THE INSIDE OFthe interrogation room is meat-locker cold, so I’m grateful for the steaming cup of coffee that Flynn has placed in front of me. The room is bare, but the walls are painted in a warm shade of yellow, calling to mind a preschool classroom instead of a police station. It must be a small-town touch, but it makes the experience of being here even more disorienting, not less so.
The drive to the station was wordless, with me in the back of the cruiser, my mind racing as trees blurred past. How could my prints be on the gun? And how could they have already matched them? But then I remember: being fingerprinted at the DMV to get my driver’s license when we first moved back to Texas.
I squeezed my cell, thought about calling Graham, but couldn’t bring myself to do so. I thought about calling a lawyer, but I don’t know any in Mapleton, or anywhere else for that matter. Why would I?
My thoughts went back to that final Friday night at the lake house, and I heard Margot’s voice in my head.
We brought Daddy’s gun; it doesn’t kick as hard. Promise.
It all suddenly became clear to me. Margot. That bitch. She framed me. She must have. It had been her plan all along. Her text to me:I want you,to stay, the kiss we shared during spin the bottle, her insistence that I not leave, that I use that particular gun, all of it was premeditated.
By the time Flynn wheeled the cruiser into his dedicated parking spot, I was shaking with rage and bursting at the seams to tell him everything.
And that’s exactly what I do.
I retell him every moment of that night, only leaving out the part about playing spin the bottle and the fact that Jamie and I were together.
I tell him about the gun and how Margot had prompted me to use it. He advises, though, that while there were other prints on the gun, it was my prints and mine alone that were lifted from the trigger. I then tell him about Margot’s text to Brad:Get rid of her. I tell him all I know about their relationship, and even about catching them having sex on the boat dock. Each revelation feels like a tiny stab, like I’m digging a knife deeper into Margot’s back. It feels good. My hands are shaking but I’m filled with the righteousness of someone setting the record straight.
The whole time I’m talking, Flynn listens, nods, and scribbles notes on a pad while the tape recorder whirs between us.
But one thing I notice as I spill everything to him is that his face doesn’t register surprise. It registers the same look of exasperation I saw back at my house. And when I finish, he pauses the recording and stands.
“I’m going to get more coffee. Refill?”
I hand him my paper cup and he exits the room.
I felt puffed up and strong from telling him everything, but now I feel small and deflated, and even though I can’t see behind the pane of glass that lines the wall opposite from where I’m sitting, I can imagine Wanda’s eyes boring into me from the other side.
Flynn returns, sets my coffee down on the table, and plops into the chair directly in front of me. When his eyes meet mine, they’re hard, drained of their usual warmth and care.
My stomach clenches.
He just sits and stares at me, as if waiting me out, only dropping his gaze to blow a curl of steam off his coffee.
“Well?” I venture.
He sighs and folds his arms across his chest. “Sophie, I need to let you know that Mrs. Banks, um, Margot, came into the station this morning of her own volition. With her lawyer.”
My stomach clenches even tighter. Margot remains one step ahead of me.
“And she preemptively confessed to us all about her relationship with Brad. She told me everything.” He pauses and lets the wordeverythingdangle between us.
I have no idea whateverythingmeans, but based on the sense of dread that washes over me, I’m assuming he is referring to Jamie.
Not only has she framed me for Abby’s murder, she set me up to lie to the police.
“Before we go any further, I’ll remind you that this is a criminal investigation. A murder investigation.” Flynn reaches forward, punches the pause button, and the tape begins whirring again.
“Now, let’s go back to Friday night. We are most interested in the hours between midnight and four a.m.” His face darkens as he says the rest. “That time frame where you claim to have been passed out.”
My mouth is dry as chalk, so I take a small sip of coffee.
“Iwaspassed out.” My hands tremble, so I drop them to my sides, jam them under my legs, which are pumping. I can’t seem to still my body.
Flynn turns the pages in his notepad. “And it says here that you told us, when we first questioned you, that you left the Bankses’ lake house just before three a.m.? Is that correct?”
“Yes, yes it is.”
