Chapter Six
Sunday, 8:58 a.m.
“I’m sure he doesn’t really think you killed Barry,” my best friend Tara said before taking a sip of coffee from where she sat beside me on the couch.
Her long legs were stretched out and her heels were propped on the low, wooden coffee table that stood in the living room area of my loft apartment above the bookstore. She wore a pair of purple tie-dyed slouch socks that reminded me of my own favourite pair back in the Eighties. Tara somehow managed to make the socks work with the creamy tunic she wore, which did nothing to hide her lithe figure. Her long French braid draped over her shoulder in its usual mohawk fashion, past the freshly buzzed sides of her head. (One of the dark strands of the braid had been dyed deep violet this week.) Oliver lounged on he
