“Apologies for being so forward in polite company, Carol,” I add, my tone frosty—conveying that not only am I not sorry but I’m far from finished antagonizing our new guest. “Whatever this is, Simon, maybe we should cut to the chase.”
“Este.” Beau puts a hand on my arm, trying to steady me.
Uncomfortable laughter ripples through the pergola.
A few glances dart between Beau’s tense expression and Simon’s too-perfect grin. Shep shifts his weight like he’d rather be anywhere else, while Ford looks puzzled. Simon’s smile doesn’t falter, but the muscle jumping in his cheek gives him away.
I force a smile that feels like it’s stapled to my face, while my heart pounds against my ribs.
I’ve stolen some of his momentum, going off script and outing the one detail he’d expect me to be discreet about.
Size up your opponent’s weakness, and then exploit it to create imbalance in the negotiation.
That’s what he taught me. It feels good to turn his war games against him.
Tippy lets out a bark of laughter. “I love her!” she shouts. “Didn’t I tell you we were cut from the same cloth?” She looks over to Shep as she points at me. “It’s like, we don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. ’Cause life’s too short.”
“She always has been a wild card. That’s for sure,” Simon says. There’s a lift of his eyebrows that only I recognize as irritation as he turns to Beau.
“So many Californians coming to Florida.” Carol simpersover the rim of her wineglass. “It’s like Beatlemania. Wasn’t Gemma Klein from California, too?”
Carol is best known for her love of gossip, but something about the question feels sinister. Especially for Carol, who’s always working so hard to be the arbiter of decorum and manners.
“Maybe you should move to California, Shep?” Tippy mumbles into her glass of wine.
And I wonder how the countdown to their prenup standoff is coming.
Shouldn’t be long now.
But before anyone can take the bait, Simon smiles and responds to Carol, “I’m only visiting. I had some business in Miami, but when the storm altered my plans, I decided to spend a few days checking in on old friends.”
He says “old friends” like the phrase is laced with strychnine—athreat that’s hard to place but clearly toxic.
“We’re not friends,” I say without inflection.
Return to sender.
“She was from California,” Tippy mutters. “Gemma. Este knew her.”
“Beau, too,” Simon adds, not missing the chance to cast suspicion in Beau’s direction.
“She hated you,” Beau answers bitterly. “Said you were never going to leave her alone.”
Carol’s ears perk, the way a dog catches the word “walk.” Tippy tilts her head like she’s missed the joke. While Shep and Ford look like they’re daydreaming about being on the golf course.
Simon was never going to leave Gemma alone. What the hell did Beau mean by that?
Simon keeps his expression fixed, but I catch the cunning flicker in his eyes. “Gemma had a flair for the dramatic,” he says. “Always convinced everyone was out to get her. Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong. Right, Beau?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Beau says, stepping toward Simon.
“Did Gemma finally unravel all your lies?” Simon taunts. “She figured out what you’re capable of—hacking Redwood, lying to Este—so you murdered her to shut her up?”
“I didn’t kill Gemma,” Beau snaps back, and I feel him move toward Simon. Before he takes a step, though, I reach out a hand to keep him from lunging.
“Don’t,” I plead in a voice only Beau can hear.
“Gemma said you were obsessed with the Redwood hack,” Beau says, taking a sip of his beer to steady his voice. “But I didn’t realize it had driven you to delusion.”
