“I’ll follow up with him,” Flynn says.
“Can’t you see?” I seethe. “Either Callie has set me up—again,I might add—or Brad did something to Margot. I don’t know. I was passed the fuck out.”
“But why? Why would Callie murder her oldest friend?”
“Because she was jealous of my relationship with Margot!”
“And what exactlywasyour relationship with her?”
My heart thunders in my ears and I feel as though a thousand eyes are on me. I look to the sheet of glass hanging behind Flynn, but all I see is my pathetic, washed-up form in the reflection staring back.
“We were friends. But close. Closer than Callie wanted us to be. Just ask the others, Tina and Jill. They’ll tell you that.”
“You drove out there and confronted Margot. And then, later that night, you’re the only one out there, alone with Brad. And your only alibi—once again—is that you were passed out. I must say, this doesn’t bode well for you, Sophie.”
I’m done here. I’m numb. I can barely lift my eyes to Flynn or think straight. But I still have sense enough to know I can most likely walk out.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. Not at the moment.”
“Then I’m leaving.” My chair scrapes the floor as I push it back from the table, jangling my nerves even more. I cross the room and am at the door when I hear Flynn’s voice again.
“But don’t think this is the last time we’re going to discuss this.”
My back stiffens as he says this, but I don’t turn around or reply. With unsteady hands, I twist the doorknob and step out of the room, brushing past Wanda—who smells of hairspray and loud perfume—as she hurries back to Flynn.
61
Sunday, April 29, 2018
THE SPUTTERING OFthe AC window unit rouses me from sleep. It’s six thirty in the evening; I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. A strange mixture of adrenaline and grief blanketed me, making it hard to shut my mind off but also hard to want to do anything other than lie in bed all night, twisting in the coarse sheets, my thoughts racing.
I peel myself out of bed and cross the room to open the blackout shade on the window. Buttery sunlight spills into the room, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
My mind is a whirring blender. I’m still reeling from the aftermath of Abby’s death and the fallout from that, and now this: Margot is gone.
It’s nearly impossible to wrap my head around that fact. I can still feel her lips on mine, can still smell her intoxicating perfume as if it’s pressed on my skin right at this very moment.
I’m in shock, and the shock of it all has numbed me. My feelings are mixed, which baffles me. On the one hand, I was obsessed and entranced by Margot—locked under her glittering spell—but I wasn’t in love with her. And part of me had even grown to hate her. So I don’t feel the deep grief of losing someoneclose, say, a family member, or the gut-wrenching pain I feel from Graham’s tearing Jack away from me.
But I am sad, and it’s disorienting for her to simply be gone. Poof. Out of this world. And also, disturbing to think of her—this larger-than-life presence—as what she was in her final moments: a victim.
More than anything, the news of Margot’s death feels surreal to me. And I can’t, of course, quit thinking about who did it.
Callie is front and center on my list; I have no trouble believing that she caught us in the act, drugged Margot, and then killed her. She was the only one out there while Margot and I were together. Maybe seeing us, locked in each other’s arms, was enough to finally drive her over the edge.
And then she quickly set the stage for framing me for it, by hurrying over to Flynn the next morning to see if he thought a restraining order needed to be issued against me, barring me from Margot.
I’m certain it’s her.
But Brad also creeps back into my mind. The strange way he was behaving. The lie he told about Margot asking him out to the lake, when she had in fact ended things with him. Hewasacting like a jilted lover, and who knows what that could have driven him to do. Maybe he murdered Abby as well. But that doesn’t explain the fact that I was framed for Abby’s murder, most likely by Callie. I don’t know what to think, don’t know which way is up. The only thing Idoknow is that the one person who could’ve helped me out of this mess is now dead.
And there’s Jed. I think back to that eerie post Margot put on Facebook after our night in Dallas, of Jed clutching her shoulder in front of the church, jaw squared, with menace on his face. And the scowl I glimpsed just last night.
There’s no lack of people from whom Margot could’ve incited a crime of passion. I know I wanted to strangle her myself in the end.
I can’t shut down my hamster-wheel mind, and the worst part of it is, I have no one to talk to about it. To my surprise, Graham texted me earlier this morning.
