“He probably had to bring your grandmother in to appease Bernie.”
“Maybe.”
It’s true that she was making an unholy ruckus, wailingabout sabotage and how poor Bradley never stood a chance. The idea that someone (who is obviously not my grandmother) deliberately stole the BRO EpiPen in hopes that Bradley would randomly have a fatal allergy attack is far-fetched. Then again, the average game of Killing Me Softly is at least that convoluted. Improbability is not the strongest argument for Grandma Lainey’s innocence.
“Do you ever think about what kind of witness you’d make?” Felix asks. “Like if you were in the courtroom.”
The real answer isAll the time. It’s one of my cherished fantasies about myself: that I would blow everyone’s mind with my meticulous recall of crucial details. Time, place, what people were wearing, physical descriptions, you name it. I used to practice guessing people’s heights, so I’d be able to confidently say things likeThe suspect was approximately six feet tall.
Under the circumstances, Felix’s question hits differently. “Why do you ask?”
“Between the two of us, we could totally prove that your grandmother had nothing to do with the BRO thing. Don’t you think?”
I want to smile, because it’s such a nice thing to say, but instead my eyes fill with tears.
“Oh shit.” Felix sets down his plate. “I’m sorry!” He looks like he wants to give me a comforting pat me but isn’t sure where to put his hand.
“It’s not you. It’s me,” I tell him.
“Are we breaking up?”
That knocks me out of my doom spiral. “What?”
“Sorry. Bad joke. I’m nervous.”
I gurgle a laugh, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Can I tell you a secret?”
He hesitates. “I think so. I tend to be a bit of a gossip, but only with small stuff.”
That’ll have to do. “I heard her moving around. That night—after Bradley died. She went out on the balcony.”
Felix absorbs this in silence. “Is that unusual?”
“I don’t know. But I feel like a real asshole for even thinking it might mean something.”
“Or maybe you’re an observant person who doesn’t lie to herself.”
I wish I could tell whether he’s trying to cheer me up or actually believes it.
“I bet I know what would make you feel better.”
“I already ate all the ice cream.”
“This is more of an intellectual challenge.” He leans closer, so I get the full impact of the glint in his eyes. “Let’s make a case file. Spin some theories. I’m sure your grandmother isn’t the only one who looks suspicious on paper.”
“I thought you were going to say we could watch something cheesy on Netflix.”
His face falls. “Would you rather do that?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll be right back,” he promises, hopping to his feet. At the door, he pauses to look back at the couch, where I am still huddled like a mound of laundry with limbs. “Try not to miss me too much.”
I pretend to sigh in exasperation, because it feels less vulnerable than admitting how much I don’t want to be alone.
True to his word, Felix returns a few minutes later with a sketchpad and a handful of pencils. “Sorry I don’t have a whiteboard.”
“That’s okay.” Even though it means sitting thigh to thigh so we can both see the page propped half on his lap and half on mine.
