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Not even close.
It was hard to concentrate with worry and indecision clouding your brain.
“I have a bit more to do.” She wandered back toward the living room. “But there are a few hours left in the day.”
“You work too hard.”
“I like what I do.” She nestled into the super-comfortable, overstuffed, estate-sale-find wing chair—her go-to retreat on hard days. Pulled her legs up. “You work hard too.”
“I also make time to play. Get together with friends. Like Bri. You met her last weekend.”
This could provide the segue she needed.
“Yes. The fire investigator.” Sophie squeezed her knees closer to her body with her free hand. “You know, she reminded me of Michelle, that girl you were friends with in high school. Remember?”
Silence greeted that comment.
When it lengthened, Sophie spoke again. “Alison? Are you there?”
“Yes. I just ... I haven’t thought about her in years. How does Bri remind you of her?”
“The blond hair, I suppose. I remember Michelle had beautiful hair. I always thought she was glamorous. I wonder whatever happened to her.”
“I have no idea. We didn’t stay in touch after she stole my boyfriend.”
“It’s a shame a fleeting high school romance ruined your friendship. You two were tight.”
“It wasn’t fleeting for them.” A hint of bitterness etched her words. “They ended up getting married.”
Sophie rested her cheek against the soft velveteen fabric and focused on the scene through her window, where the deepening shadows portended the arrival of dusk. “How do you know? I thought you didn’t stay in touch?”
Another beat ticked by. “We didn’t, but we had a few mutual friends.”
“You ever think about trying to reconnect?”
“No. What’s with all the questions about ancient history?”
“I don’t know. I guess death puts me in a pensive mood.”
“Well, I had no interest in reconnecting with her. She wasn’t the kind of person you could trust.”
Had.
Wasn’t.
Both past tense.
The bottom dropped out of Sophie’s stomach.
Her sister knew Michelle was dead.
Suspicion about Alison’s involvement morphed to probable, and bile rose in her throat.
Choking back the acrid taste, she shot to her feet and dashed toward the bathroom. “Sorry. I have to go. Call coming in.”
Without waiting for a reply, she severed the connection, opened the toilet lid, and once again lost the contents of her stomach.
When she stopped heaving, she closed the lid, sat, and buried her face in her hands.
