Chapter Thirty-Eight SCARLETT

Chapter Thirty-Eight

S CARLETT

Friday, July 19, 2024

2:00 p.m.

When Dawson left, I was immediately drawn to the new Della portrait. I stared at sketched eyes that were already glaring at me. She was daring me to sharpen the glint in the irises and darken the brows and lashes. This Della wasn’t kind or lost or trapped. She understood what she wanted. And she wasn’t afraid to cut corners to get it. The gaming master. Those eyes were so real, I expected them to blink. Minutes and then hours passed before I stepped back.

I looked over my shoulder toward Margo’s apartment. It was two in the afternoon and the light was now on. “You’re real. I know it. I know it.”

Drawing in a breath, I left the painting and hurried out my front door, slamming it behind me. I crossed the street and buzzed the front door of her building. The doorman looked up as I pressed the intercom button. “I’m here for Margo Larsen. Scarlett Crosby. She’s expecting me.”

He picked up his phone, spoke for several seconds, and then buzzed the front door open. I pushed inside.

“She’s on the fifth floor,” he said.

“I know where she lives.” The elevator ride was quick, but the small space twisted and tightened my nerves. When the doors opened, the tension didn’t release as I moved heavy feet quickly toward Margo’s apartment. I knocked.

At first, only silence responded. I shifted my stance, checked the apartment door number to make sure I had the right one. And then steady footsteps moved toward the door. It opened in an easy, languid way. Margo was dressed in black pajamas that skimmed her body, and her blond hair was styled off her face. She wasn’t wearing makeup and looked younger.

Full lips broadened into a wide and seductive Della smile. “Scarlett. What a lovely surprise.”

“Margo. Sorry for the unexpected call.”

“Not at all. Nice to have the company. Come in.”

I stepped inside and saw the painting I’d left. It no longer leaned against the counter but hung on the wall.

“Quite the painting,” Margo said. “Very striking.”

Della didn’t run. She was bold. Daring. “I thought you might like it.”

“I do. Can’t take my eyes off it. It’ll go great with the other pieces I have.”

The apartment was empty, except for the air mattress, now neatly made with several blankets and white sheets. I thought about the mattress and blanket in the small basement room.

“What brings you home in the middle of the day?”

“I just attended Tiffany Patterson’s autopsy. I needed a minute.”

The image of a surgeon’s blade cutting into Tiffany was jarring. “I can’t imagine.”

“Probably far worse than anything you can dream up.” She moved toward her kitchen. “Can I make you a coffee? A little early for wine. And I need to get back to work.”

“How did Tiffany die?”

“I can’t discuss that until the investigation is concluded.” She set up the coffee machine and hit Brew . “Where were you in the last forty-eight hours?”

“I’m a suspect?”

Margo shrugged. “Everyone is at this point. The medical examiner has pulled hair fibers, so fingers crossed there’s DNA to be had. That’ll narrow the search.” Her words rang with the confidence of someone who already had answers.

I’d encountered that brand of self-assurance before. “Dawson came by my place this morning. More questions about Sandra. I smelled your perfume on him.”

“You did?”

I moved toward her as she set out two Styrofoam cups on the counter. “Are you doing your magic on him now?”

She chuckled. “Magic?”

I laid my hands on the counter. “Your first meeting with Dawson was random. You just happened by, right? Did you pull strings to get on the Taylor case?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Dawson and I are coworkers.”

“It’s more, isn’t it?”

“Are you worried about the good detective? He’s a big boy and capable of taking care of himself.”

Della had tied me up into dozens of emotional knots. Hate twisted into fear, into need, into friendship. “I called you Della when I first saw you.”

“The girl that lured you into Tanner’s lair.” She looked toward the portrait. “Is she Della?”

“Yes.”

“Counseling is nothing to be ashamed of, Scarlett. You might want to check in with your mental health care provider.”

“I’m right about you.”

“Or Della is your way of justifying your own bad decisions. Della made you get in Tanner’s van when in fact you got in willingly. Della couldn’t lure Tiffany, so you did. And when it all went sideways, Della vanished. Della explains away all your poor choices.”

“I didn’t make her up.”

“Memories and truth can blend in ways we can’t ever imagine. I think your Della started off as a cover to justify your guilt. But as time went on, Della became real and now you don’t know the difference between fact and fiction. I’m not blaming you, Scarlett.” Her gaze softened. “Given the trauma you suffered, it’s a wonder you function so well.”

In a few words she’d painted me as permanently damaged and confused. “How did you get away? He beat you up so badly.”

“Honey, I’m not Della,” she said softly. “I’m Officer Margo Larsen. I’m a cop. And I’m not sure why you’ve fixated on me.”

“Tanner and his sins have been dead and buried for ten years. And then you arrive in Norfolk, Sandra’s body is found, and Tiffany dies.”

She cocked an eyebrow, but the hints of amusement were gone. “What’s your point?”

“Why did you come back? You were free and clear. Were you bored?”

“I’m not Della, honey.”

“You are. And I’m going to prove it.”

She folded her arms. “You know what I think? Your mother died recently, and as often happens with a parent’s passing, old issues rise to the surface. Guilt over Sandra’s death prompted you to call in the body’s location. And then you run into Tiffany. A part of you wants to help her, but the other part sees her as another bad memory. Maybe she was pressing you for money to fuel her drug problem. And what about Lynn? She’s accused you of stalking. I just happened to arrive in Norfolk as your shit show danced onto center stage.”

Della had been so persuasive. She’d coaxed me into the van and convinced me that Tanner was trying to save us and finally to lure Tiffany. She’d made me believe she was a friend. And now the very convincing Margo was trying to put all the blame on my shoulders.

“I’m going to prove you’re Della.” I turned and walked toward the door. My hand on the knob, I said, “I’m not a lonely fifteen-year-old any longer.”

“You’re just as vulnerable as that kid.” She shrugged. “At least, I assume.”

“What’s that mean?”

Margo grinned. “I guess we’ll see.”