“What did you think of him? Of them as a couple? Of Abby? Everyone keeps telling me how normal they seemed, how caring and attentive Brad was, but I thought you might have a different perspective. I mean, you haven’t known them all that long, so you might not be as invested in covering for Brad.”

I’m aware of how pin-drop quiet the rest of the house has become. I can imagine the scene on the other side of the wall: Jack has discarded his empty bowl and padded down the hall toward his room to his iPad. And I can sense Graham standing stock-still in the dining room, straining to hear our conversation.

My hands have taken on a life of their own, and I realize I’ve been twisting the bottom of my camisole with them; Flynn clearly notices, too.

This is yet another chance to part ways with Margot’s script, to tell him all I know. But I can’t. I might be bulldozed for it soon but I can’t be the one driving the bulldozer.

“Honestly, I have to agree with what everyone else is saying. They just seemed like normal teens to me, and yes, Brad did seem genuinely caring toward Abby. So, I’m shocked, of course, at this latest turn.” I raise my eyes to Flynn’s, stare at him unflinchingly.

He exhales so sharply it sounds like a whistle.

“Sophie.” His voice is kind but edged with impatience. “I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not telling me everything. That you’re holding something back. Now why is that?”

Because I am.

I swear I can hear the creak of the wooden floorboards in the next room, of Graham shifting his weight in his sneakers. The thought of him absorbing every word of this conversation makes my stomach tighten.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I keep my voice calm and measured. “I wish I could help you more; I really, really do. But I’ve told you all I know, which isn’t much.” I look up at him, risk a brisk smile.

He crosses his arms in front of his toned chest, taps his lips with an index finger. He stands this way for a long, uncomfortable moment and my hands resume their twisting of my shirt.

“Then I guess I ought to leave you alone,” he finally says, “for the time being.”

“Sorry, I really wish I could’ve been of more use.” My hand reaches for the knob on the front door, and when my arm leaves my side, I can feel that my pits are drenched with sweat.

“You’ve got my card, Sophie, if you have second thoughts,” he adds before heading to his vehicle.

I don’t even wait for him to close his car door before I shut the front door and blow out a huge sigh.

I turn around. Graham is standing right in front of me, which causes me to flinch. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” My voice sounds like air hissing from a balloon, spraying all my anxiety from Flynn’s visit all over Graham.

“Sorry,” he says. But he doesn’t look sorry; he looks tense and flustered.

I move to step around him so I can go and check on Jack. Graham touches my arm. “Don’t you think we need to talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird he keeps coming by?” Graham’s voice veers on hysterical.

Yes, I do. “Maybe? But I guess he’s just covering all bases.”

“Are you hiding something?” His normally soothing hazel eyes dart over my face, scanning it.

“What the hell, Graham,” I practically yell. “Why would you even suggest that?”

“I don’t know.” His shoulders slump as he lets out a huge sigh. “But something feels off. You didn’t sound like yourself when you were talking to that detective.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes and I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s right, of course, but I can’t keep the snippiness out of my voice. “You try talking to the police. It’s nerve-racking as hell!” I storm down the hall toward Jack’s room.

48

Monday, April 23, 2018

DIGGING, DIGGING, AND more digging. That’s all I’ve been doing this morning. Plunging my shovel into the earth and scooping out spongy soil. Sweat streams down my back as I tear into the ground, digging deep troughs for a stand of fig trees I’ll buy later this afternoon at the local nursery.

I had to find something to do to keep my hands and mind busy so I don’t go insane. It’s like I’m pitching a tent, claiming space, and saying, “Here is my little plot of sanity.” It’s the only way I can function, the only way I won’t crack in front of Graham or, worse, in front of Jack.

It’s nearly eleven o’clock and the sun is perched overhead, set to broil. I need to call it a day. I can feel my skin beginning to redden, and I need to go inside and refill my water glass. But instead, I plant my foot on the edge of the shovel and keep carving away at the trench. As the blade of my shovel strikes against a stubborn root, I hear the clapping of a car door.

I stand and circle to the side of the house and see Detective Flynn striding toward the front door. Fuck.

“Hi, Mike. I’m out here,” I call to him, motioning to the backyard.

He climbs the hill, and when he reaches me, he flicks a line of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

“Sophie,” he says, dipping his head in deference. “Hard at work, are we?”

“Yep, but I need a break. What’s up?”

We’re standing in the shade of the house, but it’s still too sweltering, so I invite him in. He takes a seat at the dining table and I bring us each a glass of ice water.

Flynn takes a sip and cools his hands on the sides of the sweating glass.

“Let’s try this again,” he says. “Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”

Sunlight dances off his water glass, sending sparkles across the wooden table. My eyes trail the scattered light as it hits notches and grooves on the scarred surface.

What does he know? What has he found out?

He’s probably gotten all of Brad’s texts by now; he’s probably seen the text from Margot. He could know about Jamie and the fact that I’ve lied to him about it just being Margot and me out at the lake house that Friday night, but who knows?

“Look, this is your last chance to tell me everything. Your last chance with just me around. I want to help you, but you need to tell me exactly what went on Friday night and you need to tell me now.”

I study the backs of my hands, which are stained with dirt, despite my elbow-length gardening gloves. My mind is racing. I should’ve gotten a lawyer by now, but how would I have explained that to Graham? I have no idea how to answer Flynn, so I decide to call his bluff.

“I have nothing new to offer you,” I say as I keep staring at the backs of my hands.

He edges his water glass away from him, props an elbow on the table. “I was really hoping to break through here with you, Sophie, I really was. I like you. But I’m afraid we’re going to have to do this differently now. I’m going to have to ask you to come downtown to the station with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Flynn drums his thumbs on the table, fidgets again with the water glass before finally saying, “We got an anonymous tip late last night.” He trains his gaze on the water glass as if peering into a Magic 8 Ball.

“And?”

“And the murder weapon, a shotgun, was discovered in the woods on Margot’s land. Not far from where Abby’s body was.” He looks up and fixes those sky-blue eyes on me expectantly.

Confusion clouds my brain. If they found the weapon, then why does he need to bring me into the station? I guess because he knows I know more than I’ve told him, and now it’s glaringly clear that I have to fess up. This is horrible. But maybe there is a way I can still keep it all from Graham.

“I just need to change into something fresh and I’ll head that way,” I say, standing up and gulping down the rest of my water.

“You’re free to change but you’re going to have to come with me.” Flynn rises also, scraping his chair against the floor as he stands.

“Why?”

“Sophie, please,” he says with thinly masked exasperation. “When they pulled the shotgun from the woods, they were able to recover fingerprints.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

He jangles his keys in his pocket, cocks his head to one side while he delivers the rest. “And the prints on the gun are an exact match to yours.”

49

THE INSIDE OF the interrogation room is meat-locker cold, so I’m grateful for the steaming cup of coffee that Flynn has placed in front of me. The room is bare, but the walls are painted in a warm shade of yellow, calling to mind a preschool classroom instead of a police station. It must be a small-town touch, but it makes the experience of being here even more disorienting, not less so.

The drive to the station was wordless, with me in the back of the cruiser, my mind racing as trees blurred past. How could my prints be on the gun? And how could they have already matched them? But then I remember: being fingerprinted at the DMV to get my driver’s license when we first moved back to Texas.

I squeezed my cell, thought about calling Graham, but couldn’t bring myself to do so. I thought about calling a lawyer, but I don’t know any in Mapleton, or anywhere else for that matter. Why would I?

My thoughts went back to that final Friday night at the lake house, and I heard Margot’s voice in my head.