“Don’t you think that’s something I should know, Selene?” Monique asks, her voice pulling me out of my wandering thoughts.
“What?”
“The project. You don’t think you should have told me that you’re working on something?”
“Oh.” I bite my lip. “You’re right. I just didn’t think it was ready for anyone else’s eyes yet.”
Skepticism dances on the lines of her curved brows. “Bullshit.”
She lunges for the computer again. This time I’m too slow to stop her, so I have no choice but to watch her pull it to her side of the desk and study the screen, imagining what exactly she’s seeing. The screen is divided into two sections. On the left-hand side is a window with a notes app that holds all of my thoughts about Sutton’s death. On the right, there’s a gallery of photos from the day in question. I scoured the internet for hours on end for those, trying to get every possible angle inside of the restaurant and on the street outside of it
If I recall correctly, the last picture I was looking at was taken by Sutton herself. It was posted on Instagram moments before her throat began to close up. There are others of course, some I acquired in less-than-legal-ways. I know the exact moment when Monique comes across one of those because she covers her mouth and gasps, pushing the computer away.
“How the fuck did you get pictures of her body?”
Ashamed.
That’s how I should feel. That’s what I should have felt when I asked for the crime scene photos from AJ’s school. And maybe I do feel it a little. Maybe it’s a thin thread running through me,stitching my organs together. But it’s not enough to silence my need for information. Monique doesn’t understand that. Most people wouldn’t, which is why my answer feels like it’s not good enough even though it’s the truth.
“I needed to see for myself.”
“That she’s dead?!”
Monique is standing now, pacing in front of my desk with trembling hands. She’s trying really hard not to look at me with disgust. I admire her effort, but it’s not necessary.
“That she died the way they said she did. I needed the pictures to make sure the coroner didn’t miss anything.”
“Anything like what, Selene?!” she shrieks, her voice loud enough to drown out the sound of the TV playing behind her.
“Like a puncture wound of some sort.”
Monique pauses, turning her head in my direction slowly. “You think someone did this to her on purpose?”
It feels like forever since I’ve given my best friend a truth. So long that I can’t seem to say the words. I nod, relief and regret hitting me at the same time. It feels so good to be honest with Monique, but I know this one truth will pour into others and then it all unravels. The lies, the secrets, everything. She’ll be angry with me for keeping so much from her, and it won’t matter that I only did so to keep her safe.
Pressing my lips together, I choose my words carefully. “I think it’s highly unlikely that Sutton left home without her Epi-Pen. I think it’s even less likely that a trained chef would mistake peanut butter for tahini.”
“I think that part is bullshit too,” Monique says, a bit calmer now. “I just thought the restaurant was throwing him under the bus to avoid being sued for his unauthorized substitution. But you think it’s…you think someone did that to her on purpose?”
“No, I thinkAubreyhad that done to her on purpose. He sent someone to kill her. I just can’t prove it yet.”
I’m not sure if Monique’s knees have given out or if she’s grown tired of pacing, but she sinks into the chair across from me with her mouth agape. “But why? And how? How would he even pull something like that off?”
“He’s the President of the United States, Monique. Do you really think it’d be hard for him to get rid of someone if he wanted them dead?”
A shiver runs through her. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s your husband! The man you love. You can’t be in love with someone who would do something like that.”
And there it is. The unraveling. The tugging of a thread that undoes the entire web of lies I’ve strung together since signing that contract and agreeing to sell a lie to everyone including the people closest to me. I have a choice in this moment. I can either grab my scissors and cut the thread, minimizing the damage, or I can place my hands over each of hers andpull.
I choose the latter.
“I’m not,” I tell her, shaking my head for emphasis. “I’m not in love with Aubrey, and I haven’t been for a very long time.”
Monique is quiet, listening intently as the truths pour out of me. One after another, after another until I’ve told her everything including how Cal, Beck and I had a threesome in the Oval Office. When I’m done, she doesn’t say anything for a long time. I sit in the silence with her. The only sounds besides our breathing and the anxious flicking of my fingers is the evening news.
