But the dissonance clings to me like the humidity in the air. He’s too polished, too unbothered. And that knee? It was supposed to be injured.
His gaze lingers like he’s reading something I don’t want written on my face, and then he nods once, leaving me no choice but to keep driving.
When I come through the door, Beau is in the kitchen. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “Did you and Nora eat?”
“No,” I murmur as I angle my head to try to get another look at Ford and his driveway from the front window.
Beau walks over and gives me a hug. “You doing all right? You want to take the boat out?” he asks, like maybe some fresh air will help.
I look back toward the foyer, where Gemma stood yesterday.
“Este?” Beau is looking at me, and I can tell I’ve missed a cue. Something he’s said that I didn’t respond to.
“Sorry. What?”
“You want to go out on the boat?” he asks again.
I shake my head, my mind swimming through questions about Gemma and Ford, her apartment, and what anyone might know about what happened to her.
And when I come up for air, the 310 text messages clobber me again.
The thought of moving from where I’m standing seems perilous.
“Well, I’ve been meaning to put gas in it. I’m going to run it over to the station,” Beau says. “I’ll be back in a few.”
With that, he kisses me quickly, then heads down to the dock. I step toward the sliding doors that lead to our backyard and the view of the lake, watching him lower the lift and pull the cover off the boat.
That’s when I notice what’snoton the pool deck. The chaise near the outdoor shower is empty. I head outside to be sure, checking for where Beau might have discarded his clothes from last night. There’s nothing.
But he was drinking and smoking cigars at the club until the early morning hours. So where is everything?
As I’m following the question back inside, the boat engine revs to life down by the dock.
I walk around the rooms, scanning them for more information about what time Beau got home or where he came in. Or maybe more to the point: What the hell happened last night?
The living room looks normal, though. So do the master bathroom and the guest bathrooms. But when I pass the laundry room, a small puddle in front of the washing machine stops me midstep. Without a second thought, I lunge toward the machine, pulling open the door only to find Beau’s dry-clean-only blazer is slumped in the bottom of the washing machine. The faint scent of soap rises from the drum.
What the fuck?
I’m so transfixed by the lines of the fabric sagging in a crumpled mess in the stainless steel drum that the sound of my own phone ringing startles me.
It’s Nora.
“Hey.” I pick up, still dazed, unable to take my eyes away from Beau’s ruined suit.
“What the hell happened with Beau?”
I shake my head for a second, reminding myself that my best friend is not a mind reader, she’s probably calling for an update on Beau’s trip to the police station.
“Chief Kennedy called in everyone who stayed late last night. Autumn, Beau, Tippy, Shep. He called Ford, too. But Ford didn’t go. Do you think that’s weird? Can people opt out of a police interview like that?”
“I don’t actually know,” she says. And then I think she says, “Can I do anything to help?”
But I don’t realize that my mind has wandered back to the washing machine drum until Nora says my name.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Este?”
“Fine.” I snap out of it and try to perk up. “Sorry.”
