That was the weirdest thing about her, actually. She snapped at him, she sneered down her nose at him, but she never, ever reported him. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
Right now, her heavy-lidded eyes flashed midnight fire, narrowing behind her bright blue glasses. He enjoyed the sight on an aesthetic level and hated himself for it, just a little bit. High up on the list of annoying things about Chloe Brown was her beautiful bloody face. She had the kind of brilliant, decadent, Rococo beauty that made his fingers itch to grab a pencil or a paintbrush. It was ridiculously over the top: gleaming brown skin, winged eyebrows with a slightly sarcastic tilt, a mouth you could sink into like a feather bed. She had no business looking like that. None at all.
But he knew he’d mix a million earth shades to paint her and add a splash of ultramarine for the square frames of her glasses. The thick, chestnut hair piled on top of her head? He’d take that down. Sometimes, he stared at nothing and thought about the way it would frame her face. Most times, he thought about how he shouldn’t be thinking about her. Ever. At all.
Each word deliberate as a gunshot, she told him, “I’m so awfully sorry, Redford.” She sounded about as sorry as a wasp did for stinging. As always, her lips and tongue said one thing, but her eyes said murder. He was generally considered an easygoing guy, but Red knew his eyes were saying murder right back.
“No worries,” he lied. “My fault.”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug that he knew from experience was rich-people speak for Whatever. Then she left without another word, because their verbal battles were never actually that verbal, beyond the first few passive-aggressive jabs.
He watched her spin away, her poofy skirt swishing around her calves. He saw her sisters follow, and waved a hand when they sent him concerned, backward glances. He heard their footsteps fade, and he pulled himself together, and he went to Mrs. Conrad’s flat and ate her awful casserole.
But he didn’t think about Chloe Brown again. Not once. Not at all.
*
Some people might say that writing a list of items to change one’s life after a brush with death was ludicrous—but those people, Chloe had decided, simply lacked the necessary imagination and commitment to planning. She gave a sigh of pure contentment as she settled deeper into her mountain of sofa cushions.
It was Saturday night, and she was glad to be alone. Her back pain was as excruciating today as it had been yesterday, her legs were numb and aching, but even those issues couldn’t ruin this peace. When she’d put pen to paper in her quest to get a life, finding her own home had been the first entry she’d written. She’d met that goal, and—unnerving superintendents aside—she had nothing but good to show for it.
Through the slight gap in her living room window’s curtains, she caught a glimpse of the September sun’s evening rays. That warm, orange glow rose above the hulking shadow of her apartment building’s west side, making the courtyard nestled at the center of the building all shadowy and peaceful, its blooming autumnal shades rich as earth and blood. Her flat was similarly soothing to the nerves: cool and silent, but for the gentle whirr of her laptop and the steady tap of her fingers against the keyboard.
Happiness, independence, true solitude. Sweeter than oxygen. She breathed it in. This was, in a word, bliss.
It was also the moment her phone blared to life, shattering her calm like glass.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Chloe allowed herself precisely three seconds to wallow in exasperation before grabbing her phone and checking the display. Eve. Her little sister. Which meant that she couldn’t simply switch off the ringer and shove her mobile into a drawer.
Drat.
She hit Accept. “I’m working.”
“Well, that simply won’t do,” Eve said cheerfully. “Thank goodness I called.”
Chloe enjoyed being irritated—grumpiness was high on her list of hobbies—but she also enjoyed everything about her silly youngest sister. Fighting the curve of her own lips, she asked, “What do you want, Evie-Bean?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you asked.”
Fudge. Chloe knew that tone, and it never boded well for her. “You know, every time I answer your calls, I quickly find myself regretting it.” She hit Speaker and put her phone on the sofa arm, her hands returning to the laptop balanced on her knees.
“What rubbish. You adore me. I am catatonically adorable.”
“Do you mean categorically, darling?”
“No,” Eve said. “Now, listen closely. I am about to give you a series of instructions. Don’t think, don’t argue, just obey.”
This ought to be good.
“Karaoke night begins in one hour down at the Hockley bar—no, Chloe, stop groaning. Don’t think, don’t argue, just obey, remember? I want you to get up, put on some lipstick—”
“Too late,” Chloe interrupted dryly. “My pajamas are on. I’m finished for the night.”
“At half-past eight?” Eve’s enthusiasm faltered, replaced by hesitant concern. “You’re not having a spell, are you?”
Chloe softened at the question. “No, love.”
Most people had trouble accepting the fact that Chloe was ill. Fibromyalgia and chronic pain were invisible afflictions, so they were easy to dismiss. Eve was healthy, so she would never feel Chloe’s bone-deep exhaustion, her agonizing headaches or the shooting pains in her joints, the fevers and confusion, the countless side effects that came from countless medications. But Eve didn’t need to feel all of that to have empathy. She didn’t need to see Chloe’s tears or pain to believe her sister struggled sometimes. Neither, for that matter, did Dani. They understood.
“You’re sure?” Eve asked, suspicion in her tone. “Because you were awfully rude to Red yesterday, and that usually means—”
“It was nothing,” Chloe cut in sharply, her cheeks burning. Redford Morgan: Mr. Congeniality, beloved superintendent, the man who liked everyone but didn’t like her. Then again, people usually didn’t. She shoved all thoughts of him neatly back into their cage. “I’m fine. I promise.” It wasn’t a lie, not today. But she would have lied if necessary. Sometimes familial concern was its own mind-numbing symptom.
“Good. In that case, you can definitely join me for karaoke. The theme is duets, and I have been stood up by my so-called best friend. I require a big sisterly substitute as a matter of urgency.”
“Unfortunately, my schedule is full.” With a few flicks of her fingertips, Chloe minimized one window, maximized another, and scanned her client questionnaire for the section on testimonial slide shows. She couldn’t quite remember if—
“Schedule?” Eve grumbled. “I thought you were abandoning schedules. I thought you had a new lease on life!”
“I do,” Chloe said mildly. “I also have a job.” Aha. She found the info she needed and tucked it away in her mind, hoping brain fog wouldn’t turn the data to mist within the next thirty seconds. She hadn’t taken much medication today, so her short-term memory should be reasonably reliable.
Should be.