Saturday, April 21, 2018

IT’S SATURDAY AFTERNOON, nearly four o’clock, and I’m driving over to Callie’s. The sky is cloudless and the heat is unrelenting. It’s pizza-oven hot inside my SUV, and sweat pools on my chest. I blot it with the top of the cotton camisole I’m wearing and blast the AC.

Last night I stayed on the phone with Tina for another ten minutes while she told me all she’d heard: At the time of her death, Abby was approximately two months pregnant. Presumably Brad’s. And Jill is falling to pieces, of course.

“She needs us,” Tina explained, so we’re gathering again at Callie’s house this afternoon.

Graham isn’t too happy about it, especially after our interrupted date last night, but in the end, I convinced him that I needed to make an appearance.

“I know this sounds awful, but you’re not even really that close to them, are you?” he asked, nursing a third old-fashioned, the alcohol seeming to numb his usual sensitivity.

“Does that matter? I mean, Jill’s whole world is crashing down!”

And, of course, I want to comfort Jill in any way I can, but also, I have to find out the latest. I need to know everything and I need to know it now.

“I’m being a dick; I’m sorry.” Graham folded his hands between his legs.

I scooted closer to him, rubbed his back. “Thanks for understanding, honey.”

* * *

—

TINA ALSO TOLD me that Jill had no idea Abby was pregnant, and that according to Brad, he didn’t know, either. I find it difficult to believe that Abby would’ve kept this from Brad. Surely that’s the real reason he was trying to dump her. And, most likely, the reason he killed her. I no longer wonder if Brad did it; I’m certain he did. And I’m positive Margot helped him. After Graham slid into a bourbon slumber last night, I panicked and almost called Flynn. I sat at the kitchen table with my cell parked in one hand and the detective’s business card in the other. I flicked the edge of it with my thumbnail, so much so that I tore it, but in the end, I couldn’t force myself to make the call.

* * *

—

MARGOT, CALLIE, AND Tina are all gathered on the sectionals in the living room, clutching tall glasses of iced tea. Like last time, Rosa greets me at the door and shows me in. She strolls to the kitchen and returns with a glass of iced tea for me. It’s sweetened with sugar and it’s exactly what I need after the blast of afternoon heat.

Margot lifts her chin to me when I walk in and Callie gives me a deadpan “Hello.”

“This is tasty, Rosa, but please, I need something stronger,” Margot pleads. Rosa disappears and returns with a chilled bottle of Ketel One vodka, plants it in the center of the glass coffee table.

Margot twists the lid. “I know I’m bad, but this shit is stressful,” she says, pouring a layer of vodka on top of her tea. “Any other takers?”

Callie, as usual, copies Margot precisely and tops off her own glass and Tina follows suit.

I decline. “Mommy duty for the rest of the evening, I’m afraid,” I say. But really, I’m in no mood to get soused while being here. I can feel Margot’s disapproval beam at me from across the room, but I won’t look in her direction.

“Where is she?” Margot asks, twisting a thin silver watch around her wrist.

“She just texted me,” Callie says. “She’s heading over now.”

Naked sunlight beams into the back garden and bounces off the water feature. The effect is blinding and makes me squint. I feel uneasy being here. I feel off center, as if the whole world is about to tilt into an uncomfortable direction.

Jill opens the front door and stands in the entryway for a moment, fanning herself. She’s dressed in a black wrap sundress, and giant, rounded sunglasses cover her face. Margot crosses the room, envelops her in a hug.

“Here, have a sip.” Margot passes Jill her tea, once they’re seated.

Jill takes a long, slow sip. She sets down the drink and removes her glasses. Her eyes are as swollen as used tea bags, and she pats the lids with her ring finger.

“They, they—” Jill starts to say, but then her voice cracks. Margot slides closer to her, reaches out to pat her arm. Jill exhales, then continues: “They ransacked Brad’s room this morning. The police. And his car. He’s the primary suspect now.” She’s shaking, and when Margot tries to put an arm around her, to console her, Jill shrugs her away.

“I mean, he didn’t even know Abby was pregnant!” Jill’s voice rises into a shriek. “He would’ve told me if he did, I know he would’ve. I mean, I’m his mom, and he keeps things from me, but he would’ve told me this. Bastards. He’s heartbroken over Abby and now he has to deal with this. It’s all so unfair.”

“Wasn’t he with Jamie all night? Isn’t that enough for the police?” Callie asks.

At the mention of Jamie’s name, my face flushes.

“You would think so, but apparently not,” Jill says. She picks up Margot’s tea, slams the rest of it. “They’re saying there’s no one else to verify the boys’ alibis. They haven’t arrested Brad, but after they tore through his room, they confiscated his phone.” Jill sighs. “His texts were all deleted. He always erases them; he doesn’t like me combing through his business, but it’s not like they’ll find anything anyway. But the cops told me they’ll get access to all of it in a day or two from the cell company. I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

I risk a look at Margot and see that she’s fidgeting and visibly uncomfortable.

Get rid of her.

Flynn will see the text and then he’ll know. He’ll know about Brad and Margot, and before long he’ll know about me and Jamie, too. It will all come out. I feel nauseated. Like I’m on a runaway train.

“That’s seriously fucked up. I’m so sorry, Jill,” Callie says. “You guys have a good lawyer, right?”

Jill waves a hand dismissively. “Of course we do. And we’ll get through this.” She rattles the ice around in the empty tea glass. “Brad isn’t perfect, but he’s also not a killer.”

47

IN THE CAR on the drive home from Callie’s, the iced tea crept up into the back of my throat; I felt like I was going to be sick. Just before I left, Margot had locked her eyes onto mine as if to say, Stick to the story.

I’m back at home now, busying myself in the kitchen, dishing up bowls of rocky-road ice cream for Jack and Graham. I have no appetite, but I spoon myself a fist-size amount into a dish, just to play along. As I lick the back of the metal ice cream scoop and drop it into a glass of water in the sink, there’s a knock at the door.

Before I can turn to answer it, I hear Graham already opening the door and greeting someone. Detective Flynn. I know this because I hear Jack’s excited voice, pealing down the hall. “Police guy! Police guy!” Which is what he calls the cops. He must’ve clocked Flynn’s cruiser.

Graham’s face is flushed as I step into the entryway.

“Detective Flynn, this is my husband, Graham,” I say, even though I’m quite sure Flynn has already introduced himself.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Flynn says, smiling to Graham, his dimples winking. “And this little guy must be—”

“Our son, Jack,” Graham says, protectively slinging an arm around Jack’s shoulders.

“What can I do for you?” I ask. The inside of my mouth is filmy with ice cream.

“Do you mind if I come in and have a word?”

“Not at all, of course. Honey,” I say to Graham, “ice cream’s up in the kitchen if you wanna . . .” I motion with a flick of my head for Graham to take Jack into the dining room.

Flynn steps inside but we remain standing in the entryway, out of earshot of Jack and Graham. He fiddles with his keys before slipping them in the pocket of his dark dress jeans.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard about the autopsy report, but it was determined that Abby was pregnant at the time of her death.”

I nod. “I have indeed. It’s terrible. I don’t even know what to say.”

“I have to let you know,” Flynn says, dropping his gaze to the floor, “that this pivots our investigation considerably.”

“Meaning?”

“The boyfriend, Brad Simmons, is now our lead suspect,” Flynn says, pasting his eyes on mine.

I swallow. Try and take a measured breath. Swipe the back of my hand along my hairline, which is damp with sweat.

Flynn looks at me expectantly, and I feel my eyes widen as if I’m oblivious.

“Your friends,” he continues, “mentioned that you all were at the Simmonses’ lake house a week before Abby vanished.”

“Yes, that’s right. I was there.” My voice sounds foreign to my ears, faraway and robotic.

“So, you met Abby. And you met Brad, and saw them together?” His blue eyes trace my face, searching for clues.

I nod.