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***
Jamie and I fell into a pensive silence as we waited outside Cleary Hall. Edie Marlow, the Whitney girl who’d found Laurel’s body, was due out of her sociology class at 4:15 p.m. We’d catch her in a public place.
“Okay. So this glorified country club hosts a seedy underground called Tongue-Cut Sparrow at night,” Jamie said, leaning against a tree. “Laurel was interested in it for some reason. We know that from the note scrawled on the back of that photograph. But then she runsoutof the Mansion during a gig. Why?”
“Why even start at the catering firm in the first place?” I asked. “Clarissa said she was desperate to work there. Laurel couldn’t have cared less about cooking. She—”
My phone buzzed; I looked down to see a text from Cal:Shay, call me back already.
The next second, his face flashed on the screen. A pang of reflexive guilt made me accept. “Hi, Cal.”
“Hallelujah, you answered.” His voice was wry, but deep and gravelly. He was a big man; he’d fit in among the football players at the charity event the first night we’d met. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I turned my back so Jamie couldn’t hear.
“Mary Ellen says you texted her you weren’t coming back in time for her Labor Day party. I thought we were planning to go. You know I’m home in a few days, right?”
“I know, but I’m finally writing,” I lied. “Being back’s been inspiring.”
His voice softened. “Look, I’m glad your block’s gone. But I’ve been away for almost three weeks. You’ll be home when I get back, right? I told Eddie Dillard we’d have dinner with him and his wife before the holiday. Can’t do it without you.”
Of course Cal could do it without me. All it would take was making sure there was food and wine on the table. He meant he didn’t want to, because hosting was one of my jobs.
A flood of students poured out of Cleary Hall. In the crowd, I spotted the dark, fashionable bob of Edie Marlow, whose social media I’d studied so I could pick her out.
“Of course,” I said quickly. “Sorry, I have to go.” I hung up over his protests, shoving away the creeping knowledge that I was being a bad wife. I’d make it up to him later.
I glanced at Jamie, trying not to notice the way he looked at me—like he was a little embarrassed for me—and waved him on. “That’s her. Let’s go.”
We fell into stride with Edie, a beautiful girl, slender and doe-eyed. She gave the slightest start.
“Edie Marlow?” I tried to smile soothingly. “Sorry to bother you, but my friend and I were hoping we could ask a few questions about Laurel Hargrove. You’re the one who found her, right?”
A shadow passed over Edie’s face. “Yes,” she said, adjusting the straps of her book bag. She didn’t slow down.
“I’m Jamie Knight.” Jamie held out his hand and smiled warmly.
Edie’s eyes widened as she took stock of him. “FromTransgressions?”
“Yep.” He withdrew his hand gently from her grip.
“My friends and I listen to you all the time.” Her cheeks pinked. “And you did that episode on Laurel, so of course everyone at school listened…”
“Great,” he said smoothly. “Then you already know I’m looking into her case.”
We were coming up to the Performing Arts Center. Edie spotted it, froze, then did an about-face, pivoting left. We scrambled to follow.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I don’t like walking past it anymore.”
“Edie,” I said, “I know this isn’t something you want to remember, but can you tell us about finding Laurel? It would really help us. And her, hopefully.”
She stopped in her tracks. Her eyes darted to Jamie. He seemed to be the winning factor, because she nodded. We settled down on a bench, Edie in the middle. All around us, students streamed by.
“Like I told the cops,” she said, twisting a ring, “I was on my way from Penfield—that’s where I live—to Cargill for swim practice. We meet super early, when the sun’s just coming out. I was passing by the theater when I saw her”—her voice thickened—“hanging from the tree. I didn’t think it was a person at first. I thought it was, like, a banner or something. But when I got closer, I saw.”
“What did you see?” Jamie asked.
She cleared her throat. “She was wearing a blue dress, kind of old-fashioned.”
