“Actually, I’ll have a glass after all.”

“That’s my girl,” Margot says, pivoting her body so that her back rests against the chaise longue, which she raises to a sitting position. She slings her legs over mine as if we are little girls at summer camp and she’s about to fill me in on how her school year went. It’s so hot out that when a breeze passes over the water, it doesn’t feel refreshing; instead, it feels like opening the door to a clothes dryer and having the heat blast your face.

With a stiff arm, Callie passes me a glass.

I take a small, tentative sip. And because of the hangover, I chase it with a larger one. Margot’s right about one thing: I do need to calm down, but not for her sake. I need to calm down so I can think straight, gather intel, and formulate my plan. Obviously, sheer anger will get me nowhere with these two conniving psychos.

Callie is parked on the opposite chaise longue, sunglasses lowered, facing the water.

“Trouble at home?” Callie asks me with the corner of her mouth lifted into a grin. She dips her ankle into the lake and traces a slow figure eight with her foot.

I want to shove Margot’s legs off of me and plunge Callie into the water, but I stick to my game plan. Remain calm. Act unbothered.

“It hasn’t been the best couple of days, but I’ll get through it.” I sip my wine, and for the first time in days, I feel my muscles relax.

Strips of sunlight comb through the tops of the willow trees lining the shore, and I watch as the shadows of leaves rake back and forth along the chaise longues. I haven’t even finished my whole glass, but I’m feeling more tipsy than I should. Especially since I ate a pound of bacon for breakfast. Though the surface of the lake is still, without a boat cutting a wake in sight, I feel like I can see the water expand and contract. Expand and contract. I look over to Margot, and then to Callie, and it’s as if I’m peering at them through a looking glass—my vision is fuzzy around the edges.

Something isn’t right. And I’ve realized what it is after it’s too late: Callie’s drugged me again.

I cup Margot’s ankles in my hands, gently pushing her legs to the side so I can stand. Floating up from the chaise longue, I feel like I’m on stilts with everything out of proportion.

I take a deep breath and steady myself.

“Feeling okay?” Callie’s voice drifts over to me.

“Fine, just need to pee.”

I walk along the pier toward the house and try not to stagger.

I have to get out of here. I have to get in my car and somehow manage to drive. No telling what they’re planning on doing to me next, but I can’t wait around to find out.

55

I PULL DOWN the handle to the glass patio door and step inside the lake house. The room is chilled from the blasting AC, but I welcome it; after the drowsy heat outside, the cold is helping to sharpen my senses.

I glance over my shoulder at the boat dock—Callie and Margot are still beached on their chaise longues. I release a huge sigh; I’m glad they haven’t trailed me inside.

The great room seems to tilt a bit as I cast my eyes around it, but I’m nowhere near as drugged as I had been in Dallas. Sheets of sunlight throb through the windows and I can hear the motor of the AC unit humming as if I’m sitting on top of it, but at least I’m still mobile. Sort of. When I take the steps up into the kitchen, my shin strikes the final one and I crash to my knees on the wooden floor.

I push myself to standing. I have to outrun the effects of the drug; I have to escape before I’m fully bombed. I swing open the fridge and yank out a bottle of spring water, twist off the lid and down half of it.

I sway down the hallway toward the guest bath and flick on the lights. They pulse, filling the room with stuttered light. I stare at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed pink, and dark circles rim my eyes, which are bloodshot and dilated. My hair is frizzy from the swampy heat, my T-shirt clings to my chest, moist with sweat, and I have the look of a woman tossed from her house and holed up in a dinky motel room.

The faucet gives way under my trembling hand, gushing out cold water. I cup my palms beneath it, splashing some on my face to try and make me even more alert. A lush, seafoam-green towel dangles from a hook and I use the corners of it to dab my face dry.

But the bottled water and the face bath in the sink have done little to sober me up. If anything, I’m growing more woozy by the second.

I step into the hallway. The light is muted here, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkened space.

“Sophie.” I hear Margot before I see her. She is standing at the entrance to the living room, leaning against the hallway wall.

My skin crawls at the sight of her, and I try and think of what to do next. But before I can make a move, she sashays down the hall toward me, her leonine legs working the floor as if she is a runway model. She’s still only dressed in the yellow bikini, and it’s hard to ignore her smoldering figure as she approaches me.

Without another word, she takes my hand and tugs it, leading me down the hall, to the master bedroom. I have no choice but to follow. Maybe without Callie around, I can finally unleash on Margot.

A sheer, lemon-colored curtain hangs in the window, bathing the room in yellow. It must be the roofie coursing through my bloodstream, but the light in here feels as if it’s been refracted through a glass of lemonade.

As I stand in the room next to Margot, the sharp cold of the AC has dulled and it feels stuffy, overheated. I sink down on the side of the bed, feeling light-headed. Margot remains standing in front of me, near the doorway.

“Clearly, you’re pissed,” she says. “So, let’s talk about it.” She fans her palms out in front of her like she’s laying out a deck of cards, and the air fills with the tropical scent of her suntan oil.

Anger pinches my chest. I can’t believe she’s being so cavalier about everything; she clearly believes she has the power to mind-fuck me.

“Talk about it?” My voice cuts through the hazy air. “There’s nothing to talk about! You murdered Abby. And then you framed me for it.”

Her eyes flash up at me. Dark and probing. “Hold on a sec. You think I killed Abby?”

“I do. You and Brad.” I spit the words at her. “Margot, I saw your texts. And then Abby turned up pregnant. It’s so obvious—you’re crazy about Brad. And his girlfriend—and unborn child—got in the way of that.”

She sucks in a quick breath, briskly shakes her head. A look of distaste creeps across her face.

“I didn’t kill Abby.” Her voice is level and strong. “And neither did Brad. I can see why you might think that, but seriously? Brad’s a good fuck and all, but I don’t care enough about him to kill his girlfriend. In fact, I’ve ended things with him.”

The sun outside escapes from behind a cloud, streaking the room with even more vibrant, buttery light. My back roasts in the heat from the window. I search Margot’s face for signs that she’s lying, but my vision is swimming and my body feels like it’s sinking deeper into the mattress.

Even in my dazed state, though, something about Margot’s words cut through the fog, and doubt begins to crack across my mind, splintering all my assumptions. Something about what she is saying has the ring of truth to it. I don’t know if I fully buy it all, but it dawns on me: Margot doesn’t seem capable of loving someone enough to kill for them.

But if Margot didn’t kill Abby and frame me for her murder, who did?

My head is spinning with these thoughts when Margot closes the gap between us. She sits next to me, placing her hand on my knee.

“Look. I know you did it, Soph. We all do.” She leans across and kisses my neck.

Disbelief and hot anger swell inside me. I push Margot off me and try to stand, but my legs turn to pudding so I slump back on the bed. My mouth is dry, so dry that I can barely speak, and I’m unable to shout, which is what I’m dying to do. “Why in the hell would I kill Abby?”

Margot leans in even closer, loops her hand around my neck. “I know you’re in love with me. And,” she says, sliding her hand up my leg, “I think I love you, too.” Her lips brush against my ear.

“It wasn’t me.” I can barely breathe. I’m on the verge of blacking out—that dreamlike state between awareness and unconsciousness—and my heartbeat is drumming in my ears as Margot moves her hand across my body.

“But you were the only one here,” she whispers, fingers tracing the back of my neck.

No. No, I wasn’t. Once again, the image of Callie wrenching open the front door in search of Margot comes roaring back in my mind.

“Callie came back that night.” I turn and lock eyes with Margot. “She seemed steamed, jealous; she said she was looking for you.”

Margot’s eyes widen.

“She did?”

I nod.

Her fingers stop their trailing for a moment.