I’m still weighed down by grief, but in addition to being sad this morning, I’m something else: mad. Furious. Pulse poundingly so.

Creaking from bed, I step into the bathroom and am immediately assaulted by the sharp fluorescent lights. I flick the light switch off and run a hot shower, washing my hair in the dark.

I dress and head downstairs to the breakfast room. The sun-filled room is gloriously empty, except for an elderly man reading the paper (oh god!) and nursing a cup of coffee. I grab a Pepto-pink tray and spoon a helping of what looks to be powdered eggs on my plate, along with a jelly-filled croissant and a healthy stack of charred bacon. I need to fortify myself. My mouth is still pasty from the hangover, so in addition to the gallons of coffee I’m sure to guzzle, I also fill a large glass tumbler with orange juice.

Taking a seat at the window table, I snap a piece of bacon in two, shovel it in my mouth. Margot’s image from the newspaper creeps back into my mind.Fucking Margot. I’m sure her husband is livid, but I bet he hasn’t thrown her out. She’s handling and being handled by her lawyers. Insulated from being under suspicion for Abby’s murder by framing me. I can picture her now, lying out by the lake, sipping a chilled glass of wine without a care in the world.

And that’s exactly where I plan to head to next.

54

IT’S WEDNESDAY, MARGOT’S lake day, and I’m hoping to catch her out there by surprise.

I’m at the edge of town now, turning on the country road that leads me to the lake. I don’t have a real plan of attack, of what I’m going to say or do, but I can’t sit by one second longer and allow her to destroy my life.

Easing onto the lake road under a dome of bright green trees, my hands practically shake on the steering wheel. It’s probably partially the bourbon hangover, but it’s mostly my rage. I think of Jack, waking up this morning, walking sock toed to our bedroom, looking for me, and the fury that’s been simmering all night now turns to a boil until my whole body is quaking.

I’m going to call her out, ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing to me, and let her know she’s not going to get away with it. No matter what I have to do. I’m done rolling over.

I turn down Margot’s drive. The grass is usually shaved and sculpted like a golf course, but today it’s nearly ankle-deep and it occurs to me that the groundskeeper’s work was most likely interrupted when he came upon Abby’s body.

I creep down the drive farther and spot Margot’s black Mercedes. Parked right next to it is Callie’s. Yikes. I hadn’t anticipated Callie being here. I tense at the sight of the pair of cars, and suddenly the fury I was just feeling drains, replaced by dread and adrenaline, filling my mouth with the taste of metal. Slowing the car, I park and step outside.

Even though it’s still early in the day, the heat has already called the cicadas out and their buzzing and hissing fills the steamy air around me. I’m wearing a T-shirt and denim cutoffs, and sweat rings the pits of my shirt. As I make my way around the wraparound porch, I’m hoping the footfalls of my soft leather sandals won’t give me away. I don’t want anything to tip them off. But when I round the corner, there is no sign of Callie outside, only Margot lying out on the dock.

She’s on her stomach, face aimed toward the lake, sprawled on a chaise longue. She holds a magazine with one hand and a glass of white with the other. Her right knee is bent skyward and her foot lazily circles the air above her. Her skin is even tanner than I remembered, and she’s wearing a canary-yellow string bikini with a dramatic thong that punctuates her toned cheeks.

My mind is jumping like a flea as I walk down the planks of the pier; seeing Margot out here like this, carefree, just as I’d imagined, sends the anger surfing through me again. My heartbeat thuds in my ears and even though I’m treading as softly as I can, the wood creaks and groans under my feet.

Margot sets her magazine down.

“Sophie,” she says without even turning around to check that it’s me. “I figured you’d come.”

I stand over her wordlessly, unsure of where to begin.

“I’ve been meaning to call you, to check on you.” She has now rolled herself up on her hips and is looking at me, an elegant curve of her hand shading her eyes.

“Margot, what the fuck?” I say, and am about to continue when she cuts me off.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I had to come clean to the cops. I know, I know I should’ve told you first, but it all happened so fast. I mean, they were going to find out as soon as they saw Brad’s texts, so my lawyer advised—”

White-hot rage is splitting my head in two. I can barely process what she’s saying, and when my voice comes out, it’s shaking with disgust. “You think I’m upset about that? You’re a real piece of work—you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! Graham has thrown me out!” I’m yelling now and my voice bounds off the calm surface of the lake.

Margot swings her legs to the side of the chaise longue, stands eye to eye with me, and plants her hands on my shoulders. “Sophie, look, you need to calm down. I said I was sorry—”

“You fucking framed me.” I swat her hands off my shoulders.

Behind me, I hear the floorboards of the pier squeak. And then Callie’s voice, cold and detached. “You need to leave.”

I’m about to tell her to fuck off, when I turn to face her and see she’s holding a shotgun, aimed at my chest. I freeze. Hair rises on my arms, and my chest flutters with fear. I automatically raise my palms as if in surrender and take a step back.

“Whoa,” Margot says. She steps between us and places her hand on the barrel of the gun, lowering it to the ground.

“Relax,” she says to Callie. “I can handle Sophie. Better yet, why don’t you go and refresh our drinks? And bring Sophie some wine while you’re at it.”

I’m still frozen in place, unable to move, even though the nose of the gun is no longer pointing at me. Callie’s eyes scour my face. She’s still gripping the shotgun, presumably trying to decide whether to follow Margot’s orders.

“Callie,” Margot says, annoyance flashing through her voice, “wake the fuck up and bring me more booze.”

Margot laces an arm around Callie’s lower back, kisses her cheek. “Play nice, please?” She grins up at Callie, snapping her out of her tormented trance.

Callie nods, and swivels toward the house. Margot playfully smacks Callie’s ass as she walks off. “And leave that damn thing in the house!”

My shoulders slouch with relief as I watch Callie retreat up the grassy slope. I almost feel a flicker of gratitude toward Margot, but then remember she’s the one who got me into this mess in the first place.

“Here,” Margot says, tipping her glass of wine to me. “You’ve earned it.”

I hesitate but she gives me a wink and clasps my hand around the glass. My throat is parched and my nervous system is still on overdrive from the gun, so I down the glass of wine in a few greedy gulps.

“Better?” Margot flashes me a sly grin, sinks down onto the chaise longue, and pats the area next to her thigh, inviting me to sit.

I pause for a second, but am so flummoxed by everything that I eventually cave. When I sit down, her knee grazes against mine, and despite everything, a jolt of attraction zaps through me. I dig my fingernails into the bottoms of my thighs to try and make myself focus, and the act of it brings my rage back to the surface.

I’m about to open my mouth and press her, find out what the fuck she did and what the fuck she’s going to do to make things better, when Callie surges onto the dock, brandishing a fabric cooler with a fresh bottle of chardonnay chilling on a bed of ice.

She refills Margot’s glass and then her own before fishing an empty wineglass from the cooler. She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Having any?”

“No,” I say, and shake my head, dropping my eyes to my feet. I need to keep my wits about me. No more wine.

Margot swirls the chardonnay around in her glass, takes a healthy nip. “Mmmmm, second glass is always the best one.”

My mouth waters.

“Try your fourth,” Callie snorts.

“Oh, shut it.”

It feels odd sitting down here, passively watching Callie and Margot calmly sip their wine as if nothing sordid just happened, as if I hadn’t just been held at gunpoint, but I decide it’s the best tactic. My strategy here is to try and fade into the background as they get tipsy, and in doing so, hopefully get Margot to admit everything to me.

But my nerves are shredded and I can’t settle down; my heartbeat bangs in my chest. And the crisp apple taste of Margot’s wine still lingers on my tongue; I’m thirsty for another glass. Just one, to help soothe my nerves and keep me on point.