Free More Bitter Than Death by Dana Cameron Page A

you?”
    “Good. Busy.”
    I heard a muffled voice in the background saying “Carrie? What is it?”
    A suspicion struck me. “And Joel?”
    “What about him?”
    The wariness in my sister’s voice told the whole story. She’d gotten back together with a perfectly decent guy she’d been scared enough to ditch, and still didn’t have the guts to admit that I’d been right about him, and about her, and how good he was for her. It took a sister’s perspective, I suppose, to cut through the ego and get to the real story. I didn’t mind; it was good for her to be challenged once in a while.
    “How’s he doing?”
    “Good.” She paused then admitted it. “He’s right here.”
    “Oh, jeez, if I’m interrupting something—”
    “No. He lives here now.”
    I lost interest in the hotel phone numbers. “He lives—what? What do you—?”
    “He moved in. Two weeks ago.”
    “And just when were you going to tell me?” I could barely keep the disbelief out of my voice.
    “Don’t get all huffy with me! I’m telling you now. Why, did you plan on stalking him at his old address or something?”
    “No, you know what I mean! Well, I’m glad. Congratulations.”
    “Why? For what?”
    “It’s nice, that’s why. Don’t act so suspicious. He’s a good guy.”
    “It’s nice, okay. It’s also late. I want to get to sleep.”
    “Yeah, but—”
    “I’ll talk to you later, okay, Em? Bye.”
    She didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye. I hung up, thought about calling Brian at Kam’s, but I didn’t want to disturb them; it really was too late for anyone but a Fielding. All I wanted was my bed; I was grateful for the exhaustion and the cooler room. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. Luckily for me, I fell asleep almost immediately and I wasn’t subjected to an endless playback of my every personal interaction, past and present.

Chapter 4
    T HERE WAS A BLURRED BUZZING IN MY HEAD THAT wouldn’t go away. I began to realize that it wasn’t just a part of some vague dream and found myself being dragged from sleep by the alarm clock. It took me three or four tries to focus my eyes: the burning red numerals spelled out the horrible truth. It was six fifteen A.M ., Thursday morning.
    You’ve got to be kidding.
    With a moan, I rolled over and burrowed under my pillow, but I didn’t turn off the alarm, and eventually the country music and static that was playing instead of the NPR station I thought I’d found last night wore its way insistently into my brain until I was convinced that I really wasn’t going to go back to sleep again. Why did I tell Brad that I would meet him so damn early? And in the gym? For God’s sake, Emma…
    I threw the blanket back and, with a yelp, pulled it back over me again in a hurry. The room had gone from being subtropical to arctic frigidity overnight. I summoned up my courage, dove out of bed, grabbed my parka, and stood in front of the thermostat. It was now fifty degrees in my room.I’d set it for sixty-five. I fiddled with the controls but never heard any indication that more heat was heading my way. I went to the bathroom and saw the coffee maker, but there were no coffee packets to be found.
    I stared. No, God. You can’t be serious.
    I looked in the closet by the iron, I pawed through the little bottles of conditioner that I never used, but there was no coffee in my room. Disgusted, I threw on my workout gear, made sure I had my room key, and went downstairs to the hospitality suite. Passing the mezzanine, I saw that there was no one in the lobby yet.
    My heart leapt—the door to the hospitality suite was open. There was, however, nothing on the tables besides empty coffee urns.
    I went to the lobby, where at least it was warmer than my room on the third floor.
    There was no one at the front desk, and no one appeared when I rang the little bell. I cursed and headed behind the desk and past the offices for the fitness room.
    There, at least,