Drop Dead Gorgeous (Blair Mallory #2)

Chapter Nineteen

I began beating on the window again, as hard as I could, screaming, “DeMarius! DeMarius! There she is! Tell Wyatt! Do something, damn it, stop her !” That is, I was trying to scream.

His back remained stubbornly turned, and though he could hear my fist thumping against the window he very likely couldn’t hear anything I said because my voice was almost gone. My throat caught and I began coughing violently, the force of the spasms doubling me up and making my eyes water.

The rasping in my throat hurt; I felt as if I were raw on the inside, from the back of my nose all the way down into my lungs. Even breathing hurt. I must have inhaled more smoke than I’d thought, even with the wet towel over my face. Screaming hadn’t helped any, either—as well as accomplishing exactly nothing.

When I could sit up straight again, I looked for her, for the bitch who had burned down my home, but she was gone. Of course she was; she’d wanted to admire her handiwork, gloat a little bit, but she wasn’t going to stick around.

Tears of fury and pain began to drip down my face. Furiously I wiped them away. I would not let that bitch make me cry. I wouldn’t let any of this make me cry.

I dug my cell phone out and called Wyatt.

I half expected him not to answer, which would have made me so much angrier at him I’m not certain I’d have been over it by the time I filed for Social Security. Going to my knees again, I looked for him while I listened to the ringing. Then I saw him, taller than most of the other men, his head bent a little as he listened to the fire chief yelling something over the noise, and I saw him reach for his cell. He must have had the phone set to vibrate, which was smart considering the noise level. He said something to the fire chief, checked to see who was calling, then flipped open the phone and held it to one ear while he pressed a finger to his other ear.

“Be patient a little while longer!” he yelled into the phone.

I opened my mouth to blast him, to screech at him that he was letting her get away—and not one sound would come out. Not even a squeak.

I tried again. Nothing. I had completely lost my voice. Frantically I pecked on the microphone with my fingernail, trying to get him to at least look at me. Damn it, there was no way he could hear that little bitty noise. Both frustrated and inspired, I began banging the phone itself against the window.

Note to self: Cell phones are not sturdy.

The damn thing came apart in my hand, the battery cover coming off, the front piece flying into the floorboard—where it could stay, as far as I was concerned, because no way was I rooting around in that particular floorboard to look for it. Some other electronic little doohickey went askew. All in all, it was a futile effort.

Aaargh! I watched Wyatt close his phone and hook it back on his belt. Not once did he glance in my direction, the jackass.

What else did I have in my tote? The knife, of course, but slicing up the upholstery wouldn’t gain me anything and would cost me big-time, because I’m fairly certain the city takes a dim view of having its squad cars sliced and diced. The knife wouldn’t help me. My wallet was in there, my checkbook, lipstick, tissues, pens, my appointment book—all right! Now we were cooking. I tore a page out of the back of my appointment book, got a pen, and in the otherworldly, flickering, uncertain light wrote: TELL WYATT THE STALKER IS HERE I SAW HER IN THE CROWD .

I plastered the note to the window, then frantically began knocking on the glass again. I knocked and knocked and knocked, and DeMarius, damn his stubborn hide, refused to turn around and look.

My hand began to hurt. If I hadn’t been afraid of giving myself another concussion, I’d have beat my head against the window; I already felt as if I were beating it against a wall. If I’d had on shoes, I’d have started kicking the window. There were a lot of ifs, and all of them worked against me.

I put the note down and tugged on the metal cage thingie that separated the backseat from the front and protected the officers. They weren’t meant to be budged; if they had been, I’m sure there are a lot of people stronger than I am who would already have budged them. So much for that effort.

There was nothing I could do. I pressed the note against the window again, rested my head against the paper to hold it in place, closed my eyes, and waited. Eventually, someone would let me out, and then they’d all know what stupid assholes they were.

For all the attention anyone was paying me, the psycho stalker bitch could walk up to the car from the other side and shoot through the window. As soon as the thought popped into my head I sat up and took a panicked look around, but no psychos were in sight. Well, that particular one wasn’t, anyway.

I remembered putting some of that clean-your-breath gum in the tote. I felt around in the tote until I found it, punched out a piece, and began chewing. While I chewed I tore another page out of my appointment book and wrote: FORGET JAZZ AND SALLY THE WEDDING IS OFF !!!! When the chewing gum was thoroughly chewed I took it out of my mouth, pinched it in half, and used one half to stick the Stalker note to the window, and the other half held the Jazz and Sally note right below it.

Then I punched out more gum, and tore another sheet out of the appointment book.

Because the back window sloped, I needed both halves of that piece of gum to do the job. That note said: ASSHOLE MEN .

The pack of gum held ten pieces. I used all of them.

By the time anyone noticed, I pretty well had the back window and both side windows plastered with notes.

Through one of the bare places—not that there were many—I saw a patrolman glance over, do a kind of “What the hell?” look, then nudge someone else and point. A couple of others noticed the pointing, and they looked, too. DeMarius noticed that, even though he’d ignored my beating and yelling—when I could still yell, that is—and he turned around to look. He grinned and shook his head, pulling out his flashlight as he approached.

I turned my back on him and crossed my arms. Damned if I’d beg to be let out now, when it wouldn’t do any good.

He shined his flashlight on my notes, or at least on the two in the side window. A second later, I heard him yell. He jerked the door open, yanked the stalker note free of the gum, and slammed the door closed again. Even if I could have said a word of protest he wouldn’t have heard it, because he was sprinting toward Wyatt.

The bare spot on the window was aesthetically unpleasing. I hadn’t run out of things to say, so I wrote another note and stuck it up. I had to use the same piece of gum that had held the stalker note, but it was still pliable enough. Good thing; no way would I have put it back in my mouth to chew it again.

I didn’t watch Wyatt to see what his reaction was. I didn’t care, because no matter what he did now, he was too late. She was long gone, and I was so far beyond pissed there were no words for it.

I saw Wyatt coming toward the squad car, his face grim. I moved to the center of the seat, clutching the blanket around me, and faced forward.

He came to the left door. As he opened it, I scooted all the way to the right. He leaned in and barked, “Are you sure? Can you give me a description? Where was she?”

There was so much I wanted to say, beginning with Why bother now, she’s long gone, thanks to you being such an asshole, but I couldn’t say anything right now so I didn’t even try. Instead I grabbed my appointment book again, furiously scribbled “blond hair, wearing a hoodie, WAS in the crowd,” tore out the page, and extended my arm to give him the note. Looking for her now was a totally useless effort, no way was she still hanging around, but he wasn’t going to be able to accuse me of not cooperating. She had escaped, it was totally his fault, and I intended to keep it that way.

Sometimes being morally superior is the only way to go.

Wyatt quickly scanned the note, handed it to DeMarius, and began spitting out orders as he slammed the car door closed again.

There are no words.