Page 79 of Over Her Dead Body

No one told me.

I thought that was what you wanted.

An admission comes only after the doors have been closed, the alternatives removed, and everyone else available to blame is dead or inconveniently absent.

No one admits to being wrong before I have gone to considerable trouble to establish it.

Certainly not in writing.

This writer has saved me an entire conversation.

I like them more already.

The girl did not overdose. She died earlier this morning.

The glass she carried upstairs had been prepared for Emma Calloway.

I stop smiling.

I’m guessing this is the part where you stop smiling.

I put the report down and stare at the wall.

Someone is enjoying this.

That made two of us until approximately one sentence ago.

It is always disappointing when a promising relationship reaches the threat-assessment stage.

Ah, well.

This one has lasted longer than most.

I have always found closure overrated. If something is over, it should have the decency to stop being interesting.

The report has not.

Still, one can only stare at a wall for so long before needing to know what the fuck is going on.

So I pick it back up.

At Philip Dane’s house, Emma Calloway accepted a glass from a server. Like most people who understand parties, she carried it without drinking. An occupied hand discourages offers while allowing everyone to believe you have already accepted one.

The server had crossed the room to reach her.

The glass nearest his right hand became hers.

Emma carried it while she spoke with Martin Hale. When the girl asked for a server, Emma offered her the glass.

The girl accepted it.

Perhaps empty hands are a professional failure when one is being paid to look as though she is enjoying herself.

She took the champagne upstairs.

She died hours later.

The glass was intended for Emma Calloway.