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“Nope.” I take another pull from the bottle. “This is a reunion event, right? I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Her lip curls as she closes some of the distance between us.

“You shouldn’t have come. If I’d had my way, you wouldn’t have even known this reunion was happening. But fucking Misty,” she sneers. “She thought it would be hilarious to send you that invitation. She and Peyton had a grand old time imagining you getting it and curling into a little ball somewhere, crying your eyes out.”

I take another drink.

“But then you actually fucking came.” Her chin lifts a fraction. “And worse, you showed them you weren’t nearly as broken as they thought you’d be. That pissed them off.”

“Not you?”

“Me?” She snorts. “I didn’t give a shit about you.”

If she thinks that’s supposed to hurt me, she’s shit out of luck. I’ve grown thicker skin than that. Mostly thanks to her and her besties.

“I never thought about you after you left Fairhope. Not once. I was never as invested in you as they were. Sure, fucking with you was fun. Watching you nearly piss yourself every time you saw us coming gave me something to do. But that’s all you ever were to me—a distraction from this boring-ass town.”

The rum burns all the way down as I swallow her words with it.

“But now?” She takes another step toward me. “Now you have my full attention.”

Lucky me.

“I know you killed Amber. You probably killed the others too, but Amber?” Her jaw tightens. “I know you had something to do with that.”

I say nothing.

“Ask me how I know.”

Another drink.

“Because she texted me.”

I drink again.

“She was beside herself after Brooke killed herself. She blamed you for it. At the time, I didn’t put much stock in what she was saying. Brooke was always so fucking weak. Suicide seemed exactly the kind of cowardly way she’d go out.”

My grip tightens around the bottle as I take another sip.

“But Amber needed someone to blame, and if she picked you, who was I to tell her otherwise?” Delaney’s eyes narrow. “Then, the day she died, she texted me again. Told me she’d seen you walk into old man Tucker’s orchard. Said she was going to wait for you to come out and make you admit what you’d done.”

A strange chill works its way down my spine despite the rum warming every other part of me.

“But that wasn’t all she said.” Delaney steps closer. “She told me that if I didn’t hear from her afterward, I should go straight to the police. Because if something happened to her, you had something to do with it.”

I stare her down as I take yet another pull.

“That was the last text she ever sent me. The last fucking thing my friend told me was that if she disappeared, you were responsible.”

I raise the bottle to my lips again, looking completely unfazed by the accusation.

I don’t argue. Don’t defend myself. Don’t give her a fucking thing.

Let her believe whatever bullshit she wants to believe.

“So yeah.” Her voice drops. “Now you have my attention. My full fucking attention. And unlike Misty and Peyton, with their fancy lawyers and private investigators, I’d rather deal with you my way.”

“Oh, yeah?” I lower the bottle. “And how exactly do you intend to do that?”