“Mrs. O’Neill?” Detective Flynn’s voice cuts through my reverie.

“Oh, yes, sorry. After dinner I went out to Margot Banks’s lake house.”

“And what time was this?” Wanda asks.

“Let’s see.” My hands are now clasped together, my thumbs logrolling over one another. “I guess I left the house about six thirty p.m.”

“And what was the nature of your visit to Mrs. Banks’s lake house?” Wanda asks, hitching a burnt-orange, penciled-in eyebrow up her forehead.

If anybody asks you about Friday night, just tell them I was with you. Yikes. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to mention that the rest of the Hunting Wives were out there, too. I venture into this line of questioning slowly.

“We meet out there on the weekends sometimes. To chill, to have a few drinks. Like a ladies’ night,” I say vaguely.

“Yes,” Flynn says. “We’ve already talked to your friends. Jill, Callie, Tina, and Margot.” I sense a note of disdain in his voice as he says their names. It’s slight, but it’s there. As if he can read my thoughts, he changes tack, offers a quick smile. “Just confirming some details.” He leans back into the sofa and clasps his hands behind his head.

I suck in a deep breath, exhale. Thank god I didn’t just lie to them about the other three being out there. I get the sense that Wanda is trying to trip me up, trick me into lying. I have to be careful here.

“Drinking, huh?” she asks, her mouth pressed in a flat line, her eyes following her pen as she scribbles in her notebook. She glances up at me.

“What else do you do out there, besides drinking? Fish? Swim?” Her eyes are now dancing with delight. She’s getting off on this. Fuck. I opt for the truth.

“Well, we also shoot guns,” I say, certain they can hear the hitch in my voice. “Shotguns. Just for sport. Skeet, to be exact. I—I’m not that into it. I’ve only been out there a few times and I’ve only shot twice; I’m a total rookie,” I add, hoping this makes me seem all the more innocent.

The sounds of Wanda’s pen scratching across the page sets my already threadbare nerves on edge. I look up at Flynn, who leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. I hope I’m not the first one who’s told them about the guns.

“Yes, your friends mentioned that to us as well,” Flynn offers.

A sigh of relief oozes from my lungs.

“What time did you leave the Bankses’ lake house that night?” he asks.

“Gosh, it was late,” I say. My hands are clammy and I keep wiping my palms on the sides of the armchair, trying to dry them.

Flynn and Wanda both stare at me, waiting for me to cough up an answer.

“Honestly, I had a bit too much to drink.” I feel Wanda’s eyes narrow at this admission. “And I thought it might be best if I waited to drive home until I sobered up,” I add, hoping this paints me as responsible. “But I actually passed out on the sofa.”

“And what time was this?” Wanda asks brusquely.

“What time did I pass out?”

“Bingo.” She’s grinning again.

“Ummm, let me think.” I rack my brain, try to remember.

“Look,” Flynn says, “we know that Miss Wilson was with her boyfriend, Brad Simmons, until about ten thirty p.m. And we’ve confirmed that Brad was with a friend after that for the rest of the evening.”

A friend.

I shift in my seat, pray he doesn’t see me swallow the hard lump that has formed in my throat.

“What we’re trying to figure out is what could’ve happened to Abby after Brad dropped her off.”

He looks at me encouragingly, as if to imply I’m not under any suspicion.

“Our working theory is that someone followed Miss Wilson to her door that night. That someone was possibly stalking her. There’s no shortage of gun-crazy, deranged sickos around here, so we’re telling everyone to steer clear of not just the actual crime scene but also the Bankses’ lake house in general for now. So I have to advise you not to go out there for a while. Until it’s safe.”

I can feel Wanda’s gaze trained on my face, can feel her sour smile even though I refuse to glance in her direction.

“It’s also possible that Miss Wilson was murdered elsewhere, and that her body was later dumped on the Bankses’ land,” Flynn says, then clears his throat. “Sophie,” he says, switching from the more formal Mrs. O’Neill, “I’m not trying to scare you, but for all we know, you ladies were also in grave danger that night.”

I feel my eyes widen and I nod my head as if in agreement.

“And anything you can tell us about that night would really help. Did you notice anything at all out of the ordinary? While you guys were out on the land or once you were back inside the lake house? Anything suspicious? Cars that might’ve passed by? Unusual sounds?”

I shake my head, narrow my face into a mask of concern as if I’m deeply pondering something.

“No, nothing comes to mind. It was just a normal night. Except for the fact that Margot wasn’t feeling great, so we cut the night short. I mean, the others left just before nine, which is kind of early for us. But I stayed.”

“And why’s that?” Wanda asks.

“Margot asked me to,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Their attention seems to prick at this admission. “I mean, she wasn’t up for a full-on girls’ night but she wasn’t ready to call it a night, either. So I stuck around and we chatted and drank wine. Too much of it, obviously.”

A nervous giggle escapes my lips but then I immediately put my serious face back on.

“I can tell you for certain that I was awake until midnight. I remember that very clearly because I knew I should’ve been heading home.” I straighten up in the chair, fold my hands together in my lap.

“That’s good. That’s very good,” Flynn says. “And about what time did you finally leave?”

“Just before three a.m. I remember that clearly, too, because it was so late and I knew my husband would be worried about me.”

“And was he?” Wanda asks, her mouth pressed into a smirk.

“He was actually asleep when I got home,” I say triumphantly.

“So he didn’t hear you come in?” she asks.

“Not when I first came in, but I took a shower almost immediately and that woke him up.”

Wanda nods, flips a page, and begins filling it with fresh notes.

“And just to confirm, everyone else left by nine, you say?” Flynn asks.

“I think around nine, yes.”

The image of Callie banging on the door, yanking me out of my middle-of-the-night blackout, flashes in my mind but I don’t offer up this bit of information. I feel like at this point it’s best to stick to Margot’s story.

“And Mrs. Banks”—Flynn looks up at me as he asks this—“was she passed out, too?”

I blow a stream of air out of my cheeks. Think about how I should answer. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Margot didn’t prep me on how to answer this question. Fuck.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” I say, as if I’m being anything close to honest.

“So it was just the two of you out there. No one else?” Flynn presses me.

No one else except for Brad. And Jamie, who later fingered me.

“Yeah, it was just us,” I manage. “Kind of creepy to think someone else might have been out there, too, though.”

Flynn gives me a clipped nod.

“What was the last thing you remember before blacking out?” Wanda asks.

“Stretching out on the sofa, drifting off.”

I hope Margot has told them the same thing.

“And when I woke up, I didn’t take note if Margot was still around or not. I saw the time and bolted. I knew I needed to get home. I just assumed she was asleep in her bedroom.”

Flynn considers this, nods again.

I glance at Wanda, but her face is a blank and she’s busy writing down everything I say.

At his hip, Flynn’s cell buzzes and he silences it, but the buzzing persists.

“It’s headquarters. Mind stepping outside and calling them for me?” he says to Wanda, who sighs but rises and strides out the front door.

* * *

—

WITH WANDA OUT of the house, the very air inside my living room feels different. Lighter. If Flynn did that on purpose, it’s worked. I instantly feel more relaxed with her gone.

“I could use some more water,” I say to him. “Sure you don’t want anything, Detective Flynn?”

“A glass of water actually sounds nice,” he says. “And please call me Mike.” He slings a foot over the tattered ottoman, stretches his arm behind his head.

I grab a tumbler from the cabinet, pluck a few ice cubes from the freezer, and fill it with tap.

“Here you go.” I pass the glass to him and sink back into the armchair.

“Thanks.” He takes a few small sips and sets it down on the red-lacquered side table. “Sophie, if I may ask, how long have you lived in Mapleton? Your friends said you were new to town.”

My friends. Are they really?

“Not very long. Eight months or so.”

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago; well, just outside of Chicago.”

“Yep, thought so,” he says with a sheepish smile.