I peel myself out of bed and cross the room to open the blackout shade on the window. Buttery sunlight spills into the room, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.

My mind is a whirring blender. I’m still reeling from the aftermath of Abby’s death and the fallout from that, and now this: Margot is gone.

It’s nearly impossible to wrap my head around that fact. I can still feel her lips on mine, can still smell her intoxicating perfume as if it’s pressed on my skin right at this very moment.

I’m in shock, and the shock of it all has numbed me. My feelings are mixed, which baffles me. On the one hand, I was obsessed and entranced by Margot—locked under her glittering spell—but I wasn’t in love with her. And part of me had even grown to hate her. So I don’t feel the deep grief of losing someone close, say, a family member, or the gut-wrenching pain I feel from Graham’s tearing Jack away from me.

But I am sad, and it’s disorienting for her to simply be gone. Poof. Out of this world. And also, disturbing to think of her—this larger-than-life presence—as what she was in her final moments: a victim.

More than anything, the news of Margot’s death feels surreal to me. And I can’t, of course, quit thinking about who did it.

Callie is front and center on my list; I have no trouble believing that she caught us in the act, drugged Margot, and then killed her. She was the only one out there while Margot and I were together. Maybe seeing us, locked in each other’s arms, was enough to finally drive her over the edge.

And then she quickly set the stage for framing me for it, by hurrying over to Flynn the next morning to see if he thought a restraining order needed to be issued against me, barring me from Margot.

I’m certain it’s her.

But Brad also creeps back into my mind. The strange way he was behaving. The lie he told about Margot asking him out to the lake, when she had in fact ended things with him. He was acting like a jilted lover, and who knows what that could have driven him to do. Maybe he murdered Abby as well. But that doesn’t explain the fact that I was framed for Abby’s murder, most likely by Callie. I don’t know what to think, don’t know which way is up. The only thing I do know is that the one person who could’ve helped me out of this mess is now dead.

And there’s Jed. I think back to that eerie post Margot put on Facebook after our night in Dallas, of Jed clutching her shoulder in front of the church, jaw squared, with menace on his face. And the scowl I glimpsed just last night.

There’s no lack of people from whom Margot could’ve incited a crime of passion. I know I wanted to strangle her myself in the end.

I can’t shut down my hamster-wheel mind, and the worst part of it is, I have no one to talk to about it. To my surprise, Graham texted me earlier this morning.

I heard about Margot. I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say.

Stupidly, I called him, thinking we could discuss it. But he didn’t answer, only replying with a curt text.

I don’t want to talk to you. I just wanted to let you know that I knew.

Such a dick text but I guess I deserve it. I nearly picked up the phone to call Tina, but my pride wouldn’t let me. And in desperation to hash this out with someone, someone half-sane, I even thought about calling Jill. But of course I can’t do that; I’m sure she thinks I murdered Abby just like everybody else does. And no telling what Callie has told them since. Everyone must think I killed Margot as well.

My mouth is dry and parched; I twist the lid off a bottle of sparkling water. It scorches the back of my throat but it’s a good, refreshing kind of burn.

This morning, just after daybreak, I padded to the corner store to restock supplies—bottles of Perrier, bags of chips, packages of almonds, and cheap cans of chicken noodle soup. I paused by the rack of wines, draped my fingers over a bottle of red, but left it. Since yesterday, I’ve lost my taste for alcohol.

At the cash register, I saw a thick stack of Sunday’s paper and added one to my purchase, spying Margot’s name across the front page.

Back in the privacy of my motel room, I read the article. It was just a brief piece, really, giving scant details: Prominent socialite dead. Cause of death: drowning. Due to obvious signs of a struggle, police suspect foul play.

The wealthy, it seems, are immune from having their privacy invaded.

It did point out that Margot’s drowning came on the heels of Abby’s disappearance and murder. And they both occurred on the same piece of property. It wrapped up by saying the police are investigating to see if there’s a connection.

I shuddered when I read that last part. In Flynn’s mind, I’m the connection.

The walls of this small town are closing in and I’ll most likely rot in jail here if I don’t do something. So that’s why tomorrow I’m going to go see the only person left in Mapleton who might talk to me. Jamie.

62

Monday, April 30, 2018

IT’S FOUR THIRTY when I steer the Highlander into a remote spot in the Mapleton High School lot, careful to park as far away from other cars as possible. Little has changed about the school since I went here nearly twenty years ago. Same ivy-choked redbrick building, same pine tree–rimmed parking lot, and same football field, which I glimpse at a distance through my window. A carpet of green sunken into the hillside, encircled by first-rate stands and a fancy concession. No cost spared by Mapleton’s affluent booster club. And from the looks of it, apparently the same, nearly year-round, after-school football practice. I can see tiny figures skimming across the length of the field, and even with my windows up, I can hear the shrill blast of the coach’s whistle.

I step out of the car into the damp heat. Sunlight trickles through a net of treetops, but even in the shade, it’s scorching and sweat pools around my neck. I pluck at my shirt to cool myself off.

When I left the motel earlier, I popped into the corner store and bought a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap, the only kind available. And while I feel downright ridiculous wearing it, I’m hoping the hat, along with my large shades, will keep me incognito.

As I near the field, I’m relieved to see that other than the football players and coaching staff, there aren’t too many other people around. Just small clusters of what look like parents scattered in clumps near the bleachers and along the track.

I spot Jamie right away, his red hair catching the sun as his limber body streaks across the field. Brad is on the sidelines, bent over, sucking in huge gulps of air as sweat pours off his head. I position myself next to a tree and gnaw on a fingernail as I watch the players run drills.

Even though it seems as if no one has taken notice of me, I can’t steady my breathing or slow down my heart rate, which stutters and pounds in my ears. I scan the faces of the adults, hoping I don’t see Jill among them, and when I’ve confirmed she’s not here, a pent-up sigh oozes out of me.

I don’t have a real plan for how to catch Jamie’s attention, so I bore my eyes into him hoping that he’ll somehow pick up on my intent gaze, even though it’s shielded behind my sunglasses. After a few minutes of this, I realize it’s not going to work. I’m going to have to approach him. So when he heads toward one of the fluorescent-orange coolers, I stride across the track and close the gap between us.

He’s slugging water—Adam’s apple bobbing up and down along his throat—and I step to the cooler, lifting a paper cup from the metal sleeve. My hand shakes as I press the spout and fill my cup. He’s about to step away, when I call his name.

He turns to me with a befuddled look, as if he doesn’t recognize me (mission accomplished), before his confusion gives way to recognition.

“Sophie!” he says, too loudly, as his lips part into a warm grin.

“Shhhh.” I give my head a brisk shake. Digging into the pocket of my denim shorts, I fish out the crumpled note I’d penned earlier and pass it to him.

I need to talk to you. Meet me at the Sunshine Inn, Room #203 today after practice. It’s important.

Still smiling, he locks those absinthe-green eyes on me and arches his eyebrows suggestively. I give a tight smile back. I don’t want to encourage him, but I desperately need him to come over; so be it if he thinks we’re going to hook up.

I drink the plastic-tasting water and crush my cup, pitching it into the trash can before turning to leave and doing the walk of shame back up the hill toward the parking lot.

63