He didn’t seem like the type who would go home with a girl just to rob her, but what did she really know about him anyway? Celia was twenty-six years old. Was it weird that he had asked to stay in her apartment? Should she have demanded that he leave with her? He looked clean-cut, and he said he worked in finance. And there’s coffee on the counter if you want it.”įrom his tone, she figured the odds of his actually calling were about fifty-fifty, not bad for a drunken hookup.Ĭelia headed toward the subway. “The door will lock automatically behind you. Too attractive for his own good, as her mother would say.īefore she left, she kissed him again. Blond hair, perfect skin, chiseled arms, dimples. Mind if I sleep in?”Ĭelia looked him over.

“Got a golf date with some clients this afternoon. “I don’t have to go into the office today,” he said.

“I’ve got to leave soon,” she said softly. She wished that casual sex wasn’t so intimately connected to the possibility of being murdered, but there you had it.Ĭelia leaned toward him now and kissed his cheek, trying to affect an air of calm. You saw it in the papers all the time- They met at a party, he asked her to go for a stroll, two days later the police found her torso in a dumpster in Queens. Her sober self needed to somehow get the message to her drunk self that it was entirely unadvisable to bring strange men home. She was lucky not to have been chopped up into little bits. She did not recall having sex or, for that matter, eating tortilla chips. She vaguely recollected kissing him on the front stoop of her building, fumbling for the keys, his hand already moving up her leg and under her skirt. The guy lying next to her was named either Brian or Ryan that much she remembered. From her spot in bed, Celia could see two beer bottles and an open bag of tortilla chips on the coffee table by the couch, and, oh Jesus, there was a condom wrapper on the floor. Sun streamed through the windows of her little alcove studio. What the hell kind of a bridesmaid showed up late to the wedding of a dear friend, and hungover at that? She silently cursed herself for going out the night before. She was late for Sally’s wedding or, at least, for the bus that would take her there.

Her head was throbbing, her throat was dry, and it was already nine o’clock.

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