Keith shakes his head, still clueless. “Did he do it?”
“No,” Ben says. “The girl’s boyfriend did. He put her in the trunk because he thought she was flirting with the teacher and maybe something was going on. There wasn’t, as far as I could tell.”
“That was easy though,” Ashley says, eyebrow cocked in a way that seems flirty. “It’s always the boyfriend or the husband.”
Her eyes flick to me and then quickly away.
Always the boyfriend, except when it’s the best friend.
“I have an idea!”
Not now.
“I did have a feeling, going in,” Ben admits.
“Got a feeling this time, Ben?” I ask. “Think you’re going to solve it again?”
“Oh, good, dinner is here,” Mom says loudly. Two waiters walk into the room, plates in arm.
I meet Ben’s gaze. His lips twitch up but he says nothing.
I eat quickly, because the wine really is starting to go to my head. A waiter hovers, ready to refill my glass again at a moment’s notice.
The wine is flowing freely, actually, and I hold mine but don’t drink it as I glance around the table. Keith’s cheeks are red. Ashley is laughing loudly.
I think this is supposed to be fun. Or, perhaps, it is fun. For everyone else. They could take a photo and put it on Instagram—#dinnerparty #sofun #lovemylife—and it wouldn’t be a lie.
“Are you going to write a book, Ben?” Grandma asks, apparently continuing a conversation I wasn’t paying attention to.
“A book? No.” He glances at me. “Someday, I might, but I don’t have any plans right now.”
“People are saying you’re going to.”
“Which people?”
“You know.” She waves her hand. “Twitter.”
“Grandma, you’re on Twitter?” Brian looks so startled that I wonder suddenly what kind of shit he’s been posting on Twitter. Something he doesn’t want his grandma to see, clearly.
“You’re a good writer,” Janice says. “I read some of your pieces in the Atlantic and Vanity Fair.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Lucy, didn’t you want to be a writer once?” Keith peers at me as if I’ve disappointed him, this relative I barely know. “What ever happened to that?”
I wasn’t that good, I guess, is what I should have said. People love that sort of shit—humility and honesty, tied together to make everyone feel more comfortable after a rude question.
I smile. “Well, you know. No one wants to read a book from a murderer.”
Keith reddens. Dad rolls his eyes.
“Lucy,” Mom says wearily.
“Why didn’t you ever write a memoir?” Ashley’s clearly been waiting all night to ask that question.
“Bit hard to write a memoir about something you don’t remember.”
“You could write about everything else.”
I shrug.
“Let’s kill—”
“You never tell your side of the story,” Ashley presses.
I’ve told it more times than I can count. No one believed me.
“I’m telling it to Ben.” I take a sip of my wine.
Dad’s head pops up. His eyes spark with anger and questions.
“You’re telling it to Ben?” Mom says the words so slowly. Perhaps they’re even interpreted as calm by the rest of the table.
Maybe they are calm. I take a quick glance around and no one else seems nervous.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’m a grown-ass woman free to give interviews to whichever smug podcaster I choose.
“I have an idea. Let’s kill—”
I clench my fingers into a fist and will the voice away. “Yeah. I’m doing an interview with Ben soon.”
“We already talked about a few things,” Ben adds.
“That’s an interesting decision, Lucy,” Dad says.
Ashley snort-laughs and then claps a hand over her mouth. Others giggle nervously as well.
“Everyone has extremely high expectations of Ben.” I’m trying to sound casual. “Just trying to help where I can.”
“I appreciate it.” Ben is also trying to sound casual. I’m better at it.
Dad opens his mouth like he has more to ask, then seems to think better of it.
“It seems like Lucy should tell her own story instead of me telling it for her, wouldn’t you say?” Ben asks.
“That’s true,” Ashley says with wide-eyed sincerity.