“They, they—” Jill starts to say, but then her voice cracks. Margot slides closer to her, reaches out to pat her arm. Jill exhales, then continues: “They ransacked Brad’s room this morning. The police.Andhis car. He’s the primary suspect now.” She’s shaking, and when Margot tries to put an arm around her, to console her, Jill shrugs her away.
“I mean, he didn’t evenknowAbby was pregnant!” Jill’s voice rises into a shriek. “He would’ve told me if he did, I know he would’ve. I mean, I’m his mom, and he keeps things from me, but he would’ve told me this. Bastards. He’s heartbroken over Abby and now he has to deal with this. It’s all so unfair.”
“Wasn’t he with Jamie all night? Isn’t that enough for the police?” Callie asks.
At the mention of Jamie’s name, my face flushes.
“You would think so, but apparently not,” Jill says. She picks up Margot’s tea, slams the rest of it. “They’re saying there’s no one else to verify the boys’ alibis. They haven’t arrested Brad, but after they tore through his room, they confiscated his phone.” Jill sighs. “His texts were all deleted. He always erasesthem; he doesn’t like me combing through his business, but it’s not like they’ll find anything anyway. But the cops told me they’ll get access to all of it in a day or two from the cell company. I can’t believe this is happening to us.”
I risk a look at Margot and see that she’s fidgeting and visibly uncomfortable.
Get rid of her.
Flynn will see the text and then he’ll know. He’ll know about Brad and Margot, and before long he’ll know about me and Jamie, too. It will all come out. I feel nauseated. Like I’m on a runaway train.
“That’s seriously fucked up. I’msosorry, Jill,” Callie says. “You guys have a good lawyer, right?”
Jill waves a hand dismissively. “Of course we do. And we’ll get through this.” She rattles the ice around in the empty tea glass. “Brad isn’t perfect, but he’s also not a killer.”
47
IN THE CARon the drive home from Callie’s, the iced tea crept up into the back of my throat; I felt like I was going to be sick. Just before I left, Margot had locked her eyes onto mine as if to say,Stick to the story.
I’m back at home now, busying myself in the kitchen, dishing up bowls of rocky-road ice cream for Jack and Graham. I have no appetite, but I spoon myself a fist-size amount into a dish, just to play along. As I lick the back of the metal ice cream scoop and drop it into a glass of water in the sink, there’s a knock at the door.
Before I can turn to answer it, I hear Graham already opening the door and greeting someone. Detective Flynn. I know this because I hear Jack’s excited voice, pealing down the hall. “Police guy! Police guy!” Which is what he calls the cops. He must’ve clocked Flynn’s cruiser.
Graham’s face is flushed as I step into the entryway.
“Detective Flynn, this is my husband, Graham,” I say, even though I’m quite sure Flynn has already introduced himself.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Flynn says, smiling to Graham, his dimples winking. “And this little guy must be—”
“Our son, Jack,” Graham says, protectively slinging an arm around Jack’s shoulders.
“What can I do for you?” I ask. The inside of my mouth is filmy with ice cream.
“Do you mind if I come in and have a word?”
“Not at all, of course. Honey,” I say to Graham, “ice cream’s up in the kitchen if you wanna...” I motion with a flick of my head for Graham to take Jack into the dining room.
Flynn steps inside but we remain standing in the entryway, out of earshot of Jack and Graham. He fiddles with his keys before slipping them in the pocket of his dark dress jeans.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard about the autopsy report, but it was determined that Abby was pregnant at the time of her death.”
I nod. “I have indeed. It’s terrible. I don’t even know what to say.”
“I have to let you know,” Flynn says, dropping his gaze to the floor, “that this pivots our investigation considerably.”
“Meaning?”
“The boyfriend, Brad Simmons, is now our lead suspect,” Flynn says, pasting his eyes on mine.
I swallow. Try and take a measured breath. Swipe the back of my hand along my hairline, which is damp with sweat.
Flynn looks at me expectantly, and I feel my eyes widen as if I’m oblivious.
“Your friends,” he continues, “mentioned that you all were at the Simmonses’ lake house a week before Abby vanished.”
