BACK IN THE motel room, I dig my cell out of my bag and dial Margot again. Straight to voice mail. But this time, I leave a message.

“Margot, it’s me, Sophie. Look, I don’t know what’s going on but you need to call me. You promised you’d help get me out of this. I talked to Detective Flynn and evidently Callie’s trying to set me up even more than she already has. Destroy my life even more than she already has.” Despite trying to keep my voice even, emotion seeps into it and I’m nearing the verge of hysteria as I spit out the next words. “I need you to help me; I need you to call me right away. Please.”

* * *

—

NEXT, I SEND her a text.

Just left you a vm. I really need you to call me back. It’s important. XO, S

My cell feels like a dead thing in my hand and I’m sick of clutching it, waiting for her to respond.

I flop back onto the mattress and drift off into a nap.

* * *

IT’S EVENING NOW. Well past nine o’clock. I’m sitting on the edge of the motel pool, dragging my calves through the water. My skin is fluorescent white against the glare of the pool lights, but I’m the only one out here to notice how ghastly they look.

I couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer, holed up like a caged animal, scanning my phone constantly, so I’m parked out here, nearly finished with the remainder of last night’s merlot. I tip the nose of the bottle into my plastic cup, shaking it to get every single drop out.

The warm night air and the sound of chirping crickets would be soothing under any other circumstances, but nothing—neither the wine nor the balmy atmosphere—can calm me down tonight.

I’m losing my mind. Growing more agitated by the minute.

Margot still hasn’t responded. I tried calling her one last time but it went straight to voice mail again and I couldn’t bear to leave another message.

All I can think is that she’s decided she’s not going to help me; she’s had second thoughts about turning on Callie. Callie is her best friend after all, and completely insane and vindictive to boot, so maybe it was foolish of me to ever believe she’d turn on her in the first place.

But what I know is this: I’m currently the main person of interest in Abby’s murder, Callie has stacked the deck against me, and if Margot won’t turn on her, I’m screwed.

My mind is leapfrogging over the varying possibilities, running rampant with different scenarios. The scariest one being this: What if Graham somehow finds out about what I did with Margot? I would most likely lose Jack forever and Graham would never forgive me. What if Callie was spying at the window watching us, and decides to tell him? What if that was their plan all along?

How could I have been so blindingly stupid?

What if Margot never had any intention of helping me? Maybe she was just trying to “handle” me, as she said to Callie. What if she had sex with me only to fuck me over even more?

Why is she ignoring me?

But surely I’m being nutty. Perhaps she’s just on a bender out at the lake. Maybe she’s even staying out there instead of at home. That would make sense. Especially given the scowl on Jed’s face. I’m sure he wants as little to do with her as Graham does with me.

If I weren’t half-drunk, I’d climb in the Highlander and speed out there right now, Flynn’s orders be damned.

But I can’t risk getting pulled over, so instead, I slam the rest of my wine. Pull my legs from the tepid water and towel them off. Inhale a huge breath of damp night air and tell myself I’m just being paranoid.

When has Margot ever operated under anyone else’s rules? I may be in a hurry to get all of this settled and behind me, but that doesn’t mean that she is.

I’ll go out to the lake tomorrow and everything will be fine. She’ll come forward with me and I’ll start to untangle myself from this mess I’m in. I hope.

60

Saturday, April 28, 2018

I’M IN THE breakfast room sitting at a window seat, staring out at the gray sky. It’s overcast today, and milky white light fills the breakfast room, which is empty save for me.

I’ve slept in; it’s nearly ten thirty, so the breakfast bar has been raided and picked over by now, and the only sound in the room is the clink of my spoon as it strikes the side of my cereal bowl. Raisin bran and cold milk. Breakfast of champions. I hate living like this. I miss home and my kitchen and Graham’s omelets and Jack’s pudgy hands on my face. I miss my espresso machine, the comforting hug of my own bed, my own bath, but more than anything, I miss them. A red-hot pain surges in my chest just thinking about it, and fresh tears burn my eyes.

I push the bowl across the table and dig out my phone from my bag. It just chimed and I have a new notification, but it’s not from Margot. It’s just a ping from my calendar, reminding me to craft a new blog post. As if.

I clear it and drop the phone in my bag. Dig out a five-dollar bill for a tip for whoever has to bus the tables here, and tuck it under the corner of the cereal bowl. The carafe of coffee across the room beckons, so I grab a paper to-go cup and nearly fill it, leaving an inch for milk. I’ll take it on the road with me to Margot’s lake house; surely it will perk me up.

I’m in the parking lot, heading for the Highlander, when I see Detective Flynn striding toward me. My heart seizes. Maybe he found out I went by Margot’s house yesterday.

He’s on me before I can even think of what to say.

“Morning, Sophie.” He gives me a brisk nod but I can’t read his expression; his eyes are cloaked behind his pair of aviator sunglasses.

“Hey, Mike,” I say, my voice feeble and tentative. “What’s going on?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, what is this about?”

“It’s about the other night at the lake. Wednesday night.”

My mind races and the coffee trembles in my hands. “What about it?”

“That’s all I can say here.” He looks around as if he’s worried others are listening in on us, but the parking lot is deserted. “I’d prefer to discuss this at the station. So, if you’ll come with me—”

My first thought is relief. Relief that I’m not busted for stalking Margot’s house. And also hope. Maybe he’s heard from Margot and she’s turned on Callie.

“Sure,” I say with a grin that he doesn’t return.

* * *

—

AS I STEP into the frigid interrogation room, I notice that Detective Watkins is banked behind the table. Ugh. I’ve clearly lost all footing and clout with Flynn if he’s seen the need to have her present. She’s dressed in a tacky purple pantsuit and lifts her eyebrows at me as I take a seat.

I’m still clutching my coffee from the motel, so I decline Flynn’s offer for more and he rounds the table, taking a seat next to Wanda. I’m having my first sip when I notice Flynn punch the red record button on the tape recorder. I feel my stomach tighten into a ball. I have no idea what’s about to happen here.

“So, Mrs. O’Neill,” Flynn starts, leaning back in his chair. “I understand you were out at Margot Banks’s lake house this past Wednesday?”

“Yes. As I told you, I went out there to speak with her—”

“And what time was this?”

“Is this about Callie and what we talked about?” I’m dancing around our previous conversation about Callie framing me, wanting to keep my guard up in front of Wanda.

Flynn waves his hand dismissively, shakes his head. “What time?”

I feel the hairs on my arms begin to rise. Why is he questioning me like this, under these circumstances, when I’ve already called him myself to tell him all of this?

“I guess it was about eleven?”

“And what time did you leave?” This time it’s Wanda asking the question. She taps the tip of her pen along the table as she waits for me to respond.

“I’m—I’m not sure.” I think back, try and remember exactly when it was that I left. “Must’ve been after nine?”

Flynn and Wanda exchange a look.

“You don’t remember?” Wanda asks, her razor-thin lips curling at the edges.

“Well, I was passed out. I—”

“Again?” Wanda asks pointedly. “This seems to have become a pattern of yours, Mrs. O’Neill. Drinking too much, blacking out—”

“But I hadn’t had too much to drink, that’s the thing, I—” I flick my gaze to Flynn. “I—there’s something else I needed to tell you about that day, Mike, um, Detective Flynn.”

He tilts his head as if waiting for me to continue, but I pause, hoping he’ll grant us a moment alone. He doesn’t.

I’m whittled down by Wanda’s stare, but I manage to spit it out. “Callie drugged me. Again. She slipped something in my wine that day—I swear I’d only had a few glasses—and that’s why I passed out. She’s done it before to me, once when—”