Page 16 of The Thinnest Air
“Goodbye, Erica.” I shut the door, ensuring it doesn’t slam. I wouldn’t want her driving off with the satisfaction of knowing that her words had any sort of effect on me, even though they kind of do.
But not for long.
Walking it off, I send Andrew a text, telling him it’s fine that he has to work late, and I offer to bring his dinner to the office. If we can’t go out on our date tonight, I’ll bring the date to him.
My phone rings a minute later. “You’re fucking incredible, Mer. I’d love that.”
“I’ll bring your favorite,” I say. “The filet mignon from Centro, medium rare, oven-roasted asparagus, and a house salad, balsamic vinaigrette on the side.”
“You know me well,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. And be sure to save room for dessert.” I bite my thumbnail, hoping he can read between the lines without seeing the devilish light in my eyes.
“You’re making me so fucking hard right now.” His voice is a low, grainy whisper into the receiver, and a jolt of anticipation ricochets through my body.
Erica has no idea what she’s talking about. I may be his plaything, but he’s mine, too. Mix love into that equation, and we’re unstoppable.
“Be there soon ...” I hang up, trotting upstairs to slip on a little something special under my jeans and sweater.
CHAPTER 8
GREER
Day Three
It’s odd to think that forty-eight hours ago, my sister was driving these very streets, going about her daily business like any other ordinary Monday. And now here I am, shuffling through the snow-dusted streets, going door-to-door in an attempt to get at least one of her neighbors to answer.
No one appears to be home.
Or if they are home, they don’t want to talk to some strange lady dressed in all black who clearly isn’t from around here.
Not that I blame them.
Ronan’s tip line caller last night turned out to be a dud—or at least that’s what he claimed when I asked him on the ride home. Just some woman saying she saw a girl fitting Mer’s description riding in the back of a rusted conversion van heading eastbound on I-70. Not much he can do with that besides make a case note and hope he can connect it with something more substantial later.
I’ll admit, he seemed just as disappointed as I was last night, and I was tired, so I didn’t push or prod. I let him drop me off at Andrew and Meredith’s, and he promised to be in touch.
Approaching what appears to be a giant log cabin with stone accents, a red tin roof, and an abundance of evergreens, I remove my right glove and climb the front steps. I only have to knock twice before a woman answers.
With milky skin, platinum-blonde hair cut short, clear blue eyes, and a pointed nose, she positions her lithe body like some sort of barricade between me and the inside of her house.
“Are you Allison Ross?” I ask, neglecting to tell her I found her name on the Glacier County Assessor’s website on my walk over here, though I swear Meredith had spoken of her a time or two in passing.
Her brows furrow, and she readjusts her posture. “Who are you? Are you with the press? I’m not giving interviews about Meredith Price.”
“I’m her sister.”
Allison’s tense expression eases, and she licks her rosy lips before glancing over my shoulder. Her eyes are jittery, her movements quick and nimble.
“Come in,” she says, waving for me to follow her.
I step inside, removing my snowy boots on a plush wool rug in a dark entryway. Her home is neatly decorated, giving off a vacation-house vibe, and smells like fresh coffee, but its sheer size prevents it from feeling cozy.
“I’m just trying to find someone who maybe knew—knows—my sister,” I say. “Someone from around here. Someone she might have talked to on a regular basis?”
It’s only now that I see the bags under Allison’s eyes, the veins of red clouding the whites around her irises. She looks as though she’s been crying. Or not sleeping. Perhaps both.
“Meredith and I were close,” she says, voice juddering as she focuses on a landscape portrait on the wall behind me. “We spent a lot of time together.”
