Sweet As Sin

33

Through the receiver came the faintest, weary sigh. “Ma’am, please calm down. If you like, I can stay on the phone with you until the officer arrives.”

Through the closed kitchen curtains I saw shadowy figures moving around the side of the house. Dear God, were they looking for some way in?

“No, I do not like! I need help! Now!”

Beside me, Chloe looked worried that I was shouting at the police, the people who were supposed to come and help us. Only I had no idea if and when they actually would.

“Give me that!”

Grace snatched the phone from my hand. She launched a scathing verbal smackdown on the 911 operator. Her rant included some excellent points about common decency, constitutional rights to privacy, and the sanctity of a person’s home. At the end of it, the operator was still unmoved. Finally Grace threatened to write a strongly worded letter to the mayor of LA—a client of hers—and hung up.

Almost immediately, my phone rang again. Without looking at the number, hoping against hope the police were calling to say a squadron was on its way, I answered.

“What’s wrong?” Nico’s voice was instantly tense. I supposed he could tell by the frantic way I’d answered the phone that all was not well in the land of Kat.

“Oh, thank God, Nico, it’s you!” I was ridiculously relieved to hear his voice. Not only because it was him, but also because it had just occurred to me that if the paparazzi had my address, they also might have my phone number. Was I going to have to stop answering my phone?

“Kat! What is it?”

“The f*****g paparazzi are camped on my doorstep! And tromping around my backyard! And asking questions about me and you—”

“Give me thirty. Don’t answer the door, don’t talk to them, don’t go near the windows. Just hang tight. I’ll be there in half an hour, and I’ll take care of it. You hear me?”

He rattled off these instructions with the bluntness of a drill sergeant, fully expecting to be obeyed. I was even more relieved; he seemed to have some idea of how to handle this. Naturally he would, having probably handled this exact scenario many times before. He was much more reliable than that awful 911 operator who didn’t care if I lived or died. I should have told her the house was on fire.

“Yes.”

“Good. And pack a bag, enough stuff for at least two days.”

He hung up. I stared at the phone, my head pounding, wondering if we’d yet had a conversation where I’d been the one to end the call. And pack a bag? WTF?

“What did he say?” Grace stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her face red with anger.

“He said he’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

“What then? Is he bringing a machine gun?” She looked as if she hoped this was a possibility.

Chloe said, “You have some strangely violent tendencies for a therapist, Grace.”

“Trust me, if murder was legal, I’d have killed dozens of people by now.”

In light of the situation, I let that disturbing statement go unchallenged. “I’m sure Nico’s dealt with this a million times before. He’ll know better how to handle it than we do.”

“So, in the meantime, we just hang out?” Chloe glanced nervously around.

I understood her anxiety perfectly. Thirty minutes seemed an awfully long time to wait. Unless the cops got here first, which seemed unlikely.

“Well, if we’re relegated to standing around like a bunch of cows awaiting the slaughter, we might as well make good use of our time.” With that unattractive visual, Grace went to the fridge, and began rummaging through it.

“You’re not seriously thinking of food right now.” My stomach turned at the thought. The bacon I’d eaten was starting to put up a fight.

“Don’t be silly. We need stronger fortification than that.” She emerged from the fridge with tomato juice and Tabasco. She grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, retrieved three glasses and the pepper shaker from the cupboard, and began to prepare a trio of Bloody Marys.

My legs no longer willing to support my weight, I sank gratefully into the chair at the kitchen table. I wasn’t entirely sure if my shaking hands were the result of the hangover or current events.

“Grace, you’re a genius.”

She glanced at the front door, the kitchen windows, the drapes obscuring the patio doors. Then she looked back at me.

“Well, sweetie, one of us has to be.”

In less than fifteen minutes, I heard the distinct, high-pitched cry of sirens.

Peering out a crack in the drapes, my fortifying Bloody Mary clutched in hand, I spied three black-and-white LAPD cars roll to a stop in the middle of the street outside.

The red and blue lights were flashing, but the sirens only occasionally barked. It seemed more a crowd-clearing technique than the typical full-bore emergency wail. And it was working; the paparazzi began to dutifully traipse off my lawn to stand on the sidewalk across the street.

From their bored expressions and snail’s pace, it seemed like getting rousted from private property by the cops was just another day at the office.

“That was fast.” Over my head, Grace was looking out, too.

“Your threat about the mayor must’ve worked.” Chloe had already guzzled her Bloody Mary. Grace had made her drink two glasses of water afterward and take vitamins and an Alka-Seltzer. She already seemed better. I, on the other hand, was too freaked out to have more than a sip of my own drink, an occurrence that had Grace wondering aloud if that might be a sign of the apocalypse.