I have no idea why Marcy Kendall is shoplifting a glass vase, but I’m determined to find out. First, though, I’m going to help her.
“Marcy!” I call, and then watch as she jumps almost a foot. She turns in my direction, and her eyes go wide.
“What—”
But I interrupt before she can say something stupid. “Where’d you put the glass vase? Did you give it to Mr. Pyle? Because I haven’t paid for it yet.”
For a second, her face is so awash in confusion that I am absolutely certain the guard is going to swoop down and arrest us both. But then it clears and the confusion shifts to such a profound gratitude that any doubts I may have had about helping her are firmly swept away.
“Oh,” she says. “I thought you already had. I’m sorry.” She laughs. “I told you that having mimosas at breakfast was a bad idea. I’m such a dope when I’ve been drinking.” She smiles up at the guard, then pulls the vase out of her bag. “Sorry. Guess it looked like I was stealing it.”
She starts to walk back toward me, and I think that all is well. But then the guard says, “Just one minute, miss,” and he plucks the vase right out of her hand. He points to me. “And I’d like to speak to you, too, miss.”
“Me? But I—”
I cut myself off. What the hell should I say?
Fortunately, Mr. Pyle chooses that moment to return. “Here you go, Mrs. Stark,” and though I know he is using his outdoor voice so that he can share with the world—or at least these customers—that the fabulously rich Damien Stark’s wife actually shopped in his store, right then all I can think is that his well-projected voice has reached the security guard. And that is a good thing.
The guard’s mouth closes, and he hands the vase back to Marcy. “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“Of course. My fault. Truly.”
I look at Mr. Pyle. “Could you add that vase to my bill?” I smile sweetly. “She doesn’t need it wrapped.”
I take my package and hurry after Marcy, hoping that she won’t run off in the time it takes me to get outside.
She hasn’t.
I find her waiting for me on a bench across from the entrance to the store with Jamie’s jeans.
She looks up as I approach, her smile tremulous. “Thanks,” she says. “You really saved me.”
I take a seat beside her. “What’s going on, Marcy? Why were you stealing a vase?”
She lifts her chin. “Oh, I wasn’t,” she says, but I barely hear her words. She’s done a decent job covering them, but in this lighting, I can see the bruises beneath her makeup. And now that I know what to look for, I see them not just on her cheek and neck, but also on her upper arm and wrist.
I keep my face impassive. I don’t want her to know that I understand. Because I don’t want her to bolt.
“I meant what I said about drinking in the morning,” she is saying lightly. “I just grabbed it and walked out. Stupid. I would totally have paid.”
I don’t believe her, of course.
But I am determined to help her.
Chapter 7
I’m sitting with Marcy on a bench when Jamie bops out of the clothing store swinging a shopping bag.
She sees us, and her jaw drops open. “Marcy? Marcy Kendall?”
Marcy’s smile is thin, but sincere. “Hey, Jamie. It’s good to see you again.”
Jamie looks between the two of us. “What’s going on?”
“I bumped into Marcy in the jewelry store,” I say. “She’s my gremlin.”
Marcy’s brow furrows. “What?”
“I’ve seen you twice,” I say. “Out of the corner of my eye. Yesterday in the lobby. This morning at the pool. It’s been driving me crazy because I couldn’t place you.”
“Oh. And here I thought I was doing a good job just blending into the background.”
I study her. Hunched over, hands clasped. Cuticles picked to ruins. Yeah, she looks like she wants to fade away.
I glance at Jamie, and I see the concern blooming on her face, too. I don’t know if she’s seen the poorly hidden bruises, but I imagine she has. Jamie’s a makeup guru; that’s the kind of thing she’d notice right away.
“So why are you in Vegas?” Jamie asks.
“Oh, I came with my boyfriend. Um, Jay. Jay Monroe. He’s working one of the trade show booths.”
“Is he a game designer?” I ask, and Marcy shakes her head.
“No. Just, you know, clerical, sales, that kind of thing. His boss brought him down, and I came along.” She licks her lips. “He doesn’t like when I stay at home. He gets jealous. That’s another thing we’re here for,” she says brightly, though the sunshine in her tone isn’t reflected in her eyes. “He wants us to get married. You know, a Vegas wedding. Maybe even one of those drive-through chapels.”
Her smile, I think, is about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Where’s home, Marcy?”
“Oh, Riverside, California, you know? But I miss Texas.” Tears glint in her eyes. “I miss my mom a lot.”
“Listen, we were going to grab some lunch. Want to come?”
“I’d love it,” she says, and I can tell that the enthusiasm is genuine. “But I’m supposed to meet Jay for lunch. He only gets the one break today.”
Jamie catches my eye, and I know she’s thinking the same thing that I am—this girl would be way better off having lunch with us and blowing Jay off.