I step into the hallway. The light is muted here, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkened space.
“Sophie.” I hear Margot before I see her. She is standing at the entrance to the living room, leaning against the hallway wall.
My skin crawls at the sight of her, and I try and think of what to do next. But before I can make a move, she sashays down the hall toward me, her leonine legs working the floor as if she is a runway model. She’s still only dressed in the yellow bikini, and it’s hard to ignore her smoldering figure as she approaches me.
Without another word, she takes my hand and tugs it, leading me down the hall, to the master bedroom. I have no choice but to follow. Maybe without Callie around, I can finally unleash on Margot.
A sheer, lemon-colored curtain hangs in the window, bathing the room in yellow. It must be the roofie coursing through my bloodstream, but the light in here feels as if it’s been refracted through a glass of lemonade.
As I stand in the room next to Margot, the sharp cold of the AC has dulled and it feels stuffy, overheated. I sink down on the side of the bed, feeling light-headed. Margot remains standing in front of me, near the doorway.
“Clearly, you’re pissed,” she says. “So, let’s talk about it.” She fans her palms out in front of her like she’s laying out a deck of cards, and the air fills with the tropical scent of her suntan oil.
Anger pinches my chest. I can’t believe she’s being so cavalier about everything; she clearly believes she has the power to mind-fuck me.
“Talk about it?” My voice cuts through the hazy air. “There’s nothing to talk about! YoumurderedAbby. And then you framed me for it.”
Her eyes flash up at me. Dark and probing. “Hold on a sec. You thinkIkilled Abby?”
“I do. YouandBrad.” I spit the words at her. “Margot, I saw your texts. And then Abby turned up pregnant. It’s so obvious—you’re crazy about Brad. And his girlfriend—and unborn child—got in the way of that.”
She sucks in a quick breath, briskly shakes her head. A look of distaste creeps across her face.
“I didn’t kill Abby.” Her voice is level and strong. “And neither did Brad. I can see why you mightthinkthat, but seriously? Brad’s a good fuck and all, but I don’t care enough about him to kill his girlfriend. In fact, I’ve ended things with him.”
The sun outside escapes from behind a cloud, streaking the room with even more vibrant, buttery light. My back roasts in the heat from the window. I search Margot’s face for signs that she’s lying, but my vision is swimming and my body feels like it’s sinking deeper into the mattress.
Even in my dazed state, though, something about Margot’s words cut through the fog, and doubt begins to crack across my mind, splintering all my assumptions. Something about what she is saying has the ring of truth to it. I don’t know if I fully buy it all, but it dawns on me: Margotdoesn’tseem capable of loving someone enough to kill for them.
But if Margot didn’t kill Abby and frame me for her murder, who did?
My head is spinning with these thoughts when Margot closes the gap between us. She sits next to me, placing her hand on my knee.
“Look. I know you did it, Soph. We all do.” She leans across and kisses my neck.
Disbelief and hot anger swell inside me. I push Margot off me and try to stand, but my legs turn to pudding so I slump back on the bed. My mouth isdry, so dry that I can barely speak, and I’m unable to shout, which is what I’m dying to do. “Why in the hell wouldIkill Abby?”
Margot leans in even closer, loops her hand around my neck. “I know you’re in love with me. And,” she says, sliding her hand up my leg, “I think I love you, too.” Her lips brush against my ear.
“It wasn’t me.” I can barely breathe. I’m on the verge of blacking out—that dreamlike state between awareness and unconsciousness—and my heartbeat is drumming in my ears as Margot moves her hand across my body.
“But you were the only one here,” she whispers, fingers tracing the back of my neck.
No. No, I wasn’t. Once again, the image of Callie wrenching open the front door in search of Margot comes roaring back in my mind.
“Callie came back that night.” I turn and lock eyes with Margot. “She seemed steamed, jealous; she said she was looking for you.”
Margot’s eyes widen.
“She did?”
I nod.
Her fingers stop their trailing for a moment.
Then another vision from that night surfs through my brain: Callie delicately lifting the shotgun from me after I had fired it.
Callie. Fucking Callie.Of courseit was her. She would kill for Margot if she thought that’s what Margot wanted, and she would definitely want to frame me for it. She’s had it out for me this whole time. And I’m positive she’s the one who told Flynn that I’m obsessed with Margot. But my thoughts are cartwheeling, my mind is twirling, and I can’t hold on to anything solid.
