“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re clearly not from around here.” His blue eyes lock onto mine. His gaze is kind and under other circumstances—say, if I were single and we had met in a bar and he wasn’t interrogating me on my whereabouts—I think I’d feel the slightest stirring of attraction take hold. My eyes sweep to his hand and I note the lack of a wedding band.

“I’m not, either,” he says, his smile spreading into a wide grin as if we’re sharing an inside joke. His hair is closely cropped into a buzz cut, the blond stubbles tipped with gray. I wonder if he’s ex-military but he seems way too warm and easygoing for that. “I’m from Dallas. Oak Cliff area. Been here two years. Believe me, I know what a shock to the system this place can be.”

“So why did you move?”

He rubs his jaw, which is freshly shaven. Pauses for a second before answering. “Divorce.”

I feel my face grow hot. My tongue is thick in my mouth; I don’t know how to respond. I mutter, “Sorry,” and bring the water glass to my lips, shielding my face.

“Life,” he says, tossing his hands in the air. “What ya gonna do?” The same grin spreads across his face. He wags his foot back and forth on the ottoman and I feel a closeness to him; I feel like we could indeed be at a bar together, sharing a drink.

“So how’d you meet them?” he asks, still smiling.

“Who?”

“Margot, Callie—”

“Oh yes, of course, sorry.” I set my glass down, lean back into the chair. “At a fundraiser. An old friend of mine . . .” A sting of emotion pricks my chest as I think of Erin. “Is involved in that sort of thing.”

“Got it,” he says. “And Margot.” He drawls out her name and his eyes stay steady on mine. “You two have become close?”

He doesn’t say it but I can tell he doesn’t like Margot. I can imagine him trying to interview her, and how she probably came off to him. Snooty, icy. I bet he doesn’t like the others, either. He can tell I’m different from them, and he likes me, I decide.

Am I close to Margot? I’m obsessed with her. We’re not close but we played spin the bottle Friday night.

I raise my hand to my mouth, plant my chin in my palm. “I mean, we just met a month or so ago, so we’re not like super close or anything, but yeah, we hit it off, I guess you’d say.” I’m stammering now, dancing around the truth.

“Sophie, is there anything else you’re not telling me?” His eyes search mine. “You don’t have to protect anyone.”

The sun outside has torn through the clouds, and light spills between us. And I trust him, I do. I think of Margot and Brad, and I want to tell him everything I know. It’s right here, dangling from my lips, begging to be yanked out. I want to come clean, spill it all to him. I can’t believe I’m lying to the police. But I think of Graham, and my stomach lurches and I can’t say the words. I can’t tell him the truth. I would lose Graham forever and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

“I wish there was,” I say, my gaze meeting his, my hands now steady on my lap. “I wish there was some way I could help, but honestly, I’ve told you everything I remember about that night.”

His head hangs down and I register his disappointment. But he quickly recovers his sunny demeanor and stands. Fishes in his pocket and hands me his business card.

“My cell’s written on the back. Please do call me if you think of anything. I know this has been nerve-racking, and something might come to you later when you’re not being put on the spot.” He offers me his hand again and I shake it.

“Detective—”

“Please, it’s Mike—”

“Mike. Thank you,” I say, but I don’t even know what exactly I’m thanking him for. For being nicer than Wanda? For pretending to accept my lies? For not pushing me any further today?

“My pleasure, Sophie.” He gives my shoulder a pat with his broad hand before turning to leave. It smells woodsy and clean like soap. I follow him to the front door and watch as he steps out into the humid morning and climbs into the cruiser with Wanda, who cuts her eyes toward the house.

45

IT’S NIGHTTIME. I’M in the dimly lit kitchen, muddling bitters with sugar cubes for old-fashioneds. Graham’s second of the night and my first, after a glass of brisk chardonnay.

I need something stiff after this day, and also, before I spring the news on Graham about the cops stopping by today.

* * *

—

AS SOON AS Wanda and Flynn left, my phone was lighting up with a call from Tina.

“Did the police come over to your house, too, today?”

“They just left actually.”

“What all did they ask you? What all did you tell them?” Tina’s voice was a rapid-fire assault weapon in my ear. I relayed everything I told them.

“This is getting seriously freaky.”

“I know.” I couldn’t muster more than two-word answers for Tina after being drilled by Flynn and Wanda this morning.

“Sophie,” Tina said, then lowered her voice. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Brad was the last one with her? I mean, do you think he killed her?”

Yes. Yes I do. Either alone or with Margot’s help.

“It is strange, I agree,” I offered. “But the detective confirmed to me what Jill told us, that Brad was with his friend Jamie for the rest of the night after he dropped Abby off.”

“The male detective?”

“Yep.”

“He was kinda hot,” Tina said, her voice growing devilish.

“Yeah, he was.”

“I dunno, I would never say anything to anyone else, so please keep this between us, but I just think it’s strange about Brad,” she said, her voice settling back into a near whisper. “I mean, I hope to god that’s not the case—and it’s probably not—and Jill would kill me for thinking this, but I dunno, isn’t the boyfriend always a suspect?”

“Have you talked to anyone else? Callie, Margot? How is Jill?”

“Callie says Jill’s too distraught to come to the phone. She stopped by her house for a minute, told me Jill was a mess.”

“That’s terrible.” I plopped onto the sofa, felt my stomach form into a tight knot thinking about Jill.

“It really is, and I’m terrible for saying that about Brad.”

“Keep me posted,” I said, hoping to end the call. It worked.

* * *

—

I CARRY THE two cocktails into the living room and nestle next to Graham on the sofa. He’s in a playful mood and after he takes a sip, he leans over and kisses me, slides a hand under my shirt and rests it on my stomach.

“Mmmmm,” he says in a low voice in my ear, “you taste so good.”

I’m always shocked at how handsome he is, but here in the maple-colored, lamp-lit room with bourbon dancing through my veins, he looks especially delectable.

I brush my mouth against his, trace his velvety lips with the tip of my tongue. “Not as good as you.” I run my finger down the front of his shirt, stop at the top of his jeans. I kiss him again while fiddling with the button. My arms are covered in goose bumps and I want him so bad.

From the side table, my phone jumps to life. We both freeze.

“Ignore it,” he moans.

I want to, I really do, but I can’t. “Gimme a sec,” I breathe into his ear.

It’s a text. From Tina.

You need to call me. As soon as you can.

I let out a sigh and set the phone down. The mood is blown. I wanted to tell Graham about Detective Flynn stopping by in my own time tonight. I wanted a normal moment with Graham, a break from thinking about all of this. But now that moment is punctured and the inky sickly feeling spreads over me again.

“What is it?” Graham asks.

“So, the police came by today.”

“The police? Here?” He fastens his jeans, straightens up on the sofa. “Why did they come here?”

“It’s no big deal, honey,” I say, without a trace of conviction in my voice to back it up. “They just wanted to ask me some questions. Abby was found out on the land, you know.”

“Guess so, but what would you know? And why didn’t you say anything about this earlier?”

“I was waiting for the right moment. And they just wanted to know if I’d seen anything suspicious out there. Like you said, it could’ve been me.” My voice rises and I’m in danger of sounding indignant. “Anyway, that’s Tina texting. She wants me to call her. I told her to keep me posted about Jill.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry. Make the call.”

“Thanks. Sorry, honey.” I swipe the phone from the table, step into the dining room, and angle myself away from Graham.

“What’s up?” I ask, with more annoyance in my voice than I intend.

“Sophie.” Tina’s voice is tinged with what sounds like fear. “I just hung up with Callie. Jill just called her.”

“And—”

“The full details of the autopsy are in.”

I suck in my breath and hold it, steeling myself for what I’m about to hear.

“And Abby . . .” Tina’s voice sounds more spooked than I’ve ever heard it. “Abby was pregnant.”

46