Layla Fontaine was dead.

Chapter 7

“Jeez, what’s with this place?” Mitchell wondered aloud. “You got bodies falling everywhere.”

“Call nine-one-one,” I said as I knelt to check her pulse. I couldn’t blame him for asking the question. Every other night I was finding another body in the hall. It couldn’t be good for business.

“Is she dead?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I mumbled, pushing myself up.

“Well, duh,” he said, thumping his forehead. “I guess the bullet hole should’ve been my first clue.” He pulled out his cell and made the call.

I brushed and straightened my wool dress, then leaned against the wall, staring off into nowhere. I listened to Mitchell speak clearly and dispassionately to the dispatcher. I was glad he’d followed me out of the classroom. Despite being a wiseacre, or maybe because of it, he was a good man to have in a crisis.

After a few seconds he covered the phone and asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, my back pressed against the wall.

“Don’t pass out.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not kidding. You look like you’re going to faint. You can just walk away and go sit in the classroom.”

“No,” I insisted, then admitted, “Okay, I get a little woozy around blood.”

“Take deep breaths. Blood freaks out a lot of people.”

I was disgusted at my own weakness, but in my defense, it wasn’t just the sight of blood that was making me light-headed. It was the fact that Layla’s eyes were still open. It felt as though she were staring right at me. It made me wonder how the police could work around dead bodies when the victims’ eyes were still open, staring at them as they did their jobs.

If I were to ask my cosmically attuned mother what it meant when someone died with their eyes open, she would have some explanation about the soul choosing to leave the body through the eyes. The eyes were considered one of the higher senses, so maybe when the soul left this way, it meant the person would reach Surya Loka, or the divine solar, the eternal light, sooner. There, the soul would be purified; then it took only another step or two to reach Chandraloka, or, literally, moon heaven.

Or maybe not. At least, not in Layla’s case. Something told me heaven wouldn’t be her ultimate destination.

But that wasn’t nice of me, was it? As penance, I forced myself to turn and look at her again. Objectively speaking, in death Layla was even more beautiful than she’d been when alive. The muscles of her face were relaxed, now that she had no reason to spout vile threats or mercilessly ridicule anyone. I looked a little closer. The woman was literally wrinkle-free. She must’ve had some work done recently.

I took a breath to steady my whirling stomach. The last thing her eyes must’ve seen was her killer aiming a gun at her. I trembled at the thought. I’d stared down more than one killer with a gun. I would hate to think that would be the last thing I’d ever see.

Then I noticed the book splayed under her arm. She must’ve dropped it when she fell. Or maybe the shooter dropped it. I reached down to take it, then stopped.

What was wrong with me? This was a crime scene. Still, my natural tendency was to rescue books, especially when they were in danger of being consumed by a puddle of blood. But there was no blood threatening to destroy the book.

I shivered again and turned to face the wall. Think happy thoughts.

“What happened?” someone called out.

“Stay back,” Mitchell warned.

I turned and saw Gina standing with Whitney and my other students at the end of the hall.

“We’re waiting for the police,” I explained.

“Again?” Alice asked in disbelief.

Cynthia joined the group just then. I could see her shoving her phone into her pants pocket; then she craned her neck over the crowd and asked, “What’s going on? Who is that?”

But Alice figured it out first. “Oh, my God, is that Layla? Oh, no. Brooklyn, is she breathing?”

“She looks dead,” Whitney said flatly, and put her arm around Alice.

“She is,” Mitchell murmured.

“Layla’s dead?” somebody asked.

“If only,” Cynthia muttered, then looked around and realized nobody was kidding. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said.

“Oh, my God.” In a heartbeat, Cynthia switched hats. “Brooklyn, I’m a board member. I should supervise this activity.”

Supervise this activity? What was she, a playground guard? And I noticed she still hadn’t shown an ounce of sympathy for the dead woman. Not that I blamed her, really, but things were getting weird.

I gave Mitchell a pleading look. “They can’t come down the hall. It’s a crime scene.”

“I’ll keep them back.” He started walking toward the group, then stopped and turned. “Don’t touch anything.”

“I know that,” I muttered, watching him jog away. Maybe he didn’t realize I was an old hand at murder scenes and knew all the rules. I even followed them, usually.

I leaned over to study the book on the floor by Layla and felt chills skitter down my spine. It was my Oliver Twist, the one I’d refurbished for her. The one I’d regretted giving her the first night of classes. The one she’d blatantly lied about. The one for which she’d given me so much grief.

I rubbed my hands together to warm up, but it wasn’t working. I was freezing.

“Brooklyn, are you okay?” Alice called out from down the hall. I could tell she was crying, but despite her own sense of loss, she was worried about me.

I gave her a grateful smile. “Not really, but thanks.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I’ll stay here until the police come.” I don’t know why, but I felt an obligation of sorts. As the first person on the scene, I would protect the area until I could pass the duty on to the police.

“I feel so useless,” Alice said, sniffling as she looked around. “Is there something we can do? Brooklyn, do you need a blanket or some water?”

“We could go outside and wait for the police,” Gina said.

“It’s too cold,” Whitney whined.

“It’s better than standing around.” Gina grabbed her friend and they ran off.

Dale, one of my quietest students, appeared at the end of the hall. “Is somebody hurt?”

I looked up as Kylie said, “Where have you been?”

“I was working on my pages. What happened?”

“The center director’s dead,” Kylie whispered.

I was glad she hadn’t said Layla’s name. I kidded myself that it sounded less personal, more clinical, to keep it semi-anonymous.

The students’ conversation stopped as Naomi pushed through the crowd and headed down the hall toward me. I met her halfway and tried to stop her.

“Oh, not again,” she said in dismay. “I leave the place for twenty minutes and somebody gets attacked again? It’s not Minka, is it?”

“No, it’s not Minka.” She tried to brush past me and I grabbed her. “Naomi, stay back.”

“Then who—” She screamed then, loud enough to pierce my eardrum. I guess she figured it out.

I pulled her close in a forced hug. She struggled to get away.

“Let me go. I need to—”

“No, you can’t go near her.”

“Let go of me, damn it. She’s my aunt, my family. I don’t—”

I shook her. “This is a crime scene. We’ve called the police.”

“Why? She’s not—”

“Naomi,” I said bleakly.

“No!”

“I’m sorry.” I wrapped my arms around her.

“No, no,” she moaned. “It’s not true.”

“I’m sorry. Layla’s dead.”

She sagged against me. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

Hell, Layla Fontaine, artistic director, mover and shaker and bitch royale, wasn’t just dead. She’d been murdered. Coldly, brutally, and audaciously. Someone had walked into BABA as bold as could be and shot her in the chest while at least twenty people worked in rooms nearby. Everyone in the building had to have heard the gunshot, so it wasn’t like the killer was trying to be stealthy. No, he—or she—had used a gun, drawing almost instant attention to his deed.