Riley Thorn and the Corpse in the Closet by Lucy Score

27

11:26 a.m., Monday, August 17

Jasmine Patel lived in a swanky two-bedroom condo with kick-ass views of the city and a rooftop garden.

Jasmine was waiting on the sidewalk with a blender pitcher of margaritas when Kellen pulled his cruiser up to the curb.

“That counts as an open container, Ms. Patel,” he said when Riley exited the vehicle.

“So arrest me, detective,” Jasmine shot back.

“Don’t tempt me.”

She sent him a look that would have incinerated a lesser man but only resulted in a cocky grin from the cop.

“Bye,” Jasmine snapped.

Kellen threw them both a snappy little salute before accelerating away from the curb.

“Show off,” Jasmine muttered under her breath before turning to Riley. She wiggled the blender. “How did it go?”

“We basically wasted an entire morning interviewing people who know nothing about anything and reopening several of my emotional scars.”

“Then let’s show this tequila who the bad bitches are.”

Jasmine’s fourth floor condo was modern yet feminine. The floor to ceiling windows delivered a damn good view of downtown Harrisburg, flooding the concrete floors with sunlight. Two white couches with deep cushions and a dozen colorful throw pillows faced each other in front of the short, horizontal gas fireplace.

“How does someone with such good taste in interior design keep picking such terrible guys to date?” Riley wondered.

Jasmine handed her a large mason jar with a metal straw. The jar was filled to the brim with margarita mix.

“It’s the Patel women curse.”

“But your dad is awesome,” Riley pointed out, taking a hefty gulp and letting the icy alcohol soothe her tight throat.

“All Basil-Thorn women are psychic. And all Patel women have to get several horrible men out of their system before they find the one.”

“How many more do you think you have to go through before your system’s reset?” Riley teased.

Jasmine stuck out her tongue and flopped down on one of the couches. “At least a half dozen more. Sticks Strubinger introduced me to her band’s bass player, and we have a date to go to the drag races next weekend. I can already tell it’s going to end horribly.” She blew out a breath that puffed her silky, black bangs straight up. The hair fell back into uniform perfection across her brow.

“How do you do that?” Riley took her preferred spot on the opposite couch, kicking off her shoes and digging her toes into the thick, fluffy rug.

“Do what?”

“How does your hair just magically fall back into place like that? Is it some kind of secret product? Is it an Indian thing? Or are you just ridiculously gifted at grooming?”

Jasmine’s eyes widened over her jar of margarita. “Oooh! Let’s do a hair makeover on you!”

Riley groaned. “Why can’t I just have naturally great hair that does what it’s supposed to? Why does it have to be an eighteen-step process to get it to look okay for public consumption?”

“Girl, no one has naturally great hair. No one can roll out of bed, run a brush through it, and look selfie-worthy. Everyone needs to make an effort. It’s not just you.”

Riley plucked at a strand of what she’d always considered to be “meh” brown hair and thought about Bella’s sixty pounds of extensions.

“Do you think I’d look good with blonde extensions?”

“No. But some glossy chestnut highlights and some fake lashes would be the bomb.”

“How many pitchers did you have before I got here?” Riley wondered.

“Only one. Come on. Let’s go see the magic I can work.”

Some women collected t-shirts with hilarious sayings. Some collected shoes or bags or recipes on Pinterest that they’d never actually make.

Jasmine collected beauty products.

“Every time I come in here, I feel like I’m walking into an Ulta,” Riley said, peeking into a vanity drawer in the white marble bathroom and finding a few dozen eye shadow palettes.

“First thing first,” Jasmine said, all business now. “What look are we going for?”

Riley thought about it while slurping down margarita. Her best friend liked to theme her makeovers with oddly specific visions. “Bella Goodshine just re-introduced herself to me for the second time in twelve hours because she didn’t recognize me from that time I caught her having sex with my stupid husband and broke his nose with our wedding portrait. And then I found out that my hot, PI boyfriend has been tracking my phone and having me followed.”

Jasmine puckered her lips. “So unforgettable badass bombshell babes out to surgically remove his balls?”

That sounded good.

“Griffin Gentry is a pig, and you keep puckering wrong,” Jasmine insisted, squishing Riley’s cheeks between her fingers so she could dust blush or bronzer or something over her cheeks. Even drunk, her friend’s makeup application was perfection.

“How am I puckering wrong?”

“You’re trying to do a close-mouthed duck lip. You need an open mouth duck lip to show off the hollows of your cheeks.”

“Are all women born knowing this?” Riley asked, closing one eye to see her reflection more clearly and practicing the open and closed mouth duck lips.

“Why do you keep thinking there’s some kind of natural aptitude surrounding hair and cosmetics? It takes damn hard work to look damn good.”

“I would counter that you were blessed with magical beauty genes and therefore don’t have to work hard to look like a cover model,” Riley insisted. “Ha! Counter!” She slapped the marble vanity top. “I’m punny.”

“I forget how weird you get about stupid puns when you’re drunk,” Jasmine complained.

“I have an intoxicating sense of humor.” Riley snorted at her own joke and got margarita up her nose.

Her phone rang on the counter, and she ignored it.

“It’s Nick again,” Jasmine said, reading the screen. “Have you had enough tequila to tell him that he’s a big, sexy idiot and you never want to see him again so he goes out and buys you something expensive?”

“There’s not enough tequila in the world for me to put into words how mad I am at him for hiring my elderly neighbor to dress up like a mime and the cast from Working Girl to follow me.”

Jasmine put down the bronzer brush and picked up her jar of margarita. “You’re right. You should definitely not speak to him for at least six months.”

“I love you, but we both know I can’t take relationship advice from you.”

“This is true,” Jasmine agreed.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows up here since he’s also tracking my phone. And here I was trying to respect his privacy by not snooping around in his head. I knew he was still freaked out about that whole fountain thing. But I expected him to talk to me like a regular human being, not have me followed!”

“Well, there’s your first mistake. Men are not regular human beings.”

“Hey! You’re beautiful,” Riley said, pointing a tube of foundation at her friend. “I bet you’ve had lots of stalkers. How do you handle them?”

“The nice ones I threaten with legal jargon.”

Riley’s phone rang again. She picked it up and held it out. “Threaten Nick with legal jargon!”

Jasmine shook her head and reached for the mascara. “Not yet. He’s only called three times. He deserves to stew through at least thirteen missed calls.”

“You know what’s the worst?” Riley said.

“Worse than your eighty-year-old neighbor dressing up like a mime to follow you around?”

“I find out all of this after another vision of him holding a little girl with dimples like his.”

“Uh-oh. You had a daddy vision about Nick?” Jasmine said.

Riley nodded with her straw in her mouth. “Yup. And let me tell you, he is a stupidly hot dad.”

“Was it your kid?”

She shrugged and knocked a bottle of makeup remover to the floor. “Dunno. I just saw Nick and Dimple Kid and backed away. I’m not ready to think about serious stuff like that. We just started dating.”

“You guys are living together,” Jasmine pointed out. “It’s already serious.”

“Yeah, but what if I’m seeing him with someone else’s kid? What if he dumps me for someone else to make beautiful babies? Or what if I’m dead and he makes babies with someone else? Or what if Dimple Kid is my Dimple Kid, which means I forgave Nick for being a complete and total overprotective idiot?”

“This requires more alcohol,” Jasmine decided.

“Agreed. Maybe we should go out? I have double vision, but both of me look really good,” Riley said, studying herself in the mirror.

“Of course both of you do! Because you’re both beautiful,” Jasmine insisted.

“Let’s go to the Millworks. We can be beautiful in the beer garden.”

“Oooh. They have those really good deviled eggs.”

“What should we wear for the deviled eggs?” Riley asked.

This time Jasmine’s phone rang.

Riley peered at the screen. “That’s Nick’s number. Now he’s stalking you.”

Jasmine set her margarita down with a snap and grabbed her phone. She stabbed at the speaker button. “Listen to me, Nicholas Santiago. You owe my friend a big apology and some serious groveling.”

Riley gave her a double thumbs-up.

“Jasmine, let me talk to—”

“No! I am Ms. Thorn’s attorney, and you will talk to me. You were an asshole to my friend and client.”

“Jasmine—”

“I hear you talking. I do not hear you listening.”

“I love it when you’re mean,” Riley whispered.

“Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to think about how Riley felt today when she found her blue-haired neighbor—”

“Purple,” Riley interrupted.

“What?” Jasmine looked at her.

“Mrs. Penny’s hair is purple.”

“Riley, if you can hear me—”

“Shut up, Nick!” Riley and Jasmine shouted together.

“Think about how Riley felt after being humiliated by her ex-husband and his fiancée.”

“Humiliated is kind of a strong word,” Riley complained. “It’s too victim-y.”

“Annoyed by her ex-husband and his fiancée,” Jasmine amended.

Riley gave her another thumbs-up then chased the straw of her margarita around the jar with her mouth.

“Prepositioned by her creepy ex-husband—”

“Griffin did what?” Nick’s shout bounced off the marble and echoed in Jasmine’s shower.

“Prepositioned her,” Jasmine enunciated.

“You better not mean propositioned, or that little shitbag is going to need a proctologist to remove my foot from his ass.”

“Not five minutes later, Riley discovers that her boyfriend has so little trust in her he’s not only having her followed, he’s tracking her phone. How do you think my client feels?”

“Throw some jargon at him,” Riley hissed, laying down on the bench in the walk-in shower.

“Don’t mess up your hair, babe. We’re going out.”

“Where are you going?” Nick demanded.

“I don’t have to tell you anything, habeas corpus,” Jasmine growled.

“Yay! Jargon!”

“You had my client followed into a professional situation, and it hindered her ability to do her job. How do you plead to these charges?”

“Jasmine, you’re a good friend. But I need to talk to Riley,” Nick said, in that tone he used when he was trying not to explode.

“No. You do not get to talk to Riley today because you’re an idiot. You have to earn the right to talk to her.”

“Fine. What do I have to do to earn the right?”

“I’ll let you know.” Jasmine poked her head into the shower. “Let’s go eat deviled eggs and flirt with businessmen on their lunch break!”

* * *

They wisely leftRiley’s phone at Jasmine’s place and walked to Millworks, snagging stools at the bar.

“Do you think my outfit makes me look like a call girl?” Riley wondered, tugging down the hem of the very short skirt she’d borrowed.

Jasmine stopped to consider, then nodded. “Definitely. But an expensive one.”

“Okay. That’s cool,” Riley decided. She spun around on her stool, nearly toppling over. “Look at that. No Nick. No purple-haired neighbor. No creepy, mean grandmother. I think I should move in with you, and we could do this like every day.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Rye! That would be the best thing ever. We could be our own Sex and the City.”

Riley stuffed a deviled egg into her mouth and started plotting her new Samantha Sex and the City wardrobe.

“Riley.”

The familiar gravelly rasp behind her nearly had her swallowing the egg whole. “Is that Nick, or am I having a drunk psychic vision?” Riley asked Jasmine.

Jasmine peered over her shoulder. “I think it’s Nick because I see him too.”

“How did you find us? Are you psychic? Did you insert a tracking chip under my skin?” She started patting herself down when he reached for her.

“Jasmine didn’t hang up the phone. I was still on the line when you decided you’d come here for deviled eggs and businessmen.”

“Oops,” Jasmine said. “Here. Take a picture of us!” She pushed her phone at Nick and threw her arms around Riley. This time Riley really did fall off her stool. He caught her before she hit the floor and propped her against the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” A trim Asian guy in a great suit with even better hair sidled up next to Jasmine, distracting her.

“Read my mind,” Nick demanded.

“Wha?” Riley asked, trying to focus on him.

He cupped her chin. “Read my mind, Thorn.”

“Why? Are you thinking about my butt too?”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “The only way you’re going to understand why I did the stupid things I did is if you can actually be in my head. So do it. Go be in my head.”

“That’s an invasion of privacy.” Riley sniffed. “And unlike some others, I respect my partner’s privacy.” She tried to boop him on the nose Bella-style. But missed and poked him in the mouth.

“I invaded your privacy. Now you get to invade mine. That’s how relationships work.”

“I don’t know if I can read your mind with so much tequila swimming through me,” she told the Nick on the left.

“Try.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She closed her eyes. Then opened one. “I don’t owe you any favors, you know. I could just tell you to go away until I’m ready to talk to you.”

“I know that, and I appreciate that you haven’t done that yet even though I deserve it.”

With that settled, she closed her eyes again and tried to remember how to be psychic. It took her a few tries, and she got the hiccups, but she finally found herself in the Cotton Candy place.

“Hey, guys! It’s me, Drunk Riley. Nick says I can read his mind. So I guess go ahead and show me whatever is going on in there. I’m guessing it has to do with sex and lawn care.”

Either the clouds were spinning or her brain was. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

This time, the clouds didn’t part. There were no visuals partially obscured by pastel fluff. There were only feelings. Adrenaline. The red-hot haze of fury. Heart-pounding fear. Like the first hill of a roller coaster, her stomach dropped, and she felt like she was in a white-knuckled free fall.

There was a flash of blue water, of a man kneeling in the water.

This was what Nick felt when he’d found her under the water in the fountain, a madman’s hands on her neck.

Where jail and justice had given Riley the peace she needed, it hadn’t been enough for Nick. He wanted more. Needed more.

It was a constant, drumming beat in his blood. Not again. Not again. Not again.

Not Riley.

Keep her safe. Any means possible.

I love her.

On the last revelation, she slid right out of the clouds and slumped against the bar. “That’s what goes on in there?” she slurred, staring at both of him.

“Yeah. All the time.”

“I thought it was like, I don’t know, football scores and women and beer preferences.”

“Very funny, Thorn.”

Nick Santiago was a protector. And he thought he’d failed once. He wasn’t willing to pay that price again. So he’d assumed responsibility for her safety.

“You know you’re not responsible for me,” she pointed out, poking him in the chest with her finger. She missed his chest and got him in the neck.

“You’re shit-faced by noon because of me.”

“Yeah, but also Griffin stupid Gentry. He propellered me. As if I would ever consider going anywhere near his penis again.”

“I’m going to murder him,” Nick announced.

Riley snickered. “You’re cute when you’re mad. But you shouldn’t be mad all the time. It’s not good for your internal organs and stuff.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out.

“Are you trying to be patient with me?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“That’s also very cute. I’m getting less mad at you by the minute. Wait a second. Did your mind tell me you love me?”

He shrugged. “Probably. Because I do.”

Jasmine abandoned her businessman and spun around to make a close-mouthed squeal that drew attention from all corners of the restaurant. “He looooooves you. He wants to make dimpled babies with yooooooou.”

“Well, they don’t have to have dimples. That’s not a requirement,” Nick said.

“Jas?”

“What?”

“Did Nick Santiago just say he loves me and would be willing to make dimpled babies with me if I wanted to?”

“Yep!”

“And is he also looking super cute but also red like a tomato?” Riley and Jasmine leaned in to examine his face more closely.

“Wow! He is really red. I think he’s blushing,” Jasmine decided, poking him in the face with her finger.

“Okay. Let’s get you two home before you embarrass yourselves instead of me,” Nick grumbled, pulling out his wallet.

“He’s buying our drinks! That’s romantic,” Riley said with a lusty sigh.

“Wait. If he loves you, do you love him?” Jasmine asked.

“Of course I do,” she scoffed as Nick’s head snapped up. “I just didn’t want to tell him until he had more time to get comfortable with the idea.”

“You should totally tell him now,” Jasmine decided.

“But what if he thinks it’s because I’m drunk? Like people say a lot of stupid things when they’re drunk.”

“You mean like five minutes ago when you said you wished Santa Claus was real so you wouldn’t have to do your own Christmas shopping?”

Nick rolled his eyes.

Riley shook her head. “That wasn’t stupid. That was smart.”

He pocketed his credit card, apologized to the bartender, and guided them out of the restaurant.

“We should go do karaoke right now!” Jasmine announced.

“Yes! Nick, can you sing any Spice Girls songs?” Riley asked, leaning heavily against him. She felt much happier than she had just a few minutes ago. Her boyfriend was being an overprotective idiot because he loved her. She’d tell him she loved him when the timing was better and she wasn’t burping up tequila.

“If you really loved my best friend Riley, you would totally learn to sing Spice Girls,” Jasmine slurred.

“You’re really pretty when you’re drunk, Jas.”

“So are you, Rye. Like so pretty. Even without all the beautiful makeup.”

“Watch your heads, ladies,” Nick said, stuffing them both into the back seat of his SUV.

“Let’s pretend we’re super-rich and that Nick is our driver,” Jasmine suggested. “What should we call him?”

Riley gave it a significant amount of thought that made her feel sleepy. “How about…umm…Nick!”

“Take us to karaoke, Driver Nick!”