Free Murder Strikes a Pose by Tracy Weber Page A

her. Bella was used to sleeping on the ground, but not alone. She and George had lain next to each other every night for as long as she could remember.
    Changing that now seemed cruel.
    “OK, you win. Come on up, but only for tonight.” I slapped the
    bed beside me.
    Bella hopped up, turned a quick circle, and sank down next to
    me with a heavy sigh. Her brow furrowed, her ears drooped, and
    her head hung low. I could tell she knew something had changed.
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    She didn’t know what or why, but she knew it was bad. Frighten-
    ingly bad. Life-changingly bad.
    I suspected Bella couldn’t understand me, but she deserved
    an explanation nonetheless. So I told her that George was gone,
    but that he had loved her more than anything. I also promised her that, although I couldn’t keep her, I would make sure she was safe until I found someone who could.
    I owed that to George.
    You see, I firmly believed that George’s death was at least par-
    tially my fault. That if I had listened more and judged less, I might have prevented this awful night. I deeply regretted my stubborn-ness in not apologizing. I regretted suggesting he euthanize Bella.
    I even regretted not buying that damned paper. No one else would
    have blamed me for what happened, but I definitely blamed my-
    self.
    As I finished the story, Bella rested her chin on my belly, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. The warmth of her body on mine felt oddly comforting, and I finally relaxed enough to do what I’d needed to do for hours. I broke down sobbing as I held Bella and allowed her rhythmic breathing to rock us both to sleep.
    _____
    When I arrived at the studio the next morning, the area seemed
    unfathomably normal—as if the prior evening’s nightmare had
    never occurred. I’m not sure what I expected. News helicopters
    buzzing overhead, vying for the opportunity to video an empty
    lot? Armed policemen standing guard over parking space 137? At
    least some black and yellow crime scene tape warning people to
    stay away from the now desecrated area.
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    I yearned for a physical marker—an acknowledgement of what
    had been lost. But no telltale chalk drawing outlined the place
    where George’s body had lain. The only echo of the prior night’s
    evil was a subtle red tinge, left by the blood from his shattered brow.
    Thankfully, my students didn’t yet know about the murder; I
    could never have faced retelling the story so soon. But I knew my reprieve of silence would be short. The death of a homeless man
    might not make the early morning headlines, but it would be all
    over the local news blogs by noon.
    I needed a better story than the one I had now, both for my
    business’s sake and my own. “Drunk Dies in Drug Deal Gone Bad
    at Yoga Studio” wasn’t exactly the free publicity I’d been hoping for. And no matter what the police thought, I didn’t buy their theory. George had not died in some drunken altercation. I had to
    find out what really happened last night, not just for George, but also for myself. Otherwise, I’d never feel safe closing up the studio again.
    Detective Martinez had been kind, but Henderson was obvi-
    ously in charge, and I’d freeze to death in Hell before I got more information out of him. Luckily, I had another source—if he
    was still speaking to me. I hadn’t been a very good friend to John O’Connell since my father’s death. In fact, I’d been more like a
    stranger. But if I thought about that, I’d chicken out for sure. So I pushed all non-yoga thoughts to the side and tried, unsuccessfully, to focus on teaching my class.
    I barely remember the seventy-five minutes of mindless blath-
    er that tumbled out of my mouth, but suffice it to say that the session wasn’t my best effort. I fidgeted through the beginning breath work; I said left when I meant right and fingers when I meant toes; 65
    I impatiently drummed my fingers against the hardwood floor
    during Savasana. And although I don’t know for certain, I’m