On the Avenue (12 page)

Now he looked at Annabelle. “She did plenty to disrespect my family,” he said. “And she was on her way to disrespecting it more. She's better off dead.”

“What does that mean?”

Shit,
Theo thought.
My big fucking mouth.
“Eh, what difference does it make now? She's gone. It's just a shame that it all happened tonight, at the gala. Poor Madison Hamilton did a lot of work to make that event a success.”

Annabelle gasped. “
Poor
Madison? Since when do you care if shit hits her fan? Are you the only one who doesn't know that your family and
her
family hate each other?”

Theo sighed. He ran a hand over his face and wished he had a bottle of Stoli at his fingertips.

“What I meant is that it's a shame all her work was ruined. She doesn't deserve that. No one does.”

“Since when do you care about
her
so much?”

“Since always.” The words slipped out. Now he bit down on his tongue.

With a violent jerk of her hand, Annabelle pulled the bedsheet off Theo and wrapped it around her body, leaving him entirely exposed to the elements.

Theo dropped the cigarette into the glass of water on the nightstand beside him, then reached down and scooped his silk Dior Homme boxers from the floor. He slipped them on. He didn't want to face Annabelle because he knew her mouth would be set in an unattractive angry scowl. But after several moments of strained silence, he turned his head toward her.

“You
like
her, don't you?” Annabelle spat.

“Who?”

“Madison Hamilton. I saw the way you kept checking her out tonight, looking at her like she's some sort of goddess. The whole time we were dancing, you kept sneaking peeks in her direction.”

Theo didn't respond. He couldn't respond. Annabelle's stinging words rang hopelessly true.

“Answer me!” she demanded. “Do you like her?”

“Come on, Annabelle. Let's not do this. You're to tally overreacting.”

She hopped off the bed and onto her feet. Her cheeks were red with rage. “
Mads.
That's what you called
her tonight. I heard it. Is that some sort of endearing nickname? A little secret between the two of you?”

“No, of course not. There's nothing between us,” Theo lied. He half-kneeled on the edge of the bed, one hand splayed over his chest, his head cocked to one side. It was the sexy pose that had always managed to drive Annabelle wild with lust. But this time out, he was losing the battle.

“I guess the rumors are true!” she ranted. “The ones about you and Madison and your little forbidden fling!”

Theo started as though he'd been slapped. His heart was hammering in his chest. “Where did you hear a stupid thing like that?”

“Kelly Peabody told Rebecca Plexer and Stephanie Gilston that she saw you and Madison kissing in the empty gymnasium at school. Then Stephanie told Marcia Killian, who told Aidan Cryer, and Aidan told
me
.” She tightened the sheet around her body in a gesture of satisfied defiance.

“Oh, please!” Theo said. “Aidan is gayer than Broadway. He gets off on any gossip about me. He gets off just
thinking
about me.”

“Ha!” Annabelle scoffed. “Don't kid yourself. Aidan happens to be dating Marcus Kinney right now, and Marcus is
way
hotter than you.”

Theo's jaw clenched. He grabbed his slate-gray Armani tuxedo pants and still pristine white shirt
from the floor and pulled them on sloppily. “I'm not gonna stick around if you're just gonna insult me,” he said with a sneer.

Annabelle's eyes glassed over with tears. “Is that where you went tonight when you left me alone at the gala for ten whole minutes?” she asked him. “Did you go outside the ballroom and talk to Madison?”

“What?”
Theo said sharply. And he knew, an instant after the word escaped his lips, that he'd spoken it too quickly, and too nervously. How the hell had Annabelle even noticed he was gone? He had left her carefully and strategically, while she'd been immersed in conversation with Kelly Peabody and Rebecca Plexer at the President's Table. He had slipped out of the ballroom just as Jeremy Bleu took the stage; the guests were staring up at the young superstar, their eyes definitely
not
on Theo as he'd made his exit.

But Annabelle had noticed. She knew he'd been gone for ten minutes.

Shit.

“Annabelle,” he said calmly, “I …I didn't leave the room. I just went to the bar to get myself a drink.”

“Liar!” she screamed. “I
saw
you leave the room, Theo. I might've been talking to Kelly and Rebecca, but I
saw
you leave. Ten whole minutes. Was that enough time to talk with poor Madison?”

“I
didn't
talk to her,” he blurted out. “Please—stop saying I left the room. You
can't
say that.”

Annabelle stared at him, silent and tense. Her eyes, though brimming with tears, lit up reflectively.

Please don't say it,
Theo thought.
Please don't let that steel trap of a mind of yours kick in.

“You're right,” she finally whispered. “You couldn't have been talking to Madison because Madison was standing next to Jeremy Bleu as he made his little speech.”

Crap.
Theo licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. He didn't know what to say. He could spew out some silly lie, but he knew Annabelle would see right through it. That was the bad thing about dating an incredibly smart and observant girl: you were screwed even when you weren't
getting
screwed.

Annabelle took a deep, slow breath. The sheet had gone loose around her chest, and she hiked it up slowly, never taking her eyes from Theo's face. “What did you mean when you said Zahara Bell was better off dead?”

“Oh, Jesus, Annabelle,” Theo snapped. “You're not seriously asking me that. You're not seriously thinking anything stupid, are you?”

“Tell me what you were doing for ten minutes. If it's not a secret, you shouldn't have anything to worry about.”

“You wanna know?” Theo said, throwing up his hands. “Okay then. Fine. Great. I'll tell you. Here's the big mystery—I went to the bathroom. That mysterious enough for you?”

Annabelle didn't move. “Who did you see on your way out, or even inside the bathroom? Or better yet, who saw
you
? There had to have been someone, Theo. And don't tell me I wouldn't know the person, because we know all the same people.”

“No one, Annabelle. No one saw me. My bad luck.” He shook his head. He felt his cheeks burning. “So what are you saying? That you think I left the gala, killed Zahara Bell, and then came back and danced with you? Is that what you're saying?”

“I didn't say it. You did. And you also said that Zahara Bell had disrespected your family, and that she's better off dead. Why don't you explain yourself?”

Theo turned around and shoved his feet into his shoes. “I didn't think I had to explain myself,” he said quietly. “I was under the impression that you cared enough about me to trust me. And what the hell difference does it matter if Madison Hamilton and I ever had a fling? Even if it's true—and I'm not saying it is—it's in the past.”

“Well, dammit, Theo. I just don't believe you.” She wiped a tear from her eye but continued staring at him. “And you still won't answer my question. Where were you for those ten minutes? Why did you hate Zahara Bell so much? Is there something about her and her connection to your family that you're not telling me?”

Theo couldn't contain the rage that fired his eyes.

“Don't
ever
say stupid things like that—especially not in public,” he seethed. “And don't go around telling people that you
think
I disappeared for ten minutes while we were at the gala, because no one will believe you. It's
your
family name against mine, and there's no room for competition between us.”

Annabelle took a big step back, bunching the sheet up around her entire body as though seeking warmth from a sudden, stinging chill. “You're lucky my parents aren't home, or my father would kick your arrogant ass. Maybe I should just tell the police I know who the killer is. How about that?”

He was silent, his head aching.

“Get out!” Annabelle finally screamed.

“Fine!” Theo whirled around and stormed out of the bedroom and out of the apartment. His heart was whacking against his ribs. He was trembling like a virgin on prom night.

Outside, he walked up Columbus Avenue, feeling cold and exposed. With a sigh of frustration, he realized that he'd left his tux jacket in Annabelle's bedroom. Fine. Let her keep it. He was too disgusted—and too frightened—to care.

A cab skidded to a stop at the next corner. Theo climbed in and cursed his big mouth and his bad luck. As he cradled his head in his hands, it occurred to him that losing Annabelle also meant losing his only alibi.

Headlights were the enemy.

Lex stood at the corner of Third Avenue and Seventy-sixth Street, nervously eyeing the traffic. She tensed every time a car slowed down. She feared being spotted as the bright beams cut through the night and momentarily illuminated the sidewalk. Would anyone recognize the famous face hidden beneath the outrageous getup?

It was past midnight. The streets were bustling. People were walking east and west and police sirens
sounded in the distance. She felt strange in the purple Betsey Johnson ankle-length skirt and white Donna Karan tank top; she felt even stranger with the black silk scarf draped over her head and across the front of her face. Nothing matched. Nothing accentuated the curves of her body. Silver rings lined her fingers, and several gold chains clinked at her neck whenever she moved. The look was ghetto-gypsy.

She had worked fast to create the new identity, running around her closet, pulling clothes off hangers, checking and rechecking her appearance in the mirror. Then she and Madison and Park had convened in the living room, mapped out their plan, and taken the elevator down to the lobby. They had rushed toward the building's side entrance at breakneck speed and avoided the front doors. Reporters were parked on Fifth Avenue and embedded in Central Park. No easy way out. They had decided on timing their respective escapes at exactly seven minutes apart. The corner of Third Avenue and Seventysixth Street was the designated meeting spot.

In the beginning, Lex had managed to keep her cool. Now she was totally scared. Standing out here in the so-not-her-style outfit, she felt vulnerable and exposed to danger. She kept thinking of the text message—
three minus one is much more fun
—and wondering if a killer was hanging out nearby. It wasn't such a silly thought, considering the fact that Zahara
Bell had been murdered in a museum filled with people. She hated seeing that violent image flash before her eyes. And she hated knowing that she was somehow connected to the murder. Once the story hit the papers, the whole world would associate her clothing line with a corpse.
Not
the best way to launch a new brand.

So maybe it
was
a good idea to grab the shoes by the heels and bust into Zahara Bell's town house. Lex hadn't agreed with it an hour ago, but now she was beginning to understand Park's point. They couldn't just sit in the penthouse and let the fire rage around them.

A car slowed at the corner, and its headlights illuminated her for a split second. Lex turned around as inconspicuously as possible. Her heart skipped a beat. Pedestrians walked by, but their glances were harmless. Only in New York could someone get away with standing on a street corner dressed like a gypsy from Bed-Stuy.

Come on, Park,
she thought anxiously.
Where are you?

Lex scanned the busy stretch of Third Avenue again. It had been exactly nine minutes since she'd left the building. Where was Park? Why was she taking so long to walk a few blocks? Had something happened? Then, just as the panic spiked, Lex spotted her.

Park was dressed in gray slacks and one of Trevor
Hamilton's gray double-breasted suit jackets. A white oxford shirt peeked up over the collar. She wore shiny loafers and a black fedora tilted forward on her head, and the shadow it cast obscured her face. She clutched a briefcase in one hand. Moving with a slow, steady stride, she passed easily for a man—a thin, short man, but a man nonetheless. She approached the corner, gave Lex a quick glance, and then walked toward the public pay phone, where she pretended to chat with the receiver pressed to one ear.

Lex breathed a little easier. Not wanting to look bored, she pulled her cell phone from her purse and flipped it open. She stared at the glowing screen, then brought the phone to her ear and mouthed a fake hello. If a suspicious reporter passed by, he'd think her just another ordinary New Yorker burning up free nighttime minutes. She kept the scarf secured over her head and the bottom half of her face.

Exactly seven minutes later, Madison came powering down Third from the opposite direction. She moved with a decidedly rough-and-tumble gait, swinging her arms out and shifting her weight from side to side, like a gang member en route to a hip-hop club. The baseball cap was pulled sideways over her head. She had fashioned a goatee around her mouth with a black eyeliner pencil and fake eyelashes.

They were all in position: Madison and Park on
the southwest corner, Lex on the northeast corner. Now it was time to bounce.

Lex stepped off the curb and into the street. She lifted her arm to hail a cab. It was her cue. She saw that Madison and Park had done the same from their corner.

Good.

A minute later, a cab pulled up and Lex jumped inside. She slammed the door shut. “Washington Square,” she said through the Plexiglas partition.

The driver, dark-skinned and wearing a turban, nodded and flicked the meter into place.

Lex turned around in the seat and shot a glance through the back window. She caught a glimpse of Madison climbing into her own cab, but there was no sign of Park.
Please,
Lex prayed,
let this go smoothly.
The Technicolor glare of the city zipped past her as she groped in her purse for her cell phone. Clasping it tightly, she turned it to walkietalkie mode and waited.