Party Crashers by Stephanie Bond Read Free Book Online

papers, random coupons, and other irrelevant pieces of mail. She almost missed a small envelope the size of a gift card. The envelope was blank, but contained a tiny pink card. Outside it read, “Missing you,” and inside it read “Missing me?” The card was signed, not with a signature, but with a lip imprint in pink lipstick. The imprint was smeared, badly…purposefully, but by the sender or by the receiver? Was it a message from his “troubled” ex? Since the envelope had no address or stamp, the sender had obviously delivered it in person, or left it where Gary would find it.
    She returned the card to its envelope, then delved through the rest of the box’s contents—a couple of baseball caps, although not the burnt-orange-colored one he wore most often. A couple of sports-themed paperweights, a Swiss Army knife, a handful of matchbooks from local restaurants, some bottles of over-the-counter painkillers, a few music CDs he’d burned and labeled himself—80 S ROCK , 90 S ROCK, DELTA BLUES . She winced when she thought of his extensive music and movie collection being melted down by the fire.
    At the bottom of the box was a dusty framed photograph of his parents, a Midwestern-looking couple dressed in sensible clothes, smiling as if they were having an appropriate amount of fun. She thought of her own parents and how frantic they would be if they had lived to witness this. A wry smile curved her mouth as she wondered which would consume her mother the most—her proximity to a hideous crime, or utilizing her hard-won college degree to sell shoes.
    There was a small photo album, which surprised her because Gary didn’t seem like the sentimental type. The photos in the beginning were dated and yellowed—various shots of him growing up, labeled on the back in a neat, feminine script, and she guessed that Gary’s mother had started the album and perhaps he had added to it after her death. The more recent pictures were mostly snapshots of him with various well-dressed people she didn’t recognize. The women were numerous, but none of them seemed to have been singled out by the camera. As she turned pages, however, the faces of four men seemed to occur more often than others—and the men appeared to know each other. Could one of them be the Gordon who was to receive an extra key? She slipped out each photo, but none of the recent pictures was labeled on the back.
    There were also a couple of photos of Gary by himself outdoors. In one he was sitting on a rock, dressed in hiking gear and mugging for the camera. The next was of the same location, but a closer shot. Fingers obscured the lower edge of the picture—a woman’s fingers, with nice nails. The picture was dated a year ago by the film developer, but again not labeled. Was the photographer the mysterious pink-lipped ex?
    She turned pages and scanned photos of holiday parties, then she smiled, surprised to see photos taken duringtheir inner tube float down the river. She had felt awkward giving them to him, had been afraid he would think she was trying to force the issue of them being a couple, but had reasoned that the shots were group shots, not just of her and Gary. They were all smiling, everyone wet—even Sammy—having a good time. Jolie turned the page and stared at the last photo, then her smile evaporated.
    This was another group photo from that summer day, except Gary’s tube was bumped up next to hers. She remembered the moment, had reached out to playfully push him away. But the way her hand rested on his arm looked proprietary.
    And it obviously had disturbed someone who had viewed the picture, because her face had been obliterated by a slashing red X .

Four
    “I s Detective Salyers available?” Jolie asked, setting the box on the counter lip in front of a thick window that she assumed was bulletproof.
    The cop behind the counter pulled on his chin. “She’s out on a case. Can I help you?”
    “My name is Jolie Goodman. She asked me to