They’re looking for a weapon. Something to explain the gash in Simon’s head. The blood in my pool.
“You can’t be here while we conduct the search,” Powell says. “But we’ll let you pack a bag before you go.” Then he tips his head toward a fresh-faced cadet whose attempts at looking serious only make him look like a kid playing dress-up. “I’m going to have Officer Smith go with you to make sure you don’t disturb any evidence.”
A warrant. I know how this part goes. I watched it happen to Nora last year.
Only last time Beau wasn’t in handcuffs. So that’s new.
“Mrs. Walker?” Officer Smith says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s not sure if I’m going to pack a bag or burst into tears.
I get the impression tears would really freak him out, but I don’t care about packing a bag either. I’m about to tell him I don’t want anything in this house unless Beau is in it. But that’swhen I remember I’m in my pajamas, and there’s only so much humiliation I can endure in one day.
So I nod, and Smith follows me to my room, stopping just outside.
“Are there any weapons or firearms in the house?” he asks.
I shake my head, and then he waits while I pull on real clothes, throw a few overnight supplies in a duffel bag, and try not to feel like I’m packing for the apocalypse.
I can’t be. After all, the apocalypse has already come.
I’m zipping up the duffel when I remember Gemma’s jar of tees. Of all the things I’ve found, I know the least about this little gem. I could leave it here, and there’s a chance it will go unnoticed by the police. They already passed over it once in their search of Lemon & Fig.
But I have to keep everything that could mean something to Gemma close to me.
I grab it from my underwear drawer and stuff it into my purse—a giant bucket of a bag. Some bottomless trendy designer thing that seemed like a good idea—until it started taking me five minutes to locate a hair tie in the expanse of the interior.
But it will help me hide the evidence I’m sneaking out of my house.
I wrap a sweatshirt around the jar, hoping it won’t make any noise as I ferry it away. Smith follows me down the stairs and into the garage. Once the garage door yawns open, and he’s sure I’m leaving, he disappears back inside.
Pulling out of the driveway, I see Tippy coming down the street on foot. She’s shielding her eyes from the early afternoon sun, wearing sunglasses, athletic shorts, and a tank top. I park on the street and get out of my car to meet her.
“I was going for a walk around the neighborhood—thought I’d get a little exercise and a better look at the storm damage,” she says as she approaches. “What the hell happened here?”
The storm caused some irreparable damage, Tippy.
I follow her gaze back toward my house, now shrouded in a gloom I fear will linger long after the forecast has brought sunny days back to Winter Park.
When I turn back to Tippy, I wonder how strong our alliance really is.
If I tell her Simon’s dead, will she blast the news on a group chat to the whole town?
As much as I want to keep my secrets close, I can’t prevent this from getting out. All I can do is control the story.
“We don’t know for sure, but something happened to Simon last night.” I wait for Tippy to close the distance between us before I deliver the heavy news. “He’s dead.”
Her hands fly to her heart. “My God,” she gasps, tugging off her sunglasses and perching them up on her head, like she needs to see me more clearly to understand. “Dead?”
“Tippy—”
Officer Powell opens my front door to glare at me.
“Do you have power at your house?” I ask.
“No, but I heard some of the stores on Park Avenue do.”
I climb back into my car. “I’ve gotta go.”
Before Muscle Milk and his buddies haul me out of here.
