I suppose it is kind of my fault. As I step into the corridor, I catch a glimpse of myself in the diamond-studded hallway mirror. Highlighted blonde hair. Veneers. Fake nails. I’m the kind of woman peopleloveto call a bitch.
There’s footsteps on the stairs, and I look up to see a policeman stepping onto the landing, holding a clear evidence bag.
“You got a sample?” I ask, leaning heavily against the wall.
He nods. “Doesn’t guarantee we’ll find the guy, though. If he’s not a repeat UK offender, we won’t have his DNA to match with.”
“Don’t you have databases? Hospital records, or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “We might do that for a more high-profile case, ma’am. Nothin’ as minor as a break-in.” He pulls his phone out of the back pocket of his pants and wiggles his thick black eyebrows. “By the way, my daughter was a massive fan of that TV show you were in, back in the day. You don’t mind snapping me a quick pic, do you?”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a stained Minnie Mouse pyjama set. Last night’s makeup is smeared around my eyes, which are red, because I’ve been crying. Because I was just the victim of a home invasion.
“Yes,” I tell him, trying to keep my anger under control. “I do mind, actually.”
His face hardens. He turns towards the door, then pauses like he’s remembered something. “Oh. I think this is yours.” He hands me the clear plastic baggie.
I frown, taking it. There’s a Polaroid inside. “What is it?”
“It was under your pillow. Very dramatic.” He presses his lips together. “I have to wonder exactlyhowsomeone would manage to lift up your pillow and put something under it whilst you were sleeping. Unless the intruder was the tooth fairy, it doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”
I don’t respond, taking out the photograph.
It’s a picture of me asleep. I’m sprawled over my sheets, my mouth open, my arms both flung out. Tight bands suddenly squeeze around my chest.
“The note was a nice touch,” the man adds, grabbing his jacket from my coat rack.
“Note?” I say numbly. He makes a spinning motion with his finger, and I flip over the picture. Scrawled on the back in florid cursive are the words:
You look beautiful when you’re asleep, my angel. And soon, we’ll be sleeping next to each other forever.X
“Oh my God,” I whisper, staggering back into the wall. I can’t breathe. “Oh myGod. Please, just—” I try to pass the photograph back to the policeman, but he steps away, putting his hands up.
“That’s for you.”
I frown. “You don’t need to take it?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know how much good it would do us, ma’am.”
“What do you mean?” I demand. “It’s evidence!”
He huffs a laugh under his breath. “Right. Do you know what the penalty is for wasting police time, Miss Saint?”
“What? I didn’t waste your time, this is your damn job!”
He gives me a nasty look. “And I’m sure the paparazzi who photographed our cars coming onto your property justhappenedto be hanging outside your house at four AM on a Tuesday morning?”
I’m gobsmacked. “Probably! It’s notmyfault they make their living by invading my privacy! If I set all of this up, how exactly did I get a pile of come in my bed?!”
He shrugs. “You got your boyfriend to do it? I don’t know, ma’am, but Idoknow that my officers don’t appreciate being used in your publicity stunts.”
I gape at him.
There’s a scuffle behind me. Rodriguez and Julie both step out of the kitchen, whispering to each other. I snap my mouth shut and wave them to the door. “You. Both. Out. I’ll send you your severances. Enjoy unemployment.”
Julie runs a hand through her platinum curls. “C’mon, Briar,” she wheedles. “It was just a mistake. How was I supposed to know one of your creepy fans would try and break in tonight?”
I stare her down. Julie has been my PR manager for the last eight years. She’s a typical rich Chelsea girl: blonde, always made up, and constantly draped in a fur coat. During her time working for me, I’ve almost fired her about fifty times, but she somehow always manages to worm her way back into my life.