“That’s just conjecture.”
“Looks targeted.”
“It coulda been anyone.”
Like the best partners, they balance each other out so nothing gets solved.
Graham is walking the baby cop through the intricacies of our discovery, waving his cigarette with boozy enthusiasm. “We were just having dinner with my mother! It’s the house with the tower! Up there! I noticed the light was out and then—I was helping my wife through the gate and she stepped right on it! It made a popping sound!” He slaps his hands together. I flinch.
The officer moves to the dog, points his flashlight directly at the wound as a fly crawls free. “And your gate was broken when?”
“About a week ago,” I say.
He drops the light. “You should have it fixed.”
The other officer peers down into the yard. “Does anyone else live here?”
“Demi.” My stomach drops. In my shock, I forgot about her. What if this is her retaliation? But this hurts Margo, not me. Maybe she is setting me up. Maybe I am missing some crucial clue. Maybe this is all part of some master plan.
It doesn’t make sense, and that’s the scariest thing about it. I keep searching Bean’s body for evidence it was me. Even though I know it wasn’t. I am so sure I am being set up, so sure I am to blame, so sure this is all about me.
Graham hitches up his pants. “There’s the van, too.” He points through the open gate, where the van glimmers in the dark. “It just turned up one day. Can you open it? See what’s inside?”
“We’d need a warrant,” the older officer grunts. “Probable cause.”
I shiver something loose. “Why us? Why is all this happening to us?”
LYLA
I wish the police would take the body with them, but I know from experience that the police expect the victim to clean up the crime scene. “What should we do with it?”
“I’ll take care of it.” Graham slaps his bloodstained hands together, and when that doesn’t work, he walks over to the fountain to wash them.
I follow him, perching on the edge of the fountain beside him. “Do you think it was Demi?”
He cocks his head. “Motive?”
“Margo told me she was a plant when you went to the bathroom.” I debated telling him, but I can’t help myself as usual. I am too keen to see his reaction, too hopeful that he will leap to my defense, storm the castle, demand Margo change her plan.
“A plant?”
“Demi is a plant. Margo set this whole thing up to take me down.”
“So Demi knows about the game?”
“No. But Margo chose her because she’s smart. And nasty apparently. She doesn’t think I can beat her.”
He grunts softly. “How funny.” That’s it. I just confessed to him that his mother wants me to lose and all he can say is How funny?
“Do you want me to lose?”
“Of course not, darling. I want you to slaughter her.”
Someone screams. I wheel around to find the source. Demi drops her shopping bags at the gate. They spill down the stairs: necklaces, bags and dresses. Her face is ashen. Her eyes are wide. Her shock seems genuine, or she is working hard to make it appear that way.
Graham leaps up from the fountain, races toward her. When he reaches her, he wraps his arms around her, the way he does me sometimes. It’s odd watching your husband hold another woman. It’s like an out-of-body experience. For a second, I am her watching myself.
“It’s all right,” he says, brushing her hair, rocking her gently back and forth. “It’s all right.” It’s spooky, the way Graham becomes someone else for other people. He never does it for me. I get to see the real him. I don’t always think that’s a privilege.
He is soft with her. His voice is gentle. His tone is soothing. I just told him that she’s a plant. I just spelled out that it is her or me. Why is he touching her? Why is he acting like he’s on her side?
Even worse is her reaction. She looks comforted. She looks soothed. She sinks into him incrementally, like Elvira did, always tuned to him. He is so manipulative, it’s scary. Even I still believe he’s a good person deep down. Way deep.
“It’s Margo’s dog.” I cross under the overhead light. “It’s dead.”
“She can see that,” Graham scolds me, parting her hair carefully. It passes as a kind gesture but I know he can’t stand a crooked part.
“Well, we’re not telling Margo just yet,” I say. He shoots me a look like I shouldn’t be saying this. He’s probably right, but it’s too late. “She’ll be devastated.”