Striker didn’t back down; he glared at Donovan.
The two uniformed cops behind them lined up to enter but pulled up short when they realized they wouldn’t fit. Awkwardly, they shuffled on their feet in the hallway, unsure.
A little bleating voice whispered in my ear. “Chosen.”
I almost jumped out of my skin. Right beside me, a hole had opened up in the wall—I could see Cecil’s bright-blue eye peering in. “We have a problem.”
Another one?
“There’s someone else ringing your doorbell,” Cecil breathed out. “A very skinny woman, about your age, with a blonde pixie-cut. She’s wearing Armani.”
I grimaced. My lawyer, Courtney. This was terrible timing. If she came in here and saw detectives searching my house, looking for a missing teenage girl, she would jump to all sorts of conclusions. “Give me two minutes, then let her up,” I breathed out in the direction of the hole. Cecil nodded; the hole disappeared.
Combs looked around. “Is this it?” He craned his neck, looking into my bathroom. “Is this your whole place?”
“This is it. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you to your search.” I grabbed Donovan’s hand. “My guest and I have other plans, so make yourselves at home.”
“You can’t leave.”
“Are you detaining me?” I arched my brow.
“Listen here, Ms. Moore,” Striker snapped. “I don’t think you know how serious this is. We saw the footage of Audrina Morningside entering this building, so we know she’s here somewhere.”
“Well.” I waved my hand around the tiny room. “Feel free to look around.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Good for you,” I said, as I took Donovan’s hand, and led him out the door, closing it behind me.
Multitasking. I was an expert at it. This was my jam. “Violet,” I whispered. “Do you think you can keep them in there for a bit? And can you make me a replica apartment?”
Dutifully, she sprouted another door in the hallway right next to mine. The first one faded into the wall.
“What is it?” Donovan asked me.
“My lawyer, Courtney, is on her way up,” I said, opening the new door and walking into the tiny replica apartment. God, it was like a shoebox. Striker and Combs would be having so much fun right now. “Actually, Violet, you know what? Courtney already knows I own the building; that’s why she’s here. We can make the apartment a little bigger.”
My tiny studio mushroomed into the drawing room of the Palace of Versailles again. Cecil, lying back on a chaise lounge underneath the enormous windows, saluted me with his martini glass.
“Uh, sorry, Violet. Maybe something in between,” I amended. “Maybe give me a full studio, instead of a half.”
“Can I stay? It’s so boring stuck behind these walls.” Cecil lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew out a plume of smoke.
“Cecil, my lawyer would have a heart attack if she saw you right now.”
He shrugged and flicked his cigarette. “Her loss.”
“Actually,” I turned to look at Donovan. “Would you mind staying with Cecil?”
He frowned. “Yes. I would mind very much.”
“Please, Donovan.”
“Why?”
I didn’t want to say it out loud, but it was about time I started being more truthful with him. Maybe if I practiced being honest with Donovan, I’d start getting better at being honest with myself. “Courtney is a man-eater. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to slut-shame anyone here. On the contrary, I’ve always admired her passion and her enthusiasm. But, Donovan, honestly, she’ll take one look at you, and I’ll have to put up with her fluttering her lashes with her bedroom eyes and making double-entendres. Which is fine, but I won’t be able to get rid of her in a hurry.” I blinked up at him. “Please?”
He stared at me stonily. “I do not care.”
“Please, Donovan.”
“Fine.” He turned away and stomped back into the depths of my drawing room, heading towards the kitchen. “But I will be watching and listening. If this Courtney attempts to eat any men, I will take her head.”
“That’s fair enough. Violet, go ahead.”
Violet squeezed again, pushing Cecil and the rest of my drawing room back, sliding new walls in place, and rolling new furniture towards me—this time, going with more contemporary, Scandinavian minimalist decor—cozy white window-frames, low soft beige sofa, seagrass rugs on the polished concrete floor, a long counter in the kitchen absolutely bare of any hint of appliances. A delicate spray of white orchids popped up on the low copper coffee table.
“Perfect,” I said. “Go ahead and let her in.”
There was a knock at the door. “Susan?”
I opened the door. “Courtney!” She was indeed wearing Armani, like she usually did. Courtney had taken the bar exam right about the time when feminine power suits were going out of fashion, but she never stopped wearing them. I knew why—Courtney looked like a human-sized version of Tinkerbell, with her very slim figure and pixie-cut, so her boxy jacket and shoulder pads gave her body a little more substance, and the matching micro-mini and sky-high stilettos offset any masculine vibes that her short hair might give her.
She stalked into my apartment, air-kissing me on both cheeks. “Darling, good to see you.” She did a double take. “You’re looking good,” she said almost grudgingly.
“Thanks.” I backed up into the kitchen. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks. I have to make this quick; I’m heading to the opera. I thought I better drop around to discuss this lawsuit that Delilah and Gordon are bringing against you.” Her gaze ran around the apartment critically. “Nice place.” She sighed. “It’s a shame.” She put her bag down on the table and rummaged inside it.
