CHOOS

My cell phone buzzed right as I entered my house several days later, causing me to drop a binder on my toes, toes that had spent the last twelve hours jammed into low, number-crunching heels. I’d spent the whole of Monday at the office, first making binders and reviewing the portfolios of the few clients I had, then reading over Erin’s surprisingly detailed follow-up email asking if I’d arranged that cohosted group networking dinner. Which of course I haven’t, because I have no idea where to begin.

Then I completely wasted my time with Mark, a potential client who ended up being interested in what I could do for him in the bedroom rather than the office. I was having more days like this. Clients here and there from my online ads, but the effort-to-gain ratio was wicked. I could talk my face off, only to realize in the end that the person didn’t want a financial planner; they wanted to open a bank account. I felt like I was an actress who hadn’t properly studied her lines but went out onstage anyway, only to be laughed at by an audience who wasn’t fooled. If people would just give me a chance to prove myself. But getting them was tough.

My irritation completely faded when I saw that the text was from Deanna.

Deanna: What are you doing right now?

Me: Just getting home from work. What are you doing?

Deanna: Actively thinking of all the ways I can murder this guy King and get away with it.

I threw all my stuff on the kitchen counter and attempted to take off my heels, but they were really wedged onto my feet.

Me: Poison? Who’s King anyway, and why are we poisoning him?

I seriously couldn’t get these shoes off. I sat on the kitchen floor and promptly stuck my hand in something sticky—what the hell was all over my floor? The floor film gave me enough traction to get the shoe off my red, swollen right foot. The left one appeared to have permanently fused to my skin. I gave up, leaned against the counter, and picked up my phone again.

Deanna: Okay, remind me never to plan murder with you. Poison? Seriously? No one is going to want to eat at a restaurant or stay at a B and B where the owner poisoned one of her husband’s acquaintances! Now, a nice fall down the stairs . . .

Me: Then you’d have to explain why he was upstairs. And give me a break. It’s been a long day and also a long time since I murdered anyone. So . . . King? Is that a nickname?

Deanna: Broken toilet downstairs? He’d have to go upstairs to do his line of cocaine, right? Xavier Octavius Skrunk a.k.a. King because he looks like Jack the Pumpkin King from The Nightmare Before Christmas. He went to school with William, and somehow, they’ve STAYED friends. He’s obnoxious.

Me: Wait . . . cocaine??? And pic please.

The picture came first, a side-by-side shot of a man sitting on her couch juxtaposed with the real Jack from the movie. They were identical, as if the cartoon creation had climbed right out of the screen and into her living room.

Another text came while I was still staring at the picture.

Deanna: And I’m pretty sure he does drugs. William insists he’s just European and doesn’t do drugs . . . anymore. William is naive.

Me: He. Looks. Exactly. Like. That. Skeleton.

Deanna: Seriously, it’s Halloween over here . . . or Christmas. Have you had dinner? You should come over if you can stomach eating with a skeleton. Okay, I’m being mean. He’s not that bad. Will you come??? Saaaaaave me!

There was no way, and I was too tired to even try to come up with an excuse.

Me: No.

She didn’t even pause.

Deanna: Then I’m coming over. I’ll see you in fifteen.

Me: What? You have company!

Nothing.

Me: Deanna?

Nothing.

Me: Are you really coming?

Five silent minutes passed, during which I bit my nails, made a mental note to file and paint them later so no one suspected I bit my nails, and then attempted to remove my shoe again until my phone pinged beside me.