I didn’t know whom he’d been talking to, or what they’d been saying, but I worried how easy it was for them to tilt the investigation my way. How much sense it would make—to the police, to the neighbors. They were fighting; that was Harper’s cup; she had plenty of time to poison the drink.
“Did you notice anyone else handling it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “People put their cups down on tables. You know what it’s like at a party. People move cups around. Serve drinks to each other. We all do it.”
Anyway, if you were going to poison someone, my guess was you’d be careful not to leave your prints on the cup, but I kept that thought to myself. It was probably a good thing that people weren’t answering their doors this morning.
“We’d really like you to come down to the station and give an official statement. Clear up any discrepancies.”
Discrepancies. I didn’t know to what he was referring, and it seemed he wanted me to ask. But he was forgetting—we’d been through this before. We’d seen it happen to Ruby. We knew the steps and understood how truth was determined by the evidence presented, and even then, it was subject to the way it was framed.
I had no idea what he was looking for. Whether these threatening notes, and all they implied, had found their way to the state police, too. I needed to know what was happening here before I spoke to him further. Before I gave any statement binding me. I had to be sure.
“This is all so horrible,” I said, the catch in my voice authentic. “But I have work. There’s so much to catch up on after the holiday week. And… my mind has been scattered, with everything.”
“Tomorrow, maybe?” he asked, and when I didn’t agree, he added, “I’ll give you a call, Harper.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said.
After a beat, he finally took a step down the porch. “Well,” he said, “I’ll let you get on your way.”
I remained on my porch as he walked down my front path, and I watched as he strode past the Truett house, heading for Charlotte Brock’s house next.
I needed to wait until he was gone before trying to catch Margo. It was too late to ask about those pictures before he rang her doorbell. And I’d just told him I needed to be at work.
I wondered how many of us here were checking in our garages, under our kitchen sinks, over the laundry room cabinets, to see whether we had antifreeze in our homes.
How many of us would look at the people we lived with and wonder.
* * *
I HAD JUST COME back out with my purse, heading for my car, as Javier’s truck pulled up at the curb behind me. Tate stepped down from the passenger seat before he took off again. She hitched her bag onto her shoulder, keeping her eyes down.
“Hey,” I called.
Tate froze on their front path, gaze flicking my way. “Hey,” she said back.
“That guy from the state has been going around. He just tried your house.”
She nodded, continuing up the path.
“Everything okay?” I asked, gesturing at the spot where Javier’s truck had just been.
She eyed me suspiciously. “I had a doctor’s appointment,” she said, hand to her stomach again. “All good, except for the endless sugar craving. Javi’s getting donuts.”
I walked closer, halfway across her yard, and felt like I was encroaching on her life. “Tate,” I said, lowering my voice. “Have you been getting notes, too?”
She crossed her arms, gaze sharp, with none of the vulnerability I’d witnessed yesterday. “Have you?” she countered.
“Yes.” I peered over my shoulder again but couldn’t see Agent Locke anywhere. “It’s a homicide, Tate,” I said, his words echoing back, the fluttery panic in my stomach. “It’s official.”
She looked at her front porch, at the camera pointed in our direction. Her throat moved. “Do you want to come in?” she asked.
Inside, Tate and Javier’s house had started to transform. They’d repainted the walls a warm gray, added a low table to the open area of the kitchen. A pale green glider with matching ottoman was positioned in the corner of the living room, where there had once been a bar cart. Everything seemed softer inside, as if they were rooting out any potential sharp edge.
We were standing in front of the kitchen window while Tate leaned gently against the counter, shifting from foot to foot. From here, I could see directly into my living room: the arm of the couch, a corner of the television screen.