I look at him—studying carefully. And I see the man I fell in love with in the laugh lines by his mouth, formed with countless smiles and inside jokes. He’s always let me be exactly who I am. Even now, he’s not begging or pushing or cajoling. He’s waiting for me to decide.
But I see the cracks, too. The dirt on his clothes. The blood on his arms. The panic in his voice. The ghost of a bruise starting to form on his face.
Did he do something he can’t undo?
Something irrevocable must have happened. Because Simon Avery is floating facedown in the pool we sip cocktails in on Sundays.
Everything’s been unraveling since Gemma died. And I don’t know why.
I don’t know what Beau’s done. I know what I’m going to do, though.
“A Buffalo Nickel Clause,” I say in a faint whisper. “I’ll take care of it.”
And I’m not just talking about the chain.
The officers who arrived first separate Beau and me to get our statements, ushering me to our living room and Beau to the dining room.
Within minutes our backyard is crawling with uniformed officers, and as the sun continues to rise, the higher-ups in the Orange County Homicide Squad have been dispatched to the scene.
Most of the police activity stays central to Simon and the swimming pool.
Detective Ardell arrived around the same time as the homicide squad. His neighborly demeanor dissolved quickly as he took in the scene. He explained that the investigation is contained to the pool area as if that should be comforting. As if my life isn’t falling apart right in front of me.
“The officers can only search in the house if there’s reason to believe a crime occurred inside, which would require a warrant,” he added, glancing in Beau’s direction in the dining room. That was hours ago, and Beau and I are still separated. No one is talking to us, but I listen for sound bites and stray conversations. I heard one of the officers say that it looked like Simon’s neck was broken.
No one says murder. But everyone knows what this is. The blood in my pool. The stains on Beau’s shirt. The stern expressions on the officers’ faces. Everything about this scene is damning.
I want to tell them about the Redwood hack, and Simon harassing me. I want to tell them I think Simon killed Gemma.
But then who killed Simon?
Bringing any of it up just piles more motive on Beau and me. So I shut up, speaking only when spoken to.
Never my strong suit. But worth it for the right cause.
A cop with salt-and-pepper hair and a name tag that readsPowellbombards me with questions. What time did I go to bed? What time did I wake up? When was the last time I saw Simon? And Beau?
With the Buffalo Nickel tucked into the inside pocket of my shorts, I tell him everything I know about what happened overnight, which isn’t much. Our security cameras went out with the power, and any surveillance of what happened during the storm is lost.
Turns out, I was wrong about the generator not being a real problem today.
I wonder what Beau is saying. He’s sitting a stone’s throw away in the dining room, waving his hands with conviction about something I can’t hear. I wonder if it’s good or bad thatArdell is the one to question Beau. They’ve always seemed to get along, and Ardell shows favor to the people he likes. Still—maybe because of his willingness to show bias—I don’t trust him.
From the couch, I watch the forensics team cordon off our yard with police tape, preparing to pull Simon’s body from the pool. My stomach turns as Officer Powell’s radio crackles with the news that the coroner’s arrived.
With the doors to the pool deck shut, most of what’s going on outside is muffled. But I watch the steady hum of movement as early afternoon arrives. They pull a privacy screen across the deck, blocking our view as they lift Simon from the water.
Simon.
I knew that chest. That man. I knew him so well, I could predict what he wanted for lunch based on the way he lifted his eyebrows. He was terrible and complicated andsomeone.
I wanted him to leave us alone, but not like this.
I can’t see much—only the shadowy outlines of people moving behind the screen.
But the moment they turn his body over, I feel it. The static in the air shifts. The air inside the house sharpens. The officers become more tense, more focused.
“What’s that? What happened?” I ask Powell, sitting up straight to get a better view.
