Chapter Eighty-Nine. Ingrid
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
INGRID
Kennedy Claire is bent over a box, tucking tissue paper between glass vases. Her back is to me.
“I think that’s the last of it,” I say. “I’m going to head out.”
She doesn’t answer right away. I stand there, watching her shoulders rise and fall.
I’ve known Kennedy Claire long enough to know that she can be selfish and ruthless, manipulative and controlling.
But she can also be fiercely loyal. In so many ways, she was a good friend.
I think about the time my appendix burst and Kennedy Claire got the first flight out to sit by my hospital bed, reading gossip magazines and making me laugh through the pain.
For the big things, she always showed up.
“I’ll see you around,” I add, and start to turn.
“I thought he killed Izzy.”
Her voice halts me cold. I turn back. She’s still facing the box, but her hands are motionless now, the tissue paper trembling just slightly between her fingers.
“That’s why I didn’t give you Ben’s message,” she says, finally looking at me. Her eyes are glassy, but her chin is high, like she’s daring me to hate her for it. “I couldn’t send my best friend off to meet a killer in the middle of the night. That would have been completely insane.”
I nod my head, afraid that if I speak, my voice will crack. Because it all just makes me so sad, the terrible loss of Izzy, of all of us, for all these years.
She softens. “I didn’t know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I step forward and put my arms around her. For a heartbeat she stands stiff, then exhales and leans in, just enough.
“Me too,” I whisper.