I’ll go out to the lake tomorrow and everything will be fine. She’ll come forward with me and I’ll start to untangle myself from this mess I’m in. I hope.
60
Saturday, April 28, 2018
I’M IN THEbreakfast room sitting at a window seat, staring out at the gray sky. It’s overcast today, and milky white light fills the breakfast room, which is empty save for me.
I’ve slept in; it’s nearly ten thirty, so the breakfast bar has been raided and picked over by now, and the only sound in the room is the clink of my spoon as it strikes the side of my cereal bowl. Raisin bran and cold milk. Breakfast of champions. I hate living like this. I miss home and my kitchen and Graham’s omelets and Jack’s pudgy hands on my face. I miss my espresso machine, the comforting hug of my own bed, my own bath, but more than anything, I miss them. A red-hot pain surges in my chest just thinking about it, and fresh tears burn my eyes.
I push the bowl across the table and dig out my phone from my bag. It just chimed and I have a new notification, but it’s not from Margot. It’s just a ping from my calendar, reminding me to craft a new blog post. As if.
I clear it and drop the phone in my bag. Dig out a five-dollar bill for a tip for whoever has to bus the tables here, and tuck it under the corner of thecereal bowl. The carafe of coffee across the room beckons, so I grab a paper to-go cup and nearly fill it, leaving an inch for milk. I’ll take it on the road with me to Margot’s lake house; surely it will perk me up.
I’m in the parking lot, heading for the Highlander, when I see Detective Flynn striding toward me. My heart seizes. Maybe he found out I went by Margot’s house yesterday.
He’s on me before I can even think of what to say.
“Morning, Sophie.” He gives me a brisk nod but I can’t read his expression; his eyes are cloaked behind his pair of aviator sunglasses.
“Hey, Mike,” I say, my voice feeble and tentative. “What’s going on?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Okay, what is this about?”
“It’s about the other night at the lake. Wednesday night.”
My mind races and the coffee trembles in my hands. “What about it?”
“That’s all I can say here.” He looks around as if he’s worried others are listening in on us, but the parking lot is deserted. “I’d prefer to discuss this at the station. So, if you’ll come with me—”
My first thought is relief. Relief that I’m not busted for stalking Margot’s house. And also hope. Maybehe’sheard from Margot and she’s turned on Callie.
“Sure,” I say with a grin that he doesn’t return.
—
AS I STEPinto the frigid interrogation room, I notice that Detective Watkins is banked behind the table. Ugh. I’ve clearly lost all footing and clout with Flynn if he’s seen the need to have her present. She’s dressed in a tacky purple pantsuit and lifts her eyebrows at me as I take a seat.
I’m still clutching my coffee from the motel, so I decline Flynn’s offer for more and he rounds the table, taking a seat next to Wanda. I’m having my first sip when I notice Flynn punch the red record button on the tape recorder. I feel my stomach tighten into a ball. I have no idea what’s about to happen here.
“So, Mrs. O’Neill,” Flynn starts, leaning back in his chair. “I understand you were out at Margot Banks’s lake house this past Wednesday?”
“Yes. As I told you, I went out there to speak with her—”
“And what time was this?”
“Is this about Callie and what we talked about?” I’m dancing around our previous conversation about Callie framing me, wanting to keep my guard up in front of Wanda.
Flynn waves his hand dismissively, shakes his head. “What time?”
I feel the hairs on my arms begin to rise. Why is he questioning me like this, under these circumstances, when I’ve already called him myself to tell him all of this?
“I guess it was about eleven?”
“And what time did you leave?” This time it’s Wanda asking the question. She taps the tip of her pen along the table as she waits for me to respond.
“I’m—I’m not sure.” I think back, try and remember exactly when it was that I left. “Must’ve been after nine?”
