“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lizzie said. “I don’t take Xanax.”
“No, but you do take alprazolam, which is the active ingredient in Xanax.”
She uttered an incredulous laugh. “You think I gave Ali Xanax?”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because he learned a pretty damning secret about who you really are and what you’re capable of. That’s why you wanted me to believe Ali was mentally unstable, to hide your complicity, to make me think he needed medication.”
“What’s wrong with taking Xanax?”
“Absolutely nothing. I’m sure it helps people who need it. But Ali didn’t take Xanax because he needed it. You drugged him with your Xanax.”
She threw up one hand. The other one was still carrying the dumbbell. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t take Xanax or alpha ... whatever you called it.”
“I saw the bottle, Lizzie.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but you’re welcome to look at the meds on my counter. I told you that I take all sorts of things for my stomach.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Do you really?” Exasperation rippled through each word. “Then be my guest and go get the incriminating evidence and take it straight to the police.”
I studied her, wondering what to believe.
“Maybe you want me to go get this mystery medicine?” She darted into the bathroom. Panic streaked through me. Was she getting rid of evidence? I barreled after her. When I burst into the bathroom, Lizzie was nowhere in sight. That’s when I realized my mistake. A noise came from behind me. I started to turn around.
Pain exploded against my head before everything went black.
“You fucking killed her?” A man’s furious voice drifted through the darkness.
“Relax.” A woman’s voice. Lizzie. She sounded far away. “I just hit her with a weight.”
“Jesus. Just?” the man said incredulously. “You’re fucking nuts.”
The sounds of their conversation echoed in my ears. My head throbbed, pain pulsing between my temples. I felt like someone had struck me in the head with a bowling ball. I struggled to open my eyes, but my eyelids were too heavy.
“You have to hit me,” Lizzie’s voice said.
“What?” the man’s voice retorted. “Why?”
“The police have to believe Amira and I struggled. I’ll say that I was working out and she came in and attacked me. I had to hit her with the weight. It was self-defense.”
I grappled to make sense of my surroundings. Where was I? Then I remembered. Lizzie’s hotel. We argued—I couldn’t remember why—and then she’d ... ambushed me?
“Why would Amira Abadi attack you?” the man said. “Who’s going to believe that idiotic story?”
“The cops bought it when we told them about Daddy, didn’t they? They’ll buy our story this time too.”
“Ourstory?” he retorted. “It’syourstory.”
“Whatever,” Lizzie said dismissively. “I’ll say Amira lost it and came after me in a rage over my affair with her husband.”
“In your dreams.” He scoffed. “You weren’t fucking Ali. He wanted nothing to do with you.”
“Shut up!” Her voice grew shrill. “He would have married me if his parents hadn’t insisted he marry his own kind. They’re so backward.”
