My body goes light and then heavy, like the moment an elevator cable catches, and I have to reach for the counter to stay upright. The 310 number comes roaring back.
Ardell’s eyebrows twitch, like something’s just occurred to him. “What time did you leave the party last night?”
I shrink a little. “Around ten, I think. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Got it. Listen, I’ll follow up if I need any more information.” He waves it off.
“Right.”
I tell him I understand, but my hands are shaking as I place the borrowed key on the counter and move for the front door. I glance back one more time at Ardell and the empty apartment. Then, a wave of dread hits me, and I hustle to my car, trying to outrun the eerie feeling creeping up my back.
Because if Gemma’s death wasn’t an accident, someone wanted her gone.
Chapter 8
I drive back from Gemma’s in a daze—operating on autopilot while my mind is stuck in her nearly empty apartment, where Ardell might still be.
Why did he act like another homicide investigation is unfolding?Didn’t he say it was an accident?
Ardell must know more than he is letting on.
My phone chimes with a new text, and in my center-console screen, I see a notification from the 310 number.
2:07 P.M.
Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Este.
The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle as I flash back to the figure from last night, outside Lemon & Fig, lingering in the dark. I questioned whether it was real. It easily could have been a trick of the eye, a by-product of the headlights flickering across Park Avenue’s brick roads, shadows jumping as cars pass. But now, the messages feel like confirmation of what I feared: The figure I saw outside Marcus’s window was real.
And if 310 is who I think it is, things are only going to get worse.
I pick up my phone and swipe the message away as I ease onto Isle of Sicily Road, slowing when I spot Ford McGinnis in his driveway.
He’s unloading his golf bag from the back of his SUV. He glances up as I stop and roll down my window.
“Hey, Este.” He lifts a hand in greeting, clubs slung casually over his shoulder. In the afternoon light, he fits the pro athlete persona perfectly—sun-browned skin, movie-star smile. But my eyes drop to his legs. And despite what Polly told me this morning, I notice how uninjured his knee seems. Not a brace in sight.
“Ford, hi,” I say carefully. “Nice to see you in town. Beau said you guys were going to play a round this morning, but then…”
“Just got back,” he says easily, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. “Managed to get a few holes in, though.”
His tone is almost breezy. Like he’s not casually talking around the fact that everyone else has been at the police station about a murder investigation. And I can’t stop staring at the knee Polly swore was hurt. No limp. No hesitation as he pivots toward his front door. Strong, steady, as if he could walk eighteen holes without breaking a sweat.
“I didn’t see you at the station earlier,” I say, keeping my voice light.
He pauses, and his face falls, like he’s working to affect a somber attitude about the day’s events. “I was sorry to hear about the waitress from the party last night.”
“She was a manager, actually,” I correct before I can stop the words. Once they’ve left my mouth, though, they feel defensive.
“Sure,” he says. “Really too bad.” He’s silent for another beat before he flashes me that famous McGinnis grin. “My team talked to the police. We all agreed I should stay clear until they’ve got their facts straight. If they need a statement, they know where to find me. After the time my lawyers and publicity had last year cleaning up Heidi’s and my breakup, it’s better for me to keep a low profile.”
Of coursehelawyered up. That’s what pros do—protect themselves first. I should expect nothing less from someone who’s lived half his life in front of cameras. To me, in this moment, though, he looks like a man with something to lose.
But he’s hardly ever here. He’s smart not to risk his reputation on another scandal involving people he barely knows.
“Smart.” I nod, pretending to mean it. “Well, welcome home.”
“Good to be back,” he says, his smile holding steady.
