“Callie here?”
“Nope. It’s just us.” He takes a step toward the bed, his figure blotting out the doorway. He reeks of booze and sweat and his sharp cologne.
“I need to be getting home,” I say, trying to sound forceful, but my voice just sounds desperate, fearful.
“Do ya now?” Brad takes another step toward me.
Adrenaline thunderbolts through me, and I grasp the sheets around me and spring from the bed. I nab my clothes from the floor and shove past him, a burning pain sparking at my shoulder as it connects with his.
“Hey, easy there, Miss Sophie,” he calls out after me.
But I’m racing down the hall toward the great room, where I round a corner and quickly finish getting dressed. I grab my purse and keys and bolt out the front door.
In the glow of the moonlight, I see a black Benz still parked in the drive. I can’t tell if it’s Margot’s or Callie’s but I don’t care; I just need to get the hell out of here.
I climb into the Highlander, slam the door, and punch the lock button. My breath is quick and rapid, and the keys nearly slip from my hand, my palms are so sweaty, but I manage to jab them in the ignition, start the engine, and pull from the drive just as I see Brad’s figure appear in my rearview, standing on the porch, watching as I driveaway.
57
IT’S PITCH-BLACK OUTwhen I pull into the motel parking lot; only a few stray stars dangle from the sky, and the moon has sunk below a rim of pines.
It’s just past ten o’clock. Whatever Callie gave me knocked me out for a solid ten hours. That and the sex with Margot. My cheeks flame at the memory, which is cloudy and blurry, but also exquisitely vivid.
I can’t believe I did that; I can’t believe it happened. It never would have if I hadn’t been so soused. Sure, I’ve wanted it for a long time, but still, with all that’s going on with Graham, no way would I have risked further messing that up if I’d been in my right mind.
I know without a doubt that I will not, and don’t want to, repeat it.
I want to be home with Graham and Jack. And, surely, it was a one-night stand for Margot, too. She doesn’treallylove me. Again, I’m quite certain she doesn’t love anyone but herself.
—
MY BODY MELTSwith relief when I finally crawl into bed. Relief from being back in my own domain, but mostly because Margot is going to help me.
In my mind’s eye, I see Callie again, next to the glimmering lake, her blond hair glistening with sweat, lifting the shotgun from me, careful not to wipe off my prints. And I see her later that evening, inside the lake house, offering to clean the guns. No doubt everybody else’s gun but the one I had fired. I think of her open disdain for me, and her clear and open obsession with Margot.Of courseI was a threat to that, and, of course, I’d be the one she’d love to take out.
I drift under the covers and sleep for a few restless hours. When sunlight bleeds beneath the blackout shade, I run a steamy shower and prepare for the day.
—
FIRST, I TEXTMargot.
Hey... Call me.
With shaky hands, I fix a four-cup pot of coffee in the room’s pint-size coffee maker. After the machine’s final hiss, I pour myself a cup and taste it. And decide to hit the Starbucks drive-thru instead.
The line snakes around the building, and while I’m waiting, I check my cell. No reply from Margot. She is probably sleeping off her hangover.
After I place my order at the window—triple latte with a chocolate croissant—and pay, I dial Flynn’s number.
He answers on the first ring.
“Detective Flynn speaking.” His voice is clipped and edgy. He must know it’s me calling—how many calls does he get with Chicago area codes?—but I still have to go through the process of announcing myself.
“Hi, Mike,” I say brightly, “this is Sophie.”
Silence.
I pull the car over on the side of the road.
