“Yeah, it was just us,” I manage. “Kind of creepy to think someone else might have been out there, too, though.”
Flynn gives me a clipped nod.
“What was the last thing you remember beforeblackingout?” Wanda asks.
“Stretching out on the sofa, drifting off.”
I hope Margot has told them the same thing.
“And when I woke up, I didn’t take note if Margot was still around or not. I saw the time and bolted. I knew I needed to get home. I just assumed she was asleep in her bedroom.”
Flynn considers this, nods again.
I glance at Wanda, but her face is a blank and she’s busy writing down everything I say.
At his hip, Flynn’s cell buzzes and he silences it, but the buzzing persists.
“It’s headquarters. Mind stepping outside and calling them for me?” he says to Wanda, who sighs but rises and strides out the front door.
—
WITH WANDA OUTof the house, the very air inside my living room feels different. Lighter. If Flynn did that on purpose, it’s worked. I instantly feel more relaxed with her gone.
“I could use some more water,” I say to him. “Sure you don’t want anything, Detective Flynn?”
“A glass of water actually sounds nice,” he says. “And please call me Mike.” He slings a foot over the tattered ottoman, stretches his arm behind his head.
I grab a tumbler from the cabinet, pluck a few ice cubes from the freezer, and fill it with tap.
“Here you go.” I pass the glass to him and sink back into the armchair.
“Thanks.” He takes a few small sips and sets it down on the red-lacquered side table. “Sophie, if I may ask, how long have you lived in Mapleton? Your friends said you were new to town.”
Myfriends. Are they really?
“Not very long. Eight months or so.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chicago; well, just outside of Chicago.”
“Yep, thought so,” he says with a sheepish smile.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’reclearlynot from around here.” His blue eyes lock onto mine. His gaze is kind and under other circumstances—say, if I were single and we had met in a bar and he wasn’t interrogating me on my whereabouts—I think I’d feel the slightest stirring of attraction take hold. My eyes sweep to his hand and I note the lack of a wedding band.
“I’m not, either,” he says, his smile spreading into a wide grin as if we’re sharing an inside joke. His hair is closely cropped into a buzz cut, the blond stubbles tipped with gray. I wonder if he’s ex-military but he seems way too warm and easygoing for that. “I’m from Dallas. Oak Cliff area. Been here two years. Believe me, I know what a shock to the system this place can be.”
“So why did you move?”
He rubs his jaw, which is freshly shaven. Pauses for a second before answering. “Divorce.”
I feel my face grow hot. My tongue is thick in my mouth; I don’t know how to respond. I mutter, “Sorry,” and bring the water glass to my lips, shielding my face.
“Life,” he says, tossing his hands in the air. “What ya gonna do?” The same grin spreads across his face. He wags his foot back and forth on the ottoman and I feel a closeness to him; I feel like we could indeed be at a bar together, sharing a drink.
“So how’d you meet them?” he asks, still smiling.
