Free So Pretty It Hurts by Kate White

to feel uncomfortable going up for coffee?”
    “Yes—but it beats staying in my room knowing there’s a dead body a few yards away. Speaking of which, what do we do about Buzz ? Shouldn’t we be phoning this in? Dead celeb sort of falls under your jurisdiction.”
    “I’m planning to call Nash, but I need to wait until the police have had a chance to talk to me. I was in the room, and it’s my obligation to speak to them first.”
    The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted us as we entered the living area. Sandy was bustling nervously at the kitchen counter while Scott, Jane, and Cap huddled at the island. Laura Ash was sitting alone at the dining table, appearing glum as all get-out. And a solemn-looking Whitney was on one of the couches, working a pair of knitting needles and a fat ball of yarn.
    “Is there anything I can do?” I asked, approaching the group by the island as Jessie slunk off toward a couch. Cap’s face was pinched in despair. If he had been having an affair with Devon, this experience was a helluva lot worse than simply losing a longtime client.
    “We’re trying to put a statement together,” Cap said. “We’d like a few minutes alone, if you don’t mind.”
    Trying not to look thrown by the snub, I quickly poured a cup of coffee and joined Whitney and Jessie on the couch.
    “This must be awful for Cap,” I said softly to Whitney.
    “For both of us,” she said above the steady clicking of her silver needles. “Devon’s been Cap’s client for seven years. I just pray to God she didn’t suffer.”
    “Did she have any health problems that you were aware of?”
    “ Health problems?” Whitney sniffed. “She was only thirty-four. What health problems could she possibly have had?”
    “Anorexia. Or bulimia. Some kind of eating disorder.”
    “Devon had struggled with weight issues in the past, but she managed to put that behind her. Though I’m sure that will all be dragged out again in your magazine and places like that. This may sound horribly old-fashioned, but where I come from, we still believe that if you can’t say anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”
    I wondered if she also believed in unicorns.
    “As I told Scott, we’re off the record here,” I said. “This is a tough situation, and Jessie and I want to help in any way.”
    “There’s just so much to do right now,” Whitney said. “A statement to the press, funeral arrangements, a memorial service in New York possibly—and here we are, snowbound.”
    “Was Jane able to reach Devon’s mother?” I asked.
    “Yes, but she apparently wasn’t sober, and Jane’s not sure how much she actually digested. If I had my phone with me, I’d call her myself. I just dread going back to the room alone.”
    “Here, use my BlackBerry,” I said, handing it to her in the hope she’d see that I wasn’t the enemy.
    “Thanks,” she said, accepting it. She stared at it for a moment, then shook her head and handed it back.
    “What am I thinking?” she said. “The number’s on my phone. And it’s probably best for Cap to make the call anyway.”
    Scott drifted over a moment later and announced that he had made an executive decision to wake the others and fill them in. Within the next fifteen minutes, Richard, Tommy, and Tory joined us in the great room. Everyone appeared stunned, but there weren’t any tears. From the corner of my eye I watched Richard pour coffee and sink back with his cup into one of the leather armchairs. I was dying to know what was racing through his mind beneath the wild tufts of bed-head hair. He was a reporter too. Surely he was wondering who he should give the story to.
    For the next hour and a half we waited, with people sometimes drifting in and out of the room. Finally, at around 5:00 a.m., we heard the sound of a gunned motor, a vehicle forcing its way through the snow on the driveway. Scott rose to go downstairs, and I followed him. He turned once in surprise but