Then another vision from that night surfs through my brain: Callie delicately lifting the shotgun from me after I had fired it.

Callie. Fucking Callie. Of course it was her. She would kill for Margot if she thought that’s what Margot wanted, and she would definitely want to frame me for it. She’s had it out for me this whole time. And I’m positive she’s the one who told Flynn that I’m obsessed with Margot. But my thoughts are cartwheeling, my mind is twirling, and I can’t hold on to anything solid.

Margot plants her hands on my cheeks and turns my face toward hers. “Look, we’ll get you out of this. I promise. Even if it means—”

“Turning on Callie?” I ask.

She nods.

She stands and I think she is going to leave, but instead she closes the door. She turns to face me and reaches her hands behind her neck, untying her top, exposing her perfect breasts. Triangles of bright white flesh outline where her tan lines are. She reaches around her back and unties the rest, and her top slinks to the floor.

A shiver ripples over me. I can’t stop gaping at her. Those breasts, those dark eyes glinting with desire. And soon she’s on me, rolling the bottom of my T-shirt up until it is over my bra, which she unclasps and tosses on the bed. She pulls me even closer so that our bodies are touching. Kisses my neck.

“Sophie,” she sighs in my ear. “I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”

She kisses my cheek, then her mouth is on mine and I want to stop her but I don’t. I can’t. I can barely think or see straight, but one thing is startlingly clear: My body has wanted this for a very long time, too.

I feel her lips and tongue trace my nipples while her hand cups my breasts. My own hands are rubbing her breasts, and she moans in my ear.

I move my hands down her stomach, but they’re clumsy from being drugged and shaky from being nervous.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I wanna take care of you first.”

A shadow pools around us. I think it must be the sun, gliding behind another cloud, but I also feel a presence with us. Eyes watching. I twist my neck to look out the window to check, but Margot pulls my face to hers, kissing me urgently.

She gets down on her knees and unbuttons my shorts. I wriggle out of them. She kisses the inside of my thigh and then slides next to me again on the edge of the bed. She pulls my panties to one side and begins touching me.

I’m shuddering. And moaning. She has clearly done this before. She rubs small, tight circles over me, and before I know it, I’ve shed all my inhibitions and my hips are bucking against her hand, and I hear my voice echoing off the walls as I shout her name.

56

I AWAKEN IN a square patch of moonlight, lying on my side in bed. Margot’s bed. In Margot’s lake house. Tangled in Margot’s high-thread-count sheets.

Jesus.

I can’t believe that happened. My pulse is speedy, live-wiring through my veins, and I desperately need a glass of water.

The room is dark except for the silver-blue headlight of the moon, and I’m alone in bed.

But I don’t feel alone. The hairs on the back of my neck prick to attention and I creak over, rolling up on my other hip. I notice a dark figure leaning in the doorway.

I gasp.

I’m still in my T-shirt, thank god, but I’m bottomless and I clutch at the sheets, fully covering myself.

“Miss Sophie.” Brad’s voice slurs from across the room. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.”

He is drunk, or, at least, he sounds drunk. An air of menace hangs over his expression, which I can fully take in now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark.

It hits me that he might think I killed Abby, and maybe he plans on doing me harm. I wonder where Margot is, if she’s talked to him yet, told him our theory about Callie.

“Where’s Margot?” I ask, trying to sound as parental as possible.

“I was gonna ask you the same.” His eyes are glassy and they move over my body. I feel exposed and vulnerable, and his roving eyes are making me more uncomfortable by the second.

I want to stand, bolt from the room, but he’s got me trapped, and worse, I know he knows it. I follow his eyes as they land on my cutoffs and panties, in a ball on the floor. His full lips spread into a grin. I wonder how long he’s been standing there, watching me as I slept. Acid heaves in the back of my throat.

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh, let’s see.” He combs his fingers through his thick hair. “’Bout half an hour. Margot texted me a few hours ago. Wanted me to come meet her out here tonight.”

I don’t believe him. Because if she wanted him to come out, why is she no longer here? I believe she ended it with him, and that’s why he is acting off.

“Callie here?”

“Nope. It’s just us.” He takes a step toward the bed, his figure blotting out the doorway. He reeks of booze and sweat and his sharp cologne.

“I need to be getting home,” I say, trying to sound forceful, but my voice just sounds desperate, fearful.

“Do ya now?” Brad takes another step toward me.

Adrenaline thunderbolts through me, and I grasp the sheets around me and spring from the bed. I nab my clothes from the floor and shove past him, a burning pain sparking at my shoulder as it connects with his.

“Hey, easy there, Miss Sophie,” he calls out after me.

But I’m racing down the hall toward the great room, where I round a corner and quickly finish getting dressed. I grab my purse and keys and bolt out the front door.

In the glow of the moonlight, I see a black Benz still parked in the drive. I can’t tell if it’s Margot’s or Callie’s but I don’t care; I just need to get the hell out of here.

I climb into the Highlander, slam the door, and punch the lock button. My breath is quick and rapid, and the keys nearly slip from my hand, my palms are so sweaty, but I manage to jab them in the ignition, start the engine, and pull from the drive just as I see Brad’s figure appear in my rearview, standing on the porch, watching as I drive away.

57

IT’S PITCH-BLACK OUT when I pull into the motel parking lot; only a few stray stars dangle from the sky, and the moon has sunk below a rim of pines.

It’s just past ten o’clock. Whatever Callie gave me knocked me out for a solid ten hours. That and the sex with Margot. My cheeks flame at the memory, which is cloudy and blurry, but also exquisitely vivid.

I can’t believe I did that; I can’t believe it happened. It never would have if I hadn’t been so soused. Sure, I’ve wanted it for a long time, but still, with all that’s going on with Graham, no way would I have risked further messing that up if I’d been in my right mind.

I know without a doubt that I will not, and don’t want to, repeat it.

I want to be home with Graham and Jack. And, surely, it was a one-night stand for Margot, too. She doesn’t really love me. Again, I’m quite certain she doesn’t love anyone but herself.

* * *

—

MY BODY MELTS with relief when I finally crawl into bed. Relief from being back in my own domain, but mostly because Margot is going to help me.

In my mind’s eye, I see Callie again, next to the glimmering lake, her blond hair glistening with sweat, lifting the shotgun from me, careful not to wipe off my prints. And I see her later that evening, inside the lake house, offering to clean the guns. No doubt everybody else’s gun but the one I had fired. I think of her open disdain for me, and her clear and open obsession with Margot. Of course I was a threat to that, and, of course, I’d be the one she’d love to take out.

I drift under the covers and sleep for a few restless hours. When sunlight bleeds beneath the blackout shade, I run a steamy shower and prepare for the day.

* * *

—

FIRST, I TEXT Margot.

Hey . . . Call me.

With shaky hands, I fix a four-cup pot of coffee in the room’s pint-size coffee maker. After the machine’s final hiss, I pour myself a cup and taste it. And decide to hit the Starbucks drive-thru instead.

The line snakes around the building, and while I’m waiting, I check my cell. No reply from Margot. She is probably sleeping off her hangover.

After I place my order at the window—triple latte with a chocolate croissant—and pay, I dial Flynn’s number.

He answers on the first ring.

“Detective Flynn speaking.” His voice is clipped and edgy. He must know it’s me calling—how many calls does he get with Chicago area codes?—but I still have to go through the process of announcing myself.

“Hi, Mike,” I say brightly, “this is Sophie.”

Silence.

I pull the car over on the side of the road.

“Listen, I know this sounds crazy, but I really need you to look into Callie Jenkins further. You have to believe me; she returned to Margot’s lake house the night Abby went missing. She’s lying about being home all night with her husband. And he’s lying, too.”

“Is that all?” Flynn sounds annoyed.