“And, of course, when it turned out to be your prints,” she sighs, “well, that was collateral damage. And it was unfortunate.” She licks her lips, gives her head a quick shake.

“I wanted to kick myself later for not paying more attention. I wanted to get Margot back so badly for all she had done, sleeping with Brad and everything. When I got back to the lake house, I told Abby that we were going for a boat ride. That Brad was out on the Bankses’ land, drinking beers with Jamie. That I had spoken with him and that he told me he didn’t want to break up with her after all, and that we were going to work something out.”

Jill’s eyes finally meet mine, as if she suddenly remembered that I’m here, that she’s talking to a real person. They narrow into slits and she snorts out an ugly laugh.

“And, of course, I knew Margot was still seducing my son, even after Abby’s death. Are you dumb enough to think I wasn’t watching his every move after that? I installed spyware on Brad’s phone, monitoring every text that came through. So when Margot had the nerve to keep banging him, I had to intervene. Again. I intercepted her text—the one she sent Brad the night I drowned her—and that was it for me. The fucking slut. I knew I had to take her down.

“And now, I’m going to have to take care of you, aren’t I? It will look like a suicide. And everyone will believe it. Especially you offing yourself on Margot’s land. Everyone now knows how in love you were with her. It’s so perfect. And this way, everyone will really believe you killed Abby. And probably Margot as well.”

She clasps her hands together, and a smile creeps across her mannequin-doll face. Blood is thundering in my ears, and my vision swims. I keep hoping that my phone will ding, but so far it’s mute. I think of Jack, curled up in Graham’s arms, having his bedtime story being read to him, and hot tears sting my eyes. I flick them away and when I do, I notice the glint of something silver peeking out from underneath Jill’s seat. A revolver.

Jack. Graham.

I lunge for the revolver, but Jill is swift and grabs my right arm. And she’s strong. She squeezes it hard, so hard I feel like she might snap the bone. With her free hand, she slides the gun out and aims it at my head.

Fury overtakes me, and I use my left hand to strike against her wrist. She fires a shot but it lands in the water, and with as much strength as I can muster, I elbow Jill square in the nose.

“Bitch!” she screams, her voice echoing off the lake.

And before I can duck, she socks me in the lips with the butt of the revolver, the taste of blood filling my mouth, before holding me at gunpoint and ordering me off the boat.

With one hand gripping my shoulder and shoving me forward while the other one holds the gun at my temple, Jill steers me to the clearing where we used to shoot skeet.

“Get down on your knees,” she orders.

I obey. Jill releases the gun from my temple and circles me until she’s standing directly in front of me, aiming the nose of the revolver at my forehead.

I can’t believe I’m going out like this. Red-hot grief rips through me, and I silently say Jack’s and Graham’s names over and over again in my head while Jill stands over me, looking demonically possessed.

“You don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anybody, I promise. I’ll move away from here—you’ll never hear from me—”

But she whips the gun across my face again, hitting my jaw this time, sending scorching pain up the side of my head.

“Shut up!” she screams.

Just underneath the sound of her screams, I hear another squealing sound. Sirens in the distance. Jill freezes, her face a mask of terror, and she momentarily takes her gaze off me. I plant my hands on the ground and get on one foot, but she turns back to me, hands shaking as she trains the gun again on my forehead.

C’mon, Flynn, get here. Just get here.

Jill still seems to be sorting out what to do when I catch a glimpse of a figure moving through the forest behind her. I’m hoping beyond all hope that it’s Flynn, but then I see the mane of frosty blond hair, the skinny jeans tucked into knee-high boots.

Callie.

Callie walking toward us with a shotgun. And I know that this is now the end. I get back down on both knees and brace for the shot. Images of my baby and my husband flood through my mind—our lives together in an insta-reel—and my heart lurches. My body is rigid with adrenaline and I look up at Callie, expecting to see her customary sneer, but to my utter surprise, she lifts a finger to her lips. She slows her pace until she’s just upon Jill. Then she jams the nose of the shotgun into Jill’s back.

“What the fuck?” Jill says.

“Don’t move an inch,” she says to Jill through clenched teeth.

Somehow, she knows Jill killed Margot.

The sound of blood coursing through my temples is overridden by the loud screech of sirens and tires skidding and the crackling of CBs and the blissful sound of Detective Flynn’s voice as he calls out through a bullhorn for us all to remain still.

69

Two Months Later

Sunday, July 1, 2018

IT’S MORNING. I’M out in the garden, or what’s left of it.

These past couple of months have turned brutally hot and the sun has torched all my plants, turning them into Shrinky Dinks.

It’s my first time out here since moving back into the house, and I’m crouched over the scrunched-up plants, digging their limp bodies from the parched soil that crumbles in my gloved hands.

Today marks the two-month anniversary of when it all happened, when I was down on my knees, bracing for a shot to the head.

When Flynn’s voice bellowed out over the bullhorn, ordering us all to stand still, that’s exactly what Callie, Jill, and I did. We all froze until he reached us, with backup in tow, and pried the revolver from Jill’s white-knuckled hands.

An officer placed an arm around my shoulder and led me up toward the back of an ambulance that was apparently waiting to receive me, dead or alive. The EMT wrapped me in a wool blanket, which I was grateful for. Even though it was still warm out, my body was racked by shivers; I couldn’t stop shaking. They cleaned the wounds on my face as we rode to the hospital from where I’d soon be released with a few bandages and instructions to take Tylenol for the pain.

Flynn had phoned Graham and he was there, in the lobby, waiting for me. He’d dropped Jack off at Erin and Ryan’s place (I still haven’t heard from Erin but I’m determined to make amends with her and hopefully restart our friendship) before heading over.

My knees buckled at the sight of him, and even though there was a wariness to his face, he held me tightly when I crashed into his chest, letting me cry until I couldn’t possibly cry anymore, and when we pulled apart, his eyes were wet, too.

He led me to the car and drove us home. I think it had less to do with wanting me around, and more to do with the fact of me being Jack’s mom and how close I had just come to death.

He slept on the couch that first night, and for several nights after that before renting a small one-bedroom apartment across town.

We still haven’t talked about us, about whether or not there still is an us. He hasn’t wanted to discuss anything about what I did or didn’t do with Jamie, or with Margot. He tells me he needs more time and still doesn’t want to be around me.

We were worried about how Jack would react to Graham living away, but he actually finds it funny; he thinks of it as having two playrooms now. As much as it tears me apart—the not knowing what will come of Graham and me when all I want is for us to be back together again—I’m giving him time. He deserves it.

Detective Flynn comes around every so often to check on me and to keep me updated about the case. Or cases.

According to Flynn, as soon as they slapped the handcuffs on Jill and led her to the patrol car, she repeated to them everything she had just said to me verbatim, as if she were a robot. He said that she was most likely in her own state of trauma and shock.

I haven’t seen Callie since that night, but Flynn told me that since Margot’s death, which almost killed her, she had been spending nights out at the lake as a way to be closer to Margot, to cope. She had been sitting out on the back porch when she heard the shot from Jill’s revolver, so she ran inside and grabbed a shotgun before heading down to investigate.

She confessed to Flynn that she had indeed driven Jill and Abby to Dallas to the abortion clinic—of course, she was on film, so there was no sense in lying about it—and that she had felt some apprehension when they left the clinic with no abortion having been performed and Jill continually verbally abusing Abby.