“Not business disputes,” Mackenzie cuts in. “Fraud. You take fifty to sixty percent deposits upfront, do minimal work that fails inspections, then walk away. You leave subcontractors high and dry so they can’t sue you—they never get paid either.”
I nod. “And you use the money for plastic surgery, designer furniture, Birkin bags, offshore accounts. You’ve been running this scam for five years. Brittany was a real estate agent. She had access to property records, inspection reports, client complaints. She was building a case against you.”
“Prove it,” Sloane says, but her hand tightens on the champagne glass.
BOOM BOOM.
Rapid succession—red, white, blue exploding together, more applause and cheers as the patriotic music blaring from the speakers only grows louder.
“I don’t have to prove it,” I say. “Brittany already did. She had everything documented. Scheduled social media posts exposing your entire operation. And she told Blaire that she’d ‘finally figured out who the real criminals are.’” I pause. “She was looking at you when she said it.”
Sloane’s jaw tightens.
“Tamsin knew, too,” Mackenzie adds. “She texted me theday she died. Said she knew exactly why Brittany was killed and who did it. She was going to tell me everything over dinner.”
“But she never made it to dinner,” I finish. “Because you killed her first.”
BOOM.
Gold sparkles rain down over the ocean.
Sloane sets the champagne glass down on a boulder with deliberate care. The fireworks paint her face in shifting colors—red, blue, white, gold. The crowd is cheering, music swelling, and we’re standing here in the semi-dark with a woman who’s deciding whether to confess or run.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The explosions are building, getting louder, closer together.
“Yes,” Sloane says it flat and matter-of-fact. “I did it.”
My heart stops.
Mackenzie gasps.
The sky keeps exploding overhead, but all I can hear is that single word echoing in my ears.
“I killed them both.” She glares at us in defiance. “But I can’t go to prison.”Don’t you see?she thinks.If word got out that Travis and I blew through the money, we won’t get any more business. That means no more plastic surgery.She touches her face unconsciously, her perfect, ageless face.Who do you think paid for these teeth?Her smile is bitter as the fireworks light up her veneers.And these weren’t cheap either.She glances down at her chest.
BOOM.
Massive white explosion overhead.
“So that’s how you could affordall that designer furniture in your home,” Mackenzie says, her voice rising. “And that mountain of Birkin bags? The luxury cars? The beach house you just bought in the Maldives? It all makes perfect sense now. You weren’t building dream homes—you were stealing dreams and cashing the checks.”
“You can’t say anything. We’re like sisters, Mack.” Sloane steps closer, and Mackenzie backs up. “You know that. Once you’re in the Pilates Posse, you’re always in it.” Her voice softens, turning manipulative. “We don’t betray each other. You know what happens when we do.”
The threat underneath is clear as a shard of glass.
BOOM BOOM.
Red rockets screaming across the sky.
“That’s why you killed Tamsin, too,” I say. Not a question. A statement.
Sloane lifts her chin like I’d struck her.
BOOM.
Purple spreading across the darkness.
