I cock an eyebrow. “You know him so well that you didn’t realize he was beating the shit out of his wife?”
Her face hardens. She says nothing.
“Why is everyone so eager to jump to Matt’s defense, but the entire town immediately decided I was a murderer?”
“First of all, Matt wasn’t covered in Savvy’s blood. And second of all, I defended you on that podcast.”
“I know you did. And I thought it was because we used to be friends, but I think it’s more that you felt guilty for sleeping with Matt. Am I close?”
“Go fuck yourself, Lucy.” She walks into her house and slams the door.
CHAPTER FORTY
LUCY
Paige discovering us in bed together seems to have had no effect on Ben, because he invites me over again that night, and I’ve stopped pretending that I’m going to start making good choices.
I glance around for her when I walk into his hotel room. We’re alone.
“I took Paige’s key back,” he says, walking into the kitchen. Two cups with ice sit on the counter, waiting for him to pour liquid in.
“You know that just tells her we’re still sleeping together.”
“I’m aware. Paige doesn’t get an opinion on my dating life.”
“Ben, I don’t think dating is the word for this.”
He pauses with the whiskey bottle hovering over a glass, raising an eyebrow at me. “Everything okay with the books? Your books, I mean?”
“There’s either going to be a spike in sales, or it’s going to ruin my entire career. I’m excited to find out.”
He winces, but doesn’t apologize.
If I had any self-respect, I’d leave. I would not have sex with the man who is using my life and the murder of my friend for ad dollars on his podcast.
My self-respect is apparently lacking, because I walk over to the living room and sit down on the couch. There are papers and a laptop on the table.
My own name catches my eye, and I lean forward, turning the paper so I can see. It’s an outline for an episode. Mom’s name is on it, as is Nina’s. Ben’s written a few lines of what he plans to say in neat, clear handwriting, and one catches my eye.
Lucy likely didn’t mean to kill Savvy, and my theory is that the shock of what she’d done caused a mental breakdown that completely erased the memory.
I look up to see Ben standing over me, holding the glass of whiskey out to me.
“You think I did it.” It’s not a question.
His eyes skip from me to the paper. I can’t tell whether he meant for me to see it. He’s usually so good about cleaning up the evidence when I’m around.
“It’s just one of a few possible endings,” he says.
I take the glass from him. It’s heavy. It wouldn’t kill him if I smashed it against his head, but it’d hurt like hell.
I slide the paper to the side, so I can see the ones behind it. He was telling the truth—it is just one possible ending. He’s written notes for Matt having killed her, and an ending where there’s no clear resolution.
But only mine is detailed. The others have two to three lines written out. Mine is an entire page.
“You think I did it,” I say again.
I don’t know why I’m disappointed. I never thought he was on my side.
Or maybe that’s a lie.
He sits down in the chair across the table and leans forward, putting his glass down. “I haven’t come to any firm conclusions.”
“Ben—”
“I’m still working on it.” He pauses. “That was my original ending, before you got here and agreed to talk to me.”
I take a long swig of my drink. It burns as it goes down. I put the glass on the table, too hard, and some of it sloshes onto my podcast future, smearing his perfect letters.
“And you’ve changed your mind now?” I ask.
He hesitates. “My mind wasn’t made up before. It’s less made up now.”
I guess that’s really all I can hope for at this point.
“You aren’t telling me the truth about everything, though,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “We both know that.”
I just stare at him, because he’s not wrong. Maybe I don’t blame him for doubting me.
“And not just about your marriage to Matt,” he says. “There are other things. Your interview airs tomorrow. I don’t want to believe you did it, Lucy, but I still have questions you seem either unwilling or unable to answer.”
I cock my head, watching as he takes a sip of his drink. The silence stretches between us, proving his point about my unwillingness to answer his questions. A less guilty person would rush to clarify things for him.