“Wherewereyou the night of Friday, April 13?” she asks. A notepad flipped open on her lap, she grips a ballpoint, hovering it over the blank page.
“I—” I start, but my voice catches in my throat.
Wanda needles me with her eyes.
“I was here, at home, in the early evening, with my husband and son,” I say.
“And after that?” Wanda asks with a huff of impatience in her voice.
Have Ievermet a nice Wanda? My mind ticks back: Wanda Spears, second-grade teacher, stone-faced and stern, gripping her hand around mine to try and correct my messy handwriting. Wanda Klein. A friend’s mother in Florida, forever complaining. No, no nice Wandas.
“Mrs. O’Neill?” Detective Flynn’s voice cuts through my reverie.
“Oh, yes, sorry. After dinner I went out to Margot Banks’s lake house.”
“And what time was this?” Wanda asks.
“Let’s see.” My hands are now clasped together, my thumbs logrolling over one another. “I guess I left the house about six thirty p.m.”
“And what was the nature of your visit to Mrs. Banks’s lake house?” Wanda asks, hitching a burnt-orange, penciled-in eyebrow up her forehead.
If anybody asks you about Friday night, just tell them I was with you. Yikes. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to mention that the rest of the Hunting Wives were out there, too. I venture into this line of questioning slowly.
“We meet out there on the weekends sometimes. To chill, to have a few drinks. Like a ladies’ night,” I say vaguely.
“Yes,” Flynn says. “We’ve already talked to your friends. Jill, Callie, Tina, and Margot.” I sense a note of disdain in his voice as he says their names. It’s slight, but it’s there. As if he can read my thoughts, he changes tack, offers a quick smile. “Just confirming some details.” He leans back into the sofa and clasps his hands behind his head.
I suck in a deep breath, exhale. ThankgodI didn’t just lie to them about the other three being out there. I get the sense that Wanda is trying to trip me up, trick me into lying. I have to be careful here.
“Drinking, huh?” she asks, her mouth pressed in a flat line, her eyes following her pen as she scribbles in her notebook. She glances up at me.
“What else do you do out there, besides drinking? Fish? Swim?” Her eyes are now dancing with delight. She’s getting off on this. Fuck. I opt for the truth.
“Well, we also shoot guns,” I say, certain they can hear the hitch in my voice. “Shotguns. Just for sport. Skeet, to be exact. I—I’m not that into it. I’ve only been out there a few times and I’ve only shot twice; I’m a total rookie,” I add, hoping this makes me seem all the more innocent.
The sounds of Wanda’s pen scratching across the page sets my already threadbare nerves on edge. I look up at Flynn, who leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. I hope I’m not the first one who’s told them about the guns.
“Yes, your friends mentioned that to us as well,” Flynn offers.
A sigh of relief oozes from my lungs.
“What time did you leave the Bankses’ lake house that night?” he asks.
“Gosh, it was late,” I say. My hands are clammy and I keep wiping my palms on the sides of the armchair, trying to dry them.
Flynn and Wanda both stare at me, waiting for me to cough up an answer.
“Honestly, I had a bit too much to drink.” I feel Wanda’s eyes narrow at this admission. “And I thought it might be best if I waited to drive home until I sobered up,” I add, hoping this paints me as responsible. “But I actually passed out on the sofa.”
“And what time wasthis?” Wanda asks brusquely.
“What time did I pass out?”
“Bingo.” She’s grinning again.
“Ummm, let me think.” I rack my brain, try to remember.
“Look,” Flynn says, “we know that Miss Wilson was with her boyfriend, Brad Simmons, until about ten thirty p.m. And we’ve confirmed that Brad was with a friend after that for the rest of the evening.”
