So Pretty It Hurts (25 page)

And then, just as I touched my purse, a thought jarred me, like a fellow subway passenger falling into me as the train rounded a curve.
Whitney’s handbag
. The brown suede hobo bag. I’d seen it before. On Saturday afternoon I had followed Devon down the stairs at Scott’s to talk to her, and I’d caught her putting something into her handbag.
A brown suede hobo bag
. But it hadn’t been her bag, after all. It had been Whitney’s. It had happened, too, only a short time after Devon’s discussion with Cap in the woods and her confession to me that she wasn’t safe.

And at that moment, as the wind howled outside, I realized the final twist of the story: Devon had punctured the inhaler after she realized, from her conversation with Cap, that Whitney had probably learned about the abortion. She’d been terrified of Whitney’s wrath and what she might do.

Whitney had killed Devon. But in the end, Devon had killed her back.

Chapter 23

B
eau asked if I wanted him to build a fire, and I told him yes. It had been a fairly mild January so far, but on that Friday, in the third week of the month, the night was suddenly crazy cold, and I craved extra warmth. There was a brief moment when I worried that seeing flames in his fireplace, the fireplace I’d never really noticed all fall, would trigger that old Why-is-Beau-such-a-freaking-mystery? feeling in me again, but as I watched him light the kindling and poke around with one of the irons, I could tell it wasn’t going to happen.

First, he looked really good in the jeans he was wearing, and that was an excellent distraction. Plus, ever since I’d urged myself to (1) accept the fact that he was fully committed to me, and (2) stop going slightly psycho or pulling back, I’d been a pretty good girl. And even when I occasionally
did
feel a little weirded out, I would just recite a helpful mantra in my head, like “Bailey, don’t be a total love
moron
,” and “Bailey, just shut your freakin’ brain down, okay?”

But something unexpected happened when flames finally started to dance and the smell of wood smoke filled the room. I was suddenly back in that barn fire in Pennsylvania, terrified that I would never find a way out and the smoke and the flames or both would be my undoing. Beau was in the kitchen at that point, carving up a rotisserie chicken he’d bought, and he didn’t see the tears of phantom panic prick my eyes. Six weeks had passed since the barn incident, but I realized that it was still playing a bit of havoc with my psyche.

Of course it wasn’t just the barn fire that still troubled me. It was everything else rolled up with that—being abducted in the gypsy cab and Whitney’s death and discovering the awful things she and Devon had done to each other.

At least I hadn’t landed in an iffy situation with the cops, which easily could have happened. Though a lot about the case was finally clear in my mind, I knew it must seem muddled and even far-fetched to the cops, especially without any solid evidence pointing to Whitney. Plus, I’d done enough crime pieces to know that the cops found me suspicious just from having been smack in the middle of it all. The day after Whitney’s death, at the urging of Beau, Landon, and my mother, I hired a lawyer. I knew it would cost me big-time, but I needed the best advice possible.

Fortunately, a few things emerged fairly quickly that lent my story and theory credibility. The Upper West Side resident who had called 911 apparently confirmed that Whitney had been trying to push me off the terrace. She’d seen it with binoculars. (I said a silent prayer at the time to the patron saint of busybodies and voyeurs.) Also, Tommy admitted to me that he’d indeed talked to Whitney about the funeral from the Living Room, and told her I was dropping by. He shared this info with the police without even asking for any kinky favors in return.

And my attorney was able to suss out from a police contact that Whitney’s father had a prescription to Lasix for high blood pressure and that she’d made an impromptu visit to see him right before she’d headed off for the spa trip with Devon. Though the cops never revealed this, I suspected that they were able to confirm that Whitney had made contact with someone in Devon’s gyno’s office during the fall. The cops stayed in touch with me for a while, asking for input, but that was it.

A week after Whitney’s death, Detective Collinson called and thanked me for what I’d done. He revealed that with more specific questioning, Ralph, Scott’s caretaker, recalled seeing Whitney take a bottle of Evian water out of her purse on Saturday and set it on the counter, though neither he, Sandy, nor Laura had ever seen her drinking bottled water that weekend. Collinson also shared a couple of details he’d picked up from the cops in New York. Whitney and Cap had taken separate cars to the funeral. Though the texts I’d received had been sent on a prepaid phone and there was no clue who had purchased it, the police found gasoline stains in the trunk of Whitney’s car. He also told me that Cap didn’t try to come to Whitney’s defense in any way. I suspected Cap recognized the truth and was totally distressed and disgusted by it.

There was one other loose end I cleared up on my own—by calling Richard Parkin.

“Well, well,” he said when he heard my voice. “Once again you’ve managed to dazzle us all with your Sherlockian skills. Bravo, Bailey.”

Due to his tone, it didn’t sound like much of a compliment, but I thanked him anyway.

“And are all these lurid details about a pregnancy and abortion true?” he asked.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll share if you share.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why did you visit Devon’s mother the day of the funeral?”

“Oh, my. Was our fearless Bailey actually doing a stakeout in Pine Grove?”

“I don’t have the time or energy to play cute with you, Richard. Just tell me.”

“All right,” he said, his voice suddenly stripped of either false jocularity or sarcasm. “I did go to see that pitiful wench. But it was out of nothing more than morbid curiosity. I wanted to see the place Devon was born. I wanted to see the house that could produce such a monster. I thought I might find some closure that way.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. I just considered his grief and pain and wondered how much it had shaped his life.

“And did you?” I asked finally.

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid not at all.”

I signed off, feeling intensely sorry for the man.

There were other loose ends that, unfortunately I wasn’t able to tie up. The odorous Zorro, for instance. I was still pretty sure Jane had wielded the branding iron that night at Scott’s, but there just was no way to prove it. Then there was the gypsy cab driver. From what I’d learned, the police were searching Whitney’s phone records to see if they could find a link, but as of this point, nothing seemed to have turned up. Not that the cops were going to call
me
with any news.

And lastly there was Sherrie. Jessie had heard she’d definitely gone on a major bender after Devon’s death—maybe because most of Devon’s money had been left to the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute—and so the
Buzz
lawyers had no luck getting her to retract what she said about me. It didn’t matter anymore, though. Nash told me that he and the lawyers were now certain that Whitney must have put Sherrie up to the whole thing.

Yeah, I finally talked to Nash. He kept calling, and I realized I was being childish not to return his calls. I was expecting the gruff-news-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold routine, with him doing a big mea culpa and begging me to come back, and I knew I’d have to fight hard not to be suckered in by it. Instead he offered this line of bullshit about how the lawyers had totally muzzled him during my suspension, but he’d been working doggedly the whole time to clear my name. Sure, right, I told myself—and Lindsay Lohan was about to be named the next UN Goodwill Ambassador. I knew I’d never ever be able to trust the guy. Which made it easier to tell him I was moving on.

“If you’re holding out for more money,” Nash replied, “I can probably do a little something.”

“No,” I told him, “it’s not a money thing. But thank you. Best of luck.”

I was surprised at how sad the decision to leave
Buzz
made me feel. I had arrived there knowing practically nada about celebs and caring even less—I mean, I would look at shots of people like Audrina Partridge and wonder how a woman whose only real accomplishment in life was sticking to a low-carb diet could be on the
cover
of
Buzz
—but it had been fun to be in that crazy, zany world for a while.

Despite all the turmoil of those December days, there was one definite upside. Once my lawyer felt the cops really accepted my version of events, I did a ton of press and my book took off, leaving
Napkin Folding for Beginners
in a cloud of dust. It even briefly made the
New York Times
best-seller list—okay,
extended
list, but still, it meant I was going to receive royalties. And several publishers approached my agent, inquiring about my doing another book, this one on the whole Devon mess. I’d pounded out a proposal during my ski trip with Beau over the holidays.

And there was news to share on the book front when I sat down to the roast chicken dinner at Beau’s.

“So how did the meeting with your agent go?” Beau asked before I could even broach the subject.

“Great,” I said. “She’s tested the waters with my proposal, and she thinks we can actually sell the book in an auction, which means I might make some decent dough up front.”

“That’s fantastic, Bailey,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m so relieved. I’ve got that small trust fund from my father, but it’s just barely enough to live on. With the book advance, I should be fine this year. So I’m going to try the freelance route for a while. I’ll work on the book and whatever assignments come up here and there.”

“Will it be weird not to have an office to go into?”

“Yeah, I’m sure a little bit. Both
Buzz
and
Gloss
were only part-time, but it was still nice to hang around other people some days. And it’s kind of scary to be totally on my own. But in the long run, I think it may be better for me. Bosses always seem to make me bristle. Now I don’t have to be at the mercy of a Cat Jones or Nash Nolan or Mona Hodges. I like the idea of being a free agent.”

“Should that alarm me?” he asked, locking his brown eyes with mine.

“I mean
professionally
,” I said, smiling.

And I realized something at that moment. That part of why I felt comfortable becoming a free agent professionally and taking such a big risk was that I had Beau in my life. Not to bail me out financially. But because I was crazy about him and because I knew he had my back in so many ways. That at the end of a solitary day, we could share a good conversation, and later I’d be able to slip into bed beside him. No sooner had the thought formed, though, thant my heart fluttered a little with anxiety. Was I putting too much stock in a romantic relationship?

Quickly I recited one of my mantras—“Bailey, don’t be a total love moron.”

And next I reminded myself that Beau carved a chicken perfectly, and his ass looked great in jeans.

Acknowledgments

I
t was so wonderful to get back to Bailey Weggins, and I want to thank everyone who helped me with
So Pretty It Hurts
. In terms of research for the book, I’m indebted to Barbara Butcher, chief of staff, New York City Medical Examiner’s office; Dr. Chet Lerner, chief, Section of Infectious Diseases, New York Downtown Hospital; Dr. Mark Howell, psychotherapist; Faith Kates-Kogan, president and founder of Next Models; Thomas Dolan, IAAI-CFI, patrol officer/crime scene investigator, Carlisle, Pennsylvania police department and fire analyst with NEFCO; and my husband, Brad Holbrook, who is so good with accents (among many other things!).

I also want to say a huge thank-you to my terrific new editor, Kathy Schneider, and to Maya Ziv, too, for all her awesome help. It’s been fantastic working with both of them. Thank you, as well, to Rachel Elinsky, for her amazing efforts with PR. Others at Harper I’d love to give a big shout-out to are Jonathan Burnham, Leah Wasielewski, Katie O’Callaghan, Mark Ferguson, Tina Andreadis, and Leslie Cohen. And as always, thank you to my extraordinary agent, Sandra Dijkstra, whom I adore!

About the Author

K
ate White, the editor-in-chief of
Cosmopolitan
magazine, is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the standalone novels,
The Sixes
and
Hush
, and the Bailey Weggins mystery series—
If Looks Could Kill
;
A Body to Die For
;
’Til Death Do Us Part
;
Over Her Dead Body
; and
Lethally Blond
. White is also the author of popular career books for women, including
Why Good Girls Don’t Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do
. She lives in New York City.

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ALSO BY KATE WHITE

FICTION

The Sixes

Hush

Lethally Blonde

Over Her Dead Body

’Til Death Do Us Part

A Body to Die For

If Looks Could Kill

NONFICTION

You on Top

9 Secrets of Women Who Get Everything They Want

Why Good Girls Don’t Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do

Credits

Cover design by Richard Ljoenes

Front cover photograph © Irene Lamprakou / Trevillion

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SO PRETTY IT HURTS
. Copyright © 2012 by Kate White. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

EPub Edition MARCH 2011 ISBN: 9780062098108

ISBN 978-0-06-157660-7 (Hardcover)

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