My mouth falls open. “When was murder ever cute?”
Georgie perks up, snow cone paused halfway to her mouth. “So you admit it! You’re a killer, Bizzy Baker Wilder!” She strikes a dramatic pose that nearly makes her drop the snow cone. “I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest!”
“Georgie, knock it off and enjoy the parade.” Mom adjusts Ella on her hip. “Ignore her, Bizzy. We all know you’re not a killer.”I hope,Mom thinks, and I catch the edge of genuine uncertainty.Oh, I really hope.She holds Ella a little tighter.
I’m about to protest—or defend myself, or possibly strangle Georgie with patriotic bunting—when I spot Blaire across the street by the town fountain.
She’s alone, checking her phone, and she looks agitated in the way that people do when they’re trying very hard to look casual and failing spectacularly.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
Mackenzie follows. “I’m coming with you.”
We weave through the crowd with a lot ofexcuse me, pardon me, sorry, and the heat is worse away from the shade. The fountain is surrounded by American flags stuck in the ground, and kids are throwing pennies and making wishes that probably involve more candy and staying up past their bedtime.
Blaire looks up as we approach. Her expression shifts from surprised to guarded in half a second.
“Mackenzie. Bizzy.” Her expression goes from serene to quizzical. She certainly doesn’t look thrilled to see us. But her tone is cool and measured, even if she’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
“About?” She blinks at the two of us.
“About Brittany. And Tamsin.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’ve already spoken to the sheriff’s department.”
“What about the casino footage?” Mackenzie asks, and I have to give her credit—she doesn’t ease into it.
Blaire’s face goes white, then red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”How does she know? Did Kennedy say something? That little?—
I pick up the thought clearly.
“Preston’s gambling problem,” I say quietly.
Blaire’s hand tightens on her phone so hard her knuckles go white. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is if Brittany was blackmailing you about it.”
A long pause goes by. The parade music swells behind us as the fire department floats by with its siren and waving firefighters. Somewhere in the crowd a child is screaming for ice cream. Life goes on around us while we’re having a conversation about blackmail and murder.
“Fine,” Blaire says finally. “Yes. Brittany knew about Preston’s debts.”
“How much debt?” Mackenzie demands.
“Four hundred thousand dollars,” she says it flatly. “He’s been trying to get clean. We’ve been trying to fix it.”
“By marrying you for your money,” Mackenzie says, and it’s not a question.
Blaire flinches. “That’s not—we love each other.”Keep telling yourself that.The thought is bitter, defensive, scared.
“Where were you when Tamsin was killed?” I ask.
“At the gym. With everyone else.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Half of Seaview saw me. I was in the Zumba class.”
