Blaire refuses to participate fully, just swaying vaguely to the music.
Sloane actually knows what she’s doing. Her feet hit every beat, every turn is clean, and she looks completely comfortable doing choreography that’s making everyone else look like they’re having small seizures.
Turns out, luxury renovation contractors know how to work more than just a construction site. I’m impressed.
Someone twists their ankle—a minor injury that creates a major dramatic response involving shrieking and loud demands for ice.
The group progressively gets drunker and the dancing gets progressively worse until they abandon all pretense of choreography and just start bouncing around to the music.
Georgie is line dancing with the chaps guy. Mom is laughing so hard she’s crying. Ella is catching some serious zzz’s that lets me know we’ll be dancing later.
And I’m watching Kennedy, who’s dancing alone even though she’s surrounded by people, checking her phone every thirty seconds the way people wait for news that isn’t coming.
The song ends, and everyone heads to either the bar or the bathroom.
Kennedy sits down at the table alone, scrolling through her phone, and I see my opportunity.
I’m about to find out if she’s a killer, a victim, or just another woman in over her cowboy hat-laden head.
CHAPTER 16
Kennedy Mills looks up when I sit down across from her, startled enough that she fumbles her phone and nearly drops it into her margarita.
“Oh! Bizzy! Hi!” She laughs a little too loud, and a little too bright. “I didn’t see you there. I mean, I saw you, but I didn’t think you’d want to sit with me. Not that you wouldn’t! I just meant?—”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not! It’s not like I own the table or anything.” Another laugh that carries across three tables.
The music has shifted to something about trucks and heartbreak, and the air is thick with the smell of grilled onions and lime juice from the margarita station. Kennedy has a half-empty glass in front of her and her phone face-down on the table, but she keeps glancing at it like it might spontaneously combust.
Her manicure is chipped, polish cracked at the edges, and she has a carefully put-together look that costs less than it appears but takes twice the effort.
“Wild night,” I say.
“Yeah! Totally wild! So fun!”
Her enthusiasm is cranked up past believable and sailing straight into manic territory.
Behind her, Mom’s on the dance floor with Ella in her arms, spinning slowly to the music. It looks like Ella finally roused back to life and is clapping her tiny hands, reaching for the chili pepper string lights overhead, laughing that belly laugh that babies do when everything is magic. Her gray eyes are sparkling—Jasper’s eyes, exactly—and the guilt hits me square in the chest.
I brought my ten-month-old daughter to a dive bar in Edison to interrogate murder suspects.
Mother of the Year material right here.
I clear my throat as I look at the suspect at hand. “So how do you know Mackenzie?” I ask, pulling my attention back.
“College! We were in the same sorority.” Kennedy pauses. “Well, adjacent sororities. Technically different houses, but we did mixers together. I was in Kappa Delta and she was in—well, hers was more prestigious, but we were friends! Sort of. I mean, we knew each other.”
Already establishing herself on the outside looking in. Story of her life, probably.
“Must be hard,” I say. “Losing Brittany and Tamsin so close together.”
Kennedy’s face does some gymnastics—relief mixed with guilt mixed with something that might be actual grief.
“Yeah. I mean, Brittany was... She was complicated. But Tamsin was actually nice. Sometimes.” She takes a long drink from her margarita. “Brittany could be really mean.” She winces. “But I guess I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“What was she mean about?”
