One of Us Is Dead
Jeneva Rose
To my husband,
Drew, who said the first dedication to him didn’t count because my real name wasn’t on the cover. I hope this one counts, my love.
1
Jenny
present
“I’ve spent thousands of hours working on these women. I’ve primped, waxed, cut, painted, spray-tanned, powdered, and massaged them. I know almost every inch of their bodies. But I also know their demons—their deepest, darkest secrets. The things we try to bury beneath the surface so as not to show the world the doppelg?nger lurking within us. So, am I surprised something like this happened? Not even in the slightest. I figured it would. It was just a matter of time.” I readjust myself, crossing one leg over the other beneath the table.
Across from me sits Detective Frank Sanford, a stern-looking middle-aged man with hard facial features and broad shoulders. He’s your classic blue-collar detective. Despite the suit and tie he’s wearing, his appearance is anything but polished and put together. His red-rimmed eyes give away the fact that he works far too many hours and gets far too little sleep. We have more in common than he’ll ever know.
“How do you know their deepest, darkest secrets, Jenny? I mean, are you their therapist too? I thought you were a hair stylist,” Detective Sanford asks, jutting out his chiseled chin covered in stubble. His eyes tighten, staring intently at me as he pauses his note-taking and waits for an answer. We’re sitting across from each other in a well-lit interrogation room. The air is stale and cold, and I can’t tell if the room is trying to match the aura of the detective or the other way around.
“I’m both, in a way. I don’t know how much time you’ve spent inside salons, Detective Sanford, but women talk.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, holding his gaze. “Especially when they’re sitting in a salon chair with nothing but time on their hands.”
I know this man has never set foot inside a salon, and not just based on his own level of self-care. The truth is, I know more about my clients than I do my own family, especially this group of women. I see each of them multiple times a week. They have cash to burn—or at least their husbands do—and they can afford to pour resources into fighting the greatest war of their lives: the one against the effects of time on the human body.
“I see, and you’re the owner of Glow Beauty Bar, correct?” He gently taps his pencil on the table.
“The one and only.” I nod.
He picks his pencil back up and jots down a couple more notes, careful not to miss anything.
“And how long have you owned the salon?”
My eyes wander for a moment as I recall when I purchased it. “About five years now.”
“And have these women been your clients the whole time?” He creases his brow.
“No. They didn’t become my clients until around three years ago. Glow wasn’t always the salon it is today.”
He writes down a couple more notes and circles something on the paper. I catch a glimpse of the words within the circle: Glow Past?
“I see. So, you’ve known these women for three years, and you’re not surprised that any of this happened?” He raises his thick, dark eyebrows.
“No. Don’t let them fool you, Detective. Individually, they’re genuine and they can be kind . . . but when you put them in a room together, these women are downright toxic.”
2
Jenny
three weeks before the murder
Olivia plopped her tight, skinny ass in my chair and dropped her oversized Hermes bag on the ground. Her long, lush mahogany hair brushed my face as she tossed it over her shoulder without a care. Thanks to me, it was full of the perfect number of lowlights and highlights. She was dressed in a red jumpsuit that left little to the imagination. Olivia always wore red in some variation, whether it was her whole outfit, a bold lip, or an eye-catching accessory. Red was her power color, her security blanket. And she’d never be caught dead walking in anything other than a pair of red-bottomed Louboutin’s.
As I wrapped a freshly cleaned cape around her, Olivia stared at herself in the mirror with pure and utter admiration. She turned her head from side to side observing her perfectly sculpted nose, overinjected plump lips, and high cheekbones. If a brown-haired Barbie doll were blown up to life-size, it would look just like Olivia. I could tell she was pleased with her appearance as she gave herself a slight smirk, revealing veneers so bright they could challenge a hundred-watt light bulb. I’d been her hairstylist, makeup artist, nail technician, waxer, tanner, lash artist, and so much more for years, and as time progressed, I had noticed that her lips kept getting plumper, her cheekbones higher, and her skin smoother. Like tectonic plates, her face was always shifting.
“What are we doing today?” I asked as I gently ran a comb through her soft hair while looking at her in the mirror. I already knew what she wanted, but Customer Service 101 dictates you always let the client tell you what they want. So I waited for her to tell me. She held up her finger at me while she typed vigorously into her phone.
Olivia and I were opposites in every way. While her hair was dark and long, mine was strawberry blond, wavy, and fell right at my shoulders. Her facial features were hard and cutting. Mine were soft and rounded. Her eyes were rich like milk chocolate. Mine were a cool blue. Her face was free of any beauty marks, while mine was speckled with freckles. She set her phone in her lap, briefly looked at me, and then returned her gaze to the single most important thing in Olivia’s life: Olivia.