❝ I genuinely thought the worst of this nightmare was over ❞
Halle Brewster told a lie, and the secrets kept growing. After slaying one stalker, another reared its nasty head, and Halle was starting to wonder if she'd ever be free from the friendshi...
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The doorbell rang, and Halle, in her fluffy dressing gown, lips half glossed and powder under her eyes, answered the front door. There, stood a young guy in a finely pressed, blue suit with a binder under his arms. "Oh, no, we don't take solicitors, thanks," Halle said, ready to close the door on his again.
"Halle— Halle, it's me," said the guy, and Halle was still none of the wiser who he was nor how he knew her name. "Beckett," he stated, not introduced. "Beckett Frye, Veronica Hastings' paralegal."
Recognition fell upon Halle and she nodded in recollection. "Oh, right, 'course," she said. "Sorry."
Surveying her half-put together appearance, Beckett mentioned to her, "I was told you'd be ready."
"Ready for what?" asked Halle, slightly muddled. "The party's not until later."
"Party?" questioned Beckett.
Cluing in, Halle concluded with a tight smile, "You're not talking about Em's party."
"Who's Em?" Beckett asked her. "Em, as in Emily Catherine Fields?" he said, swinging his binder into full view, ready to open right there on the porch to check his memory against actual evidence.
Halle felt all the joy she felt for the upcoming party disappear. "You're here for the trial, ain't you?"
"Well, I didn't get the party invite," Beckett tried to joke with her, "so, yeah."
"Sorry," Halle apologised sincerely. She stepped back, allowing him room to enter the house, and when he did, Halle shut the door behind him. She said, "I've been all over the place since last night."
"Understandable," Beckett sympathised. "Not many teens have to give evidence in a detective's murder trial."
"How many cases where the detective was working the witness's dead friend's murder too?" Halle wondered, quite wry in her humour that afternoon.
Beckett sucked in a deep breath. "I don't have the figure, but I'm guessing pretty low."
"Could've saved myself the breath, then," Halle remarked, referring to her asked and now Beckett-answered question.
Leading him towards the back of the house, Halle entered the kitchen to find her mother within the enclosed porch, hands blackened from charcoal as she drew on a canvas, from memory an elder woman's face began to emerge from it. "Mom," Halle called attention to them. "Beckett's here."
"Oh, he is?" Luisa delighted at that fact — at how quickly and seriously Veronica had been taking the task of preparing Halle. She wiped her hands at her artist's apron. "Hello, Beckett."
"Mrs Brewster," met Beckett formally. He glanced to the canvas. "Great picture — you're really talented."
Halle hid her cringing face behind her hand and whispered to him, "Wrong thing to say, that's her third attempt today."
