Then she turned and took the darkest, most camouflaged route to the coat check, where she retrieved her bag and coat. She shoved her way outside and handed her ticket to the valet.
“Wait. My car’s right there,” she said, spotting the Porsche. “Just give me the keys.”
The fresh-faced valet hesitated. “But I’m not supposed to—”
“Just give me the keys!” Ariana demanded.
He handed her the keys, his hand shaking. Ariana stormed over to her car, angrier about having to leave her party than anything else. As soon as she was safely inside behind the wheel, the engine started, she took out her phone and dialed Dr. Meloni’s cell phone number.
It took a few rings for him to answer, and when he did, the first thing she heard was the music. Dr. Meloni was at her birthday party right now and she wasn’t. How entirely wrong was that?
“Hello?”
Ariana took a breath and closed her eyes. “Dr. Meloni?” she said, pitching her voice up and throwing in a Texan accent. “Is this Dr. Meloni?”
“Yes it is.” The background noise grew duller now. He was moving away from the dance floor. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Dr. Meloni, this is Briana Leigh Covington,” Ariana said, infusing her voice with emotion, choking herself up.
“Miss Covington! I’m at your birthday party right now. Where are you?” he said.
Ariana clenched her jaw for a moment before answering. “I … I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face all those people. Not tonight. I need someone to talk to, doctor. Immediately. Tonight.”
“Of course!” He sounded happy, the jackass. Elated, actually. Because he’d won. He’d turned out to be right. Ariana’s fingernails dug into the skin on her thigh.
“Can we meet somewhere private? Somewhere away from campus? I can’t be here anymore. There are just too many memories. Too many ghosts,” Ariana said, sounding tearful.
“Of course, of course. We can meet at my house. I’ll give you directions.”
There was dead silence behind his voice now. He was probably getting his coat.
“I have GPS,” she said flatly. “Just give me the address.”
He did, and Ariana stared at the front door of the club. It wasn’t like she needed to write it down. She’d long since memorized the route. Seconds later, Meloni strode out the front door and handed his ticket to the valet.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said, glaring at him through the side window of her Porsche.
“Good. And Miss Covington? I’m glad you called,” he said.
I’ll bet you are, Ariana thought.
“Me too,” she said with some effort. Then she ended the call.
The valet pulled the doctor’s car around. He hoisted himself up behind the wheel and slammed the door, a Cheshire grin on his face. Ariana wished she could have walked over to him right then and there and shot him directly through the front of his skull. But she had no gun, and there were way too many people around anyway.
Ariana scrunched down in her seat, waiting for Dr. Meloni to drive on by. As his SUV roared past her rear bumper, she envisioned herself slamming her car into reverse and taking him out. She wanted to drive her fist through the windshield, yank his lifeless body out through the shattered glass, throw him to the asphalt, and run over him multiple times with his own car, reveling in the crack of each and every bone, the squishing and splurting of his vital organs, the lakes and rivers of blood. But since she was not a possessor of superhuman strength, and since that dream was unrealistic, she decided to just breathe.
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
Instead, she took comfort in knowing that at least the very clueless Dr. Meloni was headed toward his death, and in approximately one hour, she’d be headed back to her party.
EVIDENCE