Living with the Dead

ROBYN

Robyn lay on her side, staring at Hope's hair fanning over her pillow. It had been that hair, twelve years ago, that made her decide she would not like Hope Adams.

By that point, Robyn and her classmates had pretty much decided they weren't going to like any of the girls they'd been teamed up with for the fund-raiser. After all, they were private school brats, rich little snobs. The popular clique times ten.

Robyn and her friends didn't envy those girls their manicured nails and platinum credit cards. Perish the thought. No, they pitied them. Those poor privileged girls, destined for a life stuck in a fifties time warp, as pampered and petted housewives who would one day be chugging back Cosmos at the golf club, whining about their husband's fling with the nanny, while Robyn and her classmates worked in board rooms and surgeries, changing the world.

And Hope Adams? The moment Robyn had been assigned to her as a partner, she'd known who'd be doing all the work – and it wasn't the pretty girl with the flawless skin and long black curls.

That had been Robyn's first lesson in stereotypes. While Hope could play debutante with the best of them, she was happiest in blue jeans, kicking back with friends or chasing down one of her weird tales, not giving a rat's ass what anyone thought of her.

Now Hope was here, sound asleep beside her, exhausted after finding Robyn, nursing her out of her shock, then racing off trying to solve two murders, which Robyn was suspected of committing. And what had Robyn done? Sat on her ass in a hotel room, scarfing down brownie bites and watching TV, like the pampered princess she'd once thought Hope.

When Hope called to say they had the laptop, what had Robyn done? Asked whether her apartment was still under guard? Whether the police had searched it? Whether Hope had looked at the photo yet? Nope. Total disinterest in the situation.

That had to end. She'd had twenty-four hours to recover from the shock, wallow in self-pity and clear her head. Time to start helping herself.

A key turned in the door lock. Robyn went still. Hope rolled onto her back and pushed up onto her elbows. The second bed was empty. Robyn shut her eyes as the door creaked open.

"Is everything okay?" Hope whispered.

"It took a while to find an open drugstore," Karl said.

A rattle, like pills in a bottle.

"Ah, thank you," Hope said. "You're a saint."

"Credits. Rack in' 'em up."

Hope's soft laugh. Pills clicked again, Karl shaking them into Hope's hand. A gulp of water. The mattress moved as Hope lay down again. A soft voice, too low to make out. Robyn cracked open her eyes to see Karl bending over Hope, whispering. She nodded and murmured, "Good," then pulled the covers up.

Karl stood there, watching Hope. His expression made Robyn ache. She knew they were being careful around her. No embraces or kisses. No words of affection. Sleeping in separate beds. It didn't matter. What hurt most were the little things that she'd always taken for granted with Damon, the touches, the looks that said "I love you" better than any words.

At Damon's memorial, her sister, Joy, had sat with her, holding her hand, saying, "He loved you, Rob. He really loved you." Now, as she watched Karl looking down at Hope, the envy and the yearning cut deep, and she understood what her sister had felt all those years, watching her and Damon, yearning for something Joy had never found.

Robyn should call her sister. It had been weeks since they'd spoken. Her family respected her need for privacy and trusted Robyn to climb back onto her feet, because that's the kind of person she was. She'd failed them, retreating deeper into her hole, no longer even looking for a way out. If they ever found out, they'd blame themselves for giving her that space.

Well, no more. It was time to fight.