The Edge

Chapter 7

Wes stands in the doorway, arms crossed as he watches me rifle through my closet. "If this is what you call a good idea, I'd hate to see what a bad one looks like," he comments.

Accompanying the possible murderer to the event? I think to myself. I seem to have forgotten to tell him about that tidbit.

"Is purple a good color to wear to a funeral?" I demand, ignoring his judgment. "I wear a lot more purple than I realized. White, too. But white is a no-no, I gather, unless I were going to the funeral of an Asian girl. But Hannah wasn't Asian so..."

He's giving me a strange look. "What?" I whine. "I've never had to go to a funeral. No idea what I'm supposed to wear to the thing. Hey, if I use this dress, do you think my bra would show up through the - "

"Ooookay. On that note, I'm headed to work," he interrupts. "Promise not to do anything crazy on your freaky funeral-date, alright? And wear a chastity belt or something under all your purple and white skank clothes."

"I promise nothing! I'll be taking a pass on the chastity belt, but as you well know, I am perpetually armed with a fun little stun gun and a can of whoop-ass...aka, pepper spray." I ponder briefly what would happen if I used both on Fairchild at the same time. Hilarity, no doubt.

"You are apparently talented at jabbing people with pointy objects," I add. "So I'll call you if I have any real trouble."

Soon Wes heads out the door, clad in skinny jeans, one of my shirts, and his charming assortment of baubles. He dares mock my choice of wardrobe, when he wears half of it?

I spend a good hour rifling through my closet searching for the appropriate outfit. I don't want to appear out of place at the funeral, considering I'm on a covert mission. Eventually I select some low-key garments and set to bejeweling myself. A little light make-up and I should be presentable, I figure. In the midst of my preparation, I notice I've got a missed call on my phone. I take a look and see Luke's number beckoning to me from the screen. A rush of excitement floods my body as I hit redial.

He picks up immediately. "There are reporters preening themselves outside of my house," he grumbles by way of greeting. "And I can't say I'm particularly interested in making a cameo on the news tonight."

"That does complicate things, but it was bound to happen eventually," I say. "I'm surprised it took so long for the media to pick the story up. Hopefully you'll only make the local news and avoid any national press."

"Hopefully. Riiiight." His tone is sour. "So how am I supposed to meet up with you? I doubt you want to be seen coming here." He hesitates and adds, "Or be seen with me at all."

"Sneak out," I suggest. "Teenagers manage to do it all the time. How hard could it be?"

He thinks for a moment. "I could cut through the woods behind the house. Not a pleasant hike, but they lead out to White's Ferry Road eventually. Could you pick me up there? We can find a place off the radar to meet and discuss everything."

"That sounds...." Dangerous, I think. "Like a plan."

***

At 12:30 someone begins persistently ringing the doorbell. Surely not...

But alas, I peek out the door to find Tom Fairchild standing in the doorway wearing a pinstriped suit and hat, as though he's just stepped out of the prohibition era onto my porch. Why is he here so early?

"You look like a gangster," I opine.

He grins broadly, flashing those pearly whites. "Why thanks, Ms. Mowgli! I know you've got standards, coming from Memphis and all. I left my pimp cane and gold teeth at home and was afraid you might not think I was thug enough for you."