“I ditched the rest of practice,” Jamie says, leaning on the edge of the desk. His lips are parted and he trains his eyes on mine. He smells faintly of aftershave—a pleasant, crisp odor—and it’s clear that he’s at least sponge bathed in the locker room. His hair glistens with product, and his breath pops with mint; he’s absolutely expecting that we’re going to get it on, and I feel a prick of both guilt and shame for ever being with him in the first place.
I stand near the side of the bed, careful to keep a few feet between us. “Look,” I say, dropping my eyes to the floor, “I’m really glad you came over. But this isn’t what you think. I can’t be with you; my life is already complicated enough as it is. But I do need your help.”
He blows out a sigh and sinks into the corner armchair in defeat. Runs his fingers through his copper hair.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fold my hands in my lap.
“You must know that I’m under suspicion for Abby’s murder.”
He nods. “And I know you didn’t do it,” he says, raising his voice an octave.
“How do you know that?” I ask. I’m both relieved and genuinely curious.
He drops his eyes to the floor, and his long, bony fingers form a cobweb, fidgeting between his knees.
“Jamie, you need to tell me what you know. My life’s not just complicated; I’m in deep shit here.”
But his gaze is still dropped and his face has turned to stone. I have no booze of my own here to offer him, but I think of the untouched minibar across the room and pry it open.
“Wanna drink? Sorry I don’t have a better selection—”
“Yes, especially if there’s whiskey.”
I lift a doll-size bottle of Crown Royal and snap the lid off.
Jamie sips it, his right foot thumping the floor as he seems to be working out how much he wants to tell me.
“Who do you think killed Abby?” I plead.
Sadness streaks across his face and I think about how he was around her, how I’d suspected he nursed a crush on her.
“I’m sorry she’s gone; I know you liked her.”
He doesn’t try to deny it. Just nods his head.
“Look, when we were together that night at the lake, before you arrived, I scrolled through Margot’s phone. I found a text she had written to Brad. Jamie, she told Brad to get rid of Abby.”
He guffaws, slams the rest of the whiskey.
“Well, I’m not surprised. Sounds just like her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“You have to tell me what you know.”
He studies the backs of his hands, lets out another sigh. “Brad didn’t tell the police everything, okay?” He rises from the chair and begins pacing the short length of carpet in front of the bed.
“Jamie, did Brad—”
“God, no. He treated Abby like shit, okay? But he didn’t kill her. But what I’m about to tell you will make it seem like he did, so you can’t tell anyone.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“I mean it, Sophie. You have topromiseme. Brad’s my best friend. Prick that he can be. And this could get him into real trouble.”
Poor Brad, I think to myself. But I play along. “Of course. This stays between you and me. You have my word.”
