But Flynn cuts me off with another wave of his hand. “What we understand, from Callie,” he says, then clears his throat, “Mrs. Jenkins, is that you showed up out there and threatened Mrs. Banks. Is that correct?”

“No, as I explained to you, I went out there to find out why Margot framed me for Abby’s murder. There was no threatening going on, other than Callie pulling a shotgun on me.” My neck burns with anger. “And as I’ve tried to explain, Margot now believes that Callie is actually the one responsible for Abby’s death. And for setting me up for it.”

I chase my words with a big swig of lukewarm coffee.

Flynn’s eyes are locked onto mine and I can feel the pinprick of Wanda’s gaze, but I keep my face turned toward Flynn’s.

“Have you talked to Margot yet?” I ask.

Flynn ignores my question.

“What time did you ‘pass out,’ would you say?” Wanda makes quotation marks with her fingers around the words pass out.

“I didn’t take note of it at the time, but if I had to guess, around noonish.” Whenever Margot was done making love to me.

“And what did you do before blacking out?” Wanda’s lips are curled into that same insipid smile.

Am I on trial for getting it on with Margot? Do they know about that? I twist my hands in my lap, lower my eyes to the table. The hum of the tape recorder makes my nerves twitch and I wonder if I need to call that lawyer after all.

“Like I said, I had a few glasses of wine out on the boat dock and then went inside. And that’s where Margot and I discussed everything.” There. I’m not lying, just leaving out one very important detail.

“And when you came to,” Wanda asks, “who else was out there?”

I take a second before replying, carefully selecting my words. “When I woke up, Brad was there. Brad Simmons.”

I feel a perceptible hitch in Wanda’s line of questioning. I’ve stopped her in her tracks. She and Flynn bring their heads together and pass whispered words between them. Flynn scratches his pen across a notepad.

“You say Brad Simmons was there?” Wanda asks, with a note of surprise, and possibly doubt, in her voice.

“Yes. And he was the only one there. No Margot, and no Callie. I grabbed my things and left.”

“Did he mention what he was doing there?” Wanda folds her hands together, plants them on the table as she leans forward.

“Um, yeah. He told me that Margot had texted him to come out. But, I’m pretty sure he was lying. Margot had ended things with him.”

“And you didn’t see Mrs. Banks at all after you woke up?” This time it’s Flynn, and he chews on the cap of his pen as he waits for my reply, concern darkening his eyes.

“No. Have you talked to her yet? She’ll confirm everything I’m saying.”

Again, Flynn doesn’t answer me. Instead, he jots something down in his notepad and elbows Wanda to look at it. She heaves a huge sigh of annoyance and tosses me a withering look before standing and exiting the room.

I needle Flynn with my eyes. “Well? Have you talked to Margot?”

“No, Sophie, I haven’t.” Flynn leans back in his chair, scratches the stubble on his chin. “Because Margot, Mrs. Banks, is dead. She drowned.”

The blood drains out of my face and hands, and my fingers feel like they’ve been plunged into a bucket of ice. My ears are ringing and my brain can’t begin to process what I’ve just heard. I open my mouth to attempt to speak, but before I can, Flynn starts talking.

“Her body was found early this morning. Floating next to her boat dock. A neighbor, out for an early-morning cruise on the lake, noticed her body as he drove past in his ski boat.”

Flynn’s eyes scan my face as he says this.

I feel as though someone has punched me in the gut, knocking the air out of me.

“So, she’s . . . dead?” What a stupid question, but I had to ask it for some reason. I can’t imagine Margot dead. It’s impossible. She seems too powerful. More powerful than even death.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to figure out.” Flynn traces my face with his eyes, searching.

Well, this explains why she hasn’t been answering any of my texts or calls. But it doesn’t explain what in the hell happened to her.

“I really don’t get it. Are you thinking suicide?” But even as I ask this, I know it’s not true. Margot would never be capable of even entertaining thoughts of offing herself.

Flynn bites his lower lip, shakes his head. “No, this was no accident.”

Margot was a good swimmer, so I agree; I can’t see her drowning on her own.

Unless. Unless she had been drugged, too.

“How do you know? That it wasn’t an accident, I mean?”

Flynn draws in a deep breath and hisses it out between pursed lips. He seems to be trying to decide how much to tell me. “I’ll just say this for now: There were apparent signs of a struggle.”

The back of my throat constricts, and even though I try to hold back the tears, they come gushing out. Flynn averts his gaze for a second, giving me a modicum of privacy, as much privacy as you can get when you’re seated in front of a two-way mirror with a tape recorder picking up everything that comes out of your mouth.

“According to Mrs. Jenkins, you were the last one with Margot. And she never made it home after Wednesday out at the lake.”

His eyes are back on me now, drilling into my own. And it finally dawns on me why I’m here: This is another murder investigation and I’m obviously a suspect. Again.

Fucking Callie. The lying bitch.

What if Callie drugged her, too? What if she had been watching us through the window? I wouldn’t put it past her to go into a demented jealous rage and kill Margot.

I keep the part about being in the bedroom with Margot from Flynn, but I tell him my theory about Callie drugging us both.

He seems unfazed by it, batting it away with another flick of his wrist. I want to reach across the table and tear his hand off his body.

“You can’t prove that anyway,” he says with open exasperation. “The drug leaves your system after twelve hours.”

My shoulders slump in defeat. I can’t win here.

“Now tell me, were you, or were you not, the last person to see Margot alive?”

“I don’t know if I was or if I wasn’t,” I say through clenched teeth. “Like I told you, Callie drugged me, and it sounds as if she drugged Margot as well. I mean, I only saw her swimming once, but Margot was a good swimmer. I can’t imagine her drowning unless she had been drugged.”

Or unless someone forced her underwater and held her down. The vision of a drunk Brad, leering in the doorway of the bedroom, comes back to mind. If Margot really had broken it off with him, no telling what he might’ve done to her.

I don’t know what to think. Or what to say.

“Like I said, when I came to, there was no one else out there except for Brad.” I stare evenly at Flynn as I speak. “And he was drunk, and acting strange.”

This gets a noticeable pause from Flynn. Just like it had with Wanda. Quick, but noticeable.

“I’ll follow up with him,” Flynn says.

“Can’t you see?” I seethe. “Either Callie has set me up—again, I might add—or Brad did something to Margot. I don’t know. I was passed the fuck out.”

“But why? Why would Callie murder her oldest friend?”

“Because she was jealous of my relationship with Margot!”

“And what exactly was your relationship with her?”

My heart thunders in my ears and I feel as though a thousand eyes are on me. I look to the sheet of glass hanging behind Flynn, but all I see is my pathetic, washed-up form in the reflection staring back.

“We were friends. But close. Closer than Callie wanted us to be. Just ask the others, Tina and Jill. They’ll tell you that.”

“You drove out there and confronted Margot. And then, later that night, you’re the only one out there, alone with Brad. And your only alibi—once again—is that you were passed out. I must say, this doesn’t bode well for you, Sophie.”

I’m done here. I’m numb. I can barely lift my eyes to Flynn or think straight. But I still have sense enough to know I can most likely walk out.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. Not at the moment.”

“Then I’m leaving.” My chair scrapes the floor as I push it back from the table, jangling my nerves even more. I cross the room and am at the door when I hear Flynn’s voice again.

“But don’t think this is the last time we’re going to discuss this.”

My back stiffens as he says this, but I don’t turn around or reply. With unsteady hands, I twist the doorknob and step out of the room, brushing past Wanda—who smells of hairspray and loud perfume—as she hurries back to Flynn.

61

Sunday, April 29, 2018

THE SPUTTERING OF the AC window unit rouses me from sleep. It’s six thirty in the evening; I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. A strange mixture of adrenaline and grief blanketed me, making it hard to shut my mind off but also hard to want to do anything other than lie in bed all night, twisting in the coarse sheets, my thoughts racing.