Page 48 of Truth, Lies, and Second Dates
“Have you called the authorities? Shall I?”
“Will you give mefive seconds?”
washed her face, brushed her teeth, went to the door, took a breath, opened it.
Tom greeted her with a gasp that could only be described as horrified.
“What’s the matter?” she snapped. “Have I lost my youthful glow? A barf session will do that.”
“Why are you still here?” he demanded.
“Annnnnnd I’m shutting the door now.” She scratched her arms and glared. “Can you slam the door in your own face? I’ve got a lot going on right now… no, no, from theotherside of the door… goddammit!”
“Please.” Tom had his hands up like he was being arrested. Which was still in the cards for the evening as far as she was concerned. “Please answer my question. Why are you still here? Why were you grounded?”
She stomped to the minifridge and grabbed a ginger ale. “Why are you assuming I was grounded? Maybe I just love all this tropical Midwest weather.”
“Because the only reason you would have remained is if you could not leave.”
Fair.“If I answer, you’ll go away forever?”
“No.”
She almost smiled, but it turned into a grimace as her stomach roiled. “Points for—uurrggh—candor. I flunked a drug test. Actually,Ididn’t flunk the test; the test flunked me.” That made sense, right? Right. “Took them a day or so to get it straightened out. But I’m flying the mostly friendly skies as of tomorrow morning.”
He reached out sloooowly and she watched, bemused, as he did a pretty good imitation of molasses. He gently grasped her arm, turned it over, and studied the welts rising on the pale underside. “And this?”
“No idea. I’ve been itching like crazy.”
“Yes, I saw you were scratching earlier; this looks like textbook irritant contact dermatitis.”
“Of course,” she deadpanned. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
“And you’re ill.” He inclined his head toward the bathroom, where the toilet was still running and all the lights were on. He reached up, put the back of his hand on her forehead, touched her cheeks. “But no fever.”
“Thanks for the update.”
“You’re being sabotaged,” he said flatly, and the moment he said it, she realized he might be on to something.
“By the killer?”
“Very possible.”
“But some people thinkI’mthe killer.”
“Which works out nicely for the real killer, don’t you think?”
She sighed. “You’d better come in.”
“I am in.”
“Oh. Right. Stay put. Don’t snoop through my stuff.”
Five minutes later, she was reasonably certain the barf party was over—for a while, at least. Tom, meanwhile, had taken a seat at the small desk in the corner and was on his phone, but set it aside the moment he saw her.
“Would you like me to get an antinauseant?”
“Why? Are you sick?”
