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“We have faith in you,” Mr. Preston adds.
Juan Manuel gives me a thumbs-up.
They have all put their faith in me. They believe in me. The only one who isn’t sure is me.
You can do it if you put your mind to it.
I take a deep breath, put my phone in my pocket, and walk out the front door.
I’m at the Olive Garden eighteen minutes later, which is two minutes sooner than my ETA, mostly because I’m so nervous that I speed-walked the entire way. I’m sitting at our booth under the glow of the pendant light, only this time, it doesn’t feel like our booth at all. It will never be our booth ever again.
Rodney hasn’t arrived yet. As I wait, horrific visions loop in my mind—Mr. Black, his skin ashen and drawn, the photo of Rodney and Giselle, two slippery serpents entwined, Gran’s last few minutes of life. I don’t know why these things replay in my mind, but it’s doing nothing to quell my extreme jitters. How I’m going to get through this, I do not know. How will I act normally when the tension is already jangling the core of my being?
When I next look up, there he is, rushing into the restaurant, searching for me. His hair is tousled, the top two buttons of his shirt are open, revealing his exasperatingly smooth chest. I imagine taking the fork from my place setting and stabbing him with it, right there, where the V of his shirt frames his naked skin. But then I see his scar, and my dark desire evaporates.
“Molly,” he says as he slides into the booth across from me, “I madean excuse to take off from work for a bit, but I don’t have much time. Let’s make this quick, okay? Tell me everything.”
A waitress comes to our table. “Welcome to the Olive Garden. Can I get you started with some free salad and bread?”
“We’re here for a quick drink,” Rodney replies. “A beer for me.”
I put a finger in the air. “Actually, salad and bread would be lovely. And I’ll also take an appetizer plate and a large pepperoni pizza, please. Oh, and some water? Very, very cold. With ice.” No Chardonnay for me today—I must remain clearheaded. Also, this is not a celebration, not in any way. “Thank you,” I say to the waitress.
Rodney runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.
“Thank you for coming,” I say once the waitress is gone. “It means the world to me that you’re always there when I need you. Such a reliable friend you are.” My face feels stiff and forced as I say this, but Rodney doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m here for you, Molly. Just tell me what happened, okay?”
“Well,” I say as I conceal my shaking hands under the table, “after the detective took me to the station, she told me Mr. Black did not die naturally. She said he was asphyxiated.”
I wait for this to sink in.
“Whoa,” Rodney says. “And you’re the obvious suspect.”
“In fact, I’m not. They’re looking for someone else.” These are the exact words Charlotte instructed me to say.
I watch him carefully. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The waitress returns with bread, salad, and our drinks. I take a long sip of cold water and revel in Rodney’s growing discomfort. I do not touch the food at all. I’m far too nervous. Plus, it’s for later.
“Detective Stark said the persons of interest were most likely motivated by Mr. Black’s will. She thinks they maybe even discussed his will with him before they killed him. Poor Giselle. Do you know that Mr. Black didn’t leave her a thing? Not a single thing, the poor, poor woman.”
“What? The detective told you that? But that can’t be. I know for a fact it can’t be.”
“Do you? I thought you weren’t well acquainted with Giselle,” I say.
“I’m not,” he says. He appears to be sweating though it’s not unduly warm in here. “But I know people who know her well. Anyhow, this isn’t what they told me. So it’s…well, it’s a bit of a surprise.” He takes a gulp of beer and puts his elbows on the table.
“Rude,” I say.
“What?”
“Your elbows on the table. This is a restaurant. That is a dinner table. Proper etiquette requires you to keep your elbows off it.”
He shakes his head but takes his offensive appendages off the table. Victory.
“Salad? Bread?” I offer.
“No,” he replies. “Let’s just get to the point. Didn’t Mr. Black leave Giselle the villa in the Caymans? Did the detective mention that?”
