It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis (Good To The Last Death #1) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,69
I was working on stuff from the office. That was perfect, and I realized I was going to have to be more careful in the future about what I said. I was also going to get slammed with a shitload of paperwork. That was fine. It was my paying job, and I had to do it. I’d work over the weekend if I had to get caught up.
“I’ll be there soon,” I told her as I sprinted back up to my bedroom and retrieved John’s phone from the safe.
I still didn’t know how I was going to tell Heather about John’s murder. I wasn’t even sure I was going to tell her anything at all. Helping John might be impossible, but I had to do something. He couldn’t stay with me forever. It wasn’t fair to him. He’d been through too much to have to live out his afterlife in my house watching reality TV. I knew he was happy being with Karen, but it wasn’t enough.
“If your legs give out, call me and I’ll pick you up,” Heather said with a chuckle as she hung up.
I knew she thought I was nutty to run to her house. She might be right. Tucking both my phone and John’s into the zip pocket of my hoodie, I locked up and started my run.
“Are you okay?” I asked a frazzled-looking Heather as she opened her door and scanned the street warily.
“Get in here,” she said, grabbing my arm and yanking me into her house.
Her condo was in a nice section of town—actually not too far from John’s ritzy neighborhood. God, she might have actually known John. I hadn’t considered that possibility. It could potentially be a problem or an asset. Running my hand over the back of her black leather couch, I started making a pro and con list in my head. The con side filled up fast. The pro side? Not so much.
The color of the couch matched my bruised knuckles. The couch was pretty, but it would look terrible in my house. Heather preferred sleek, modern furniture, but it wasn’t cold at all. Her entire living space was welcoming and warm. Heather usually was too, but not right now.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked, going to the kitchen and snagging a bottle of water from her fridge. “You were fine on the phone an hour ago.”
“Why aren’t you sweating?” she asked, cocking her head to the side and staring at me.
“I’m not?” I asked, looking down at myself. She was right. I’d just run twelve miles and hadn’t broken a sweat. “Well, it’s pretty chilly out.”
I was surprised she didn’t comment on how fast I’d gotten here. The twelve miles today were an unbelievable personal best for me. I couldn’t believe I’d run twelve consecutive five-minute miles. A freaking marathon could be in my future. Forty was definitely the new thirty. Bragging was ugly behavior so I kept my mouth shut about my silly new superpower.
“I guess so,” Heather said, dropping the subject and peeking out of her front window while keeping most of her body hidden from the outside view.
“You’re acting weird,” I pointed out, standing behind her and glancing out at the street. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“The question is who. Who are we looking for?” Heather corrected me.
“Okay. I’ll bite. Who?”
Heather pressed a button on the wall and all the shades in the room closed.
“Oh my God,” I said, impressed. “That is so cool.”
Heather gave me a distracted smile, then locked and chained the front door.
“Umm… did you commit a crime or something?” I asked, beginning to adopt her panic.
“You would think so,” she said cryptically as she flopped down on a leather chair and pressed her slim fingers to her temples.
“Do you have a stalker?” I asked, pulling out my phone to call the cops.
“No. I was looking for Clarissa,” she hissed. “The bitchy cow was just here, and I want to make sure she’s gone.”
That was not nice news.
“She showed up at my house the other day too,” I said, bending over to stretch out my legs post-run. “She wants to be friends.”
“Are you serious?” Heather asked with a horrified expression on her face. “Did you tell her to shove it up her ass?”
I laughed. “Nope. I can’t lose my job. But I did lay down some ground rules. She can’t come over to my house ever again. She has to be nice to the paralegals—stuff like that.”