“Leave me alone,” Ariana said through her teeth. She could not deal with Palmer and his bruised feelings right now. She started to go again, but he grabbed her arm.
“No. I don’t think so,” Palmer said. “You were the last one to see her alive, you know. What did she say to you? What did you do? Did you upset her or something? What happened in that room?”
“Palmer,” April said, her voice aghast. “You can’t really think—”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Ariana replied, clenching her teeth as hard as she could to keep from exploding, to keep herself under control. “But just FYI, even if we did have an upsetting conversation, that can’t cause an aneurysm.”
“How can you joke about this?” Palmer spat. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Not even your dead best friend.”
“Dude,” Landon said.
Ariana glanced at him over Palmer’s shoulder. Even Palmer flinched. If Landon thought he was out of line, he must have done something really wrong. Before another word could be uttered, Ariana turned on her heel, forcing her chin up, and walked away. But by the time she got to the elevators, she was shaking from head to toe.
Palmer had come far too close to the truth for her comfort. Did he truly suspect something? And what about this foul play allegation that Chang woman mentioned on the news? Did the police really suspect that Kiran had been murdered? If so, how long did she have before they came banging down her door?
As the doors slid open, Ariana stepped inside and tried to breathe.
Kiran’s body had spent five weeks at the bottom of a river. There couldn’t possibly be anything left that could lead them to Briana Leigh Covington or Ariana Osgood.
Could there?
CATHARSIS
Ariana let out a cathartic screech as she smacked the small blue ball with the overly used, seriously abused racquetball racket. The ball slammed against the white wall and thwacked against the gleaming wood floor, ricocheting toward the far side of the two-story-high enclosed court. Ariana sprinted to reach it, her sneakers screeching along the boards, her breath coming quick and heavy. She reached back and executed a perfect return, sending the ball back to the wall. Overhead, one of the fluorescent lights flickered, but she ignored it and returned the ball again. Right now, she was focused, and nothing could distract her.
Then, the door to the racquetball court squeaked open, and her ball went flying out into the lobby.
“Whoa!” Maria blurted, jumping out of the projectile’s path. “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” Ariana said, trying to catch her breath.
She walked over to her bag, wiped her sweaty face with a towel, and grabbed the tube of balls she’d purchased at the gym store before starting her game. They hadn’t had any women’s rackets left for sale—thus the borrowed, used racket—but at least she’d been able to pop open a fresh sleeve of balls.
“Mind if I join you?” Maria asked, wielding her own borrowed racket. She was wearing short cotton shorts and a gray tank top and already had a patch of sweat on her stomach and another across her chest. Her hair was back in a messy ponytail, and she clasped an iPod in her other hand. Clearly she’d already been working out for a while when she’d noticed Ariana on the racquetball court.
“Not at all,” Ariana said, still catching her breath.
Maria put her iPod down atop Ariana’s bag and jogged in place a bit, her ponytail dancing from shoulder to shoulder.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you inside the gym before,” she commented, eyeing Ariana’s tennis whites—a straight white skirt with one pleat and a long-sleeved white polo shirt over Nike tennis sneakers.
“That’s because I’ve never been here before,” Ariana said as she bounced the ball atop her racket. “But tonight, I just felt a dire need to hit something, and the lights weren’t on at the tennis courts, so here I am.”
“Yeah, I guess when it’s thirty degrees outside they figure no one’s going to be up for tennis after dark,” Maria joked, joining Ariana at the service line.
“They thought wrong,” she replied, without a trace of mirth. Ever since she’d seen Kiran’s face on the news e
arlier that evening, not a positive, light, or happy thought had passed through her mind. It was all panic, conjecture, worry, and fear. Which was why she was here, sweating it out, trying to clear her mind. “Play to fifteen?” she asked Maria.
“Sure,” Maria said, bending at the waist and shifting her weight from one leg to the other.
Ariana smirked. Maria was a skinny, frail ballerina. There was no way she played racquetball on a regular basis. This was going to be one easy win.
She tossed the ball up and served. Maria returned it with a formidable swing. The ball hit the wall, then the floor and whizzed right toward Ariana, but about three feet above her head. She jumped up and lobbed a return, but it felt short.
“My serve,” Maria said, retrieving the ball.
“Nice shot,” Ariana said, impressed but also slightly annoyed.