• • •
But the universe (if you believe in that kind of thing) had other ideas for Greta. Suddenly there she was in Susan’s kitchen, hearing how Susan’s packages went to one Savannah Holmes. Greta didn’t know what Savannah looked like—they’d had no contact back when the accident happened—so the Instagram account didn’t help per se, but as she scrolled, she spotted a comment from Phoebe Byrne. It had to be the same Savannah, right?
When she phoned Jon to cancel Susan’s surprise party, inadvertently interrupting his showdown with his mistress, the opportunity to see Savannah in person was too good to resist. And god, Jon was so pathetically grateful. Of course Greta wanted to protect Susan, prevent her sister from finding out about the affair right in the middle of the shitshow with the Oakpark text. But a huge part of her just wanted to see for herself—was thistheSavannah Byrne?
The clincher was the wedding photo. Sitting proudly on Savannah’s kitchen shelf, because she was too vain to take it down. There was Albie, on Savannah’s arm. And then there was Savannah, right in front of Greta. The woman who drove drunk and gave Greta her limp? She still wasn’t sure.
Greta slapped her, but that was truly for her “not my baby, not my problem” retort. She left, seething, and sat in her car, around the corner from Savannah’s house. White knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel, thinking. She wasthisclose. She needed to know. She really needed to know.
Greta watched as a courier van drove slowly by. Another package for Savannah, perhaps, living her happy life in her lovely house with her very nice things and other people’s husbands.
Greta just needed to know.
So she walked back around to the house, up the driveway, and rang the bell. Savannah opened the door, a furious look on her face.
“What the fuck do you want now? If you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the police.” She put a hand to her cheek. “If people hear you slapped me, it won’t look good for your hockey camp, will it, especially with all the trouble you’re already in. I googled.” A smirk.
“I don’t care about that. There’s something else I need to know. That’s you and your ex-husband in the photo in the kitchen, isn’t it—the wedding photo?”
A frown. “Yeah, so? We’re divorced now.” A shrug.
“Albie Byrne, right?”
“Yes, why?” She was curious, Greta reckoned, to see what this was about. Looking for gossip, almost.
“You were driving that night, weren’t you? The accident? When Albie supposedly broke his ankle? Only I know for certain he injured it skiing a week earlier and couldn’t have been driving.”
Savannah’s face was a picture. How they’d gone from Jon and Susan to this left her scrambling to catch up. But she recovered quickly.
“What are you…why are you asking me this?”
“What was it—drink? You’d had a couple of glasses of wine and didn’t want to admit it to Albie?” Greta nodded toward the bottle of Captain Morgan at the end of the stairs. “Maybe a morning rum and Coke?”
Her cheeks colored. “That bottle is there since last night.”
“Whatever. But I’m right, aren’t I—you were drinking that night, and you were driving, and Albie covered for you? I have proof that he hurt his ankle on the ski trip, and I’m going to the guards with it.” Greta didn’t have proof, only Phoebe’s recollection, and Albie wasn’t likely to admit anything now, but it was worth a shot.
“I don’t know or care where you got your information or why it’s any of your business, but it’s a moot point. There’s a statute of limitations on personal injury claims and drunk driving accidents so”—she threw Greta an in-your-face smile—“there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“It was me in that car, I was the other driver. I have a life-long injury as a result.”
Savannah pursed her lips, taken aback again but trying to hide it.
“Well,” she said finally, “after the way you came into my house this morning, lying about who you were, helping Jon with his charade, and thenslappingme in my own hallway, I’m delighted you have your life-long injury. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”
It was the sanctimonious tone that got Greta. It’s not an excuse, she knows that, but it just got under her skin. Savannah was so delighted with herself, so glad to have got away with it, and no ounce of empathy for Greta, no regret for what she’d caused. Rage surged up inside Greta and, without thinking, she stepped forward and pushed her. There’s no sugarcoating it—she pushed her hard. Savannah stumbled backward, hit her head on the radiator, and that was that.
Greta checked, but she knew even before she went near that Savannah was dead.
Practical, pragmatic Greta kicked in then. The serious sister. The solver of problems. The eldest. The protector. Only this time, she was protecting herself. And honestly, she thinks often, if Savannah hadn’t been dead, she’d have called an ambulance. She’s not a psychopath. But shewasdead. And Greta wasn’t prepared to go to prison for Savannah Holmes.
Savannah’s phone had fallen when she fell, and Greta eyed it, thinking. Nobody knew she was there. Well, nobody except Jon. And Greta really didn’t need Jon believing she had something to do with Savannah’s death. Even if he didn’t go to the guards, he’d fall to pieces and get Greta caught one way or another. As long as Jon believed Savannah was alive when Greta left, and that someone else was in the frame for her death, Greta would be OK.
She thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully, then texted Jon from her own phone.
I’ve left, on way to your office, are you there?
The reply comes quickly.
