Kennedy nods. “Brittany was a real estate agent, right? She knew a lot about property values, inspections, all that stuff.” She lowers her voice, glancing around. “Sloane mentioned once that Brittany was ‘poking around in things that weren’t her concern.’ Something about client complaints.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“I think Brittany might have been investigating Fletcher-Ramsey, Sloane’s renovation company.” Kennedy shrugs. “Like you said, Brittanyloved having dirt on people. And Sloane’s company does high-end work—lots of money involved. Maybe Brittany thought she could find something.”
She pauses to take another drink.
“But Sloane’s smart. Really smart,” she continues. “She wouldn’t leave evidence lying around. Plus, she’s got that husband—Travis? He handles all the tough stuff.” Kennedy’s phone buzzes, and she glances at it and frowns. “Sloane always says, ‘Travis takes care of problems.’ It’s kind of their thing.”
I tuck that away. Travis takes care of problems. The phrasing feels deliberate, but I can’t put my finger on why it’s bothering me.
She thinks I did it,Kennedy thinks to herself, and the self-loathing in her internal voice is almost painful.They all think I did it.She sighs hard.I should have just married Jake. Had the babies. Lived a normal life. Instead, I’m sitting in a dive bar being interrogated while my fake life falls apart because of every left turn I’ve ever taken.
I glance over at Mom and Ella again. The song has changed to something slower, and Mom is swaying gently with Ella against her shoulder. By the looks of it, my mother’s earrings seem to have survived, and more to the point—her ears.
My daughter’s eyes are drooping once again, one tiny fist clutching Mom’s collar, and she looks so much like Jasper it makes my chest tight.
Ella spots me watching and waves, her whole face lighting up with a smile that could power the entire Eastern Seaboard.
I wave back.
After this case is over, I’m taking a week off. Just Jasper, Ella, and me. No murders. No investigations. Just family.
“If you don’t mind, one more question,” I say to Kennedy. “Did Brittany ever mention being afraid of anyone?”
Kennedy thinks, picking at her chipped manicure.
“Not afraid. But she was really focused on Sloane the last few weeks. Kept making comments about ‘perfect lives hiding imperfect secrets.’” She finishes her margarita. “She said something at brunch a couple weeks ago. ‘Some people build their whole lives on sand. Wait until the tide comes in.’”
“She said that about Sloane?”
“I assumed, but only because she was staring right at her when she said it.”
Kennedy’s phone buzzes again, and she looks at it. Her whole face falls.
“Rent’s due tomorrow,” she says quietly. “I don’t have it.” She puts the phone down, looks at me, and sighs. “I keep waiting to feel worse about losing Brittany and Tamsin than I do. Does that make me a terrible person?”
“It makes you honest.”
“Well, then, I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
She gives me a sad smile, then gets up and heads toward the bathroom, weaving slightly. The margaritas are hitting her hard.
She takes off, and I quickly scan the bar for familiar faces when I see that Georgie’s conga line has reached critical mass. She’s wearing a cowboy hat now, definitely not hers, and is leading at least twenty people in a serpentine path around the tables.
Mom appears at my elbow with Ella, who’s now covered in chip crumbs and fighting sleep like it’s a noble battle.
“We should probably extract Georgie beforeshe gets arrested,” Mom says.
I’m about to agree when a ruckus erupts. People are screaming, laughing, and pointing. And well, you can probably guess where.
Georgie spots us and waves both arms. “BIZZY! GET OVER HERE! WE’RE FORMING A HUMAN PYRAMID!”
“We’re leaving!” I call back.
“PARTY POOPER!”
The bartender looks relieved.
