Chapter 16
Kennedy Mills looks up when I sit down across from her, startled enough that she fumbles her phone and nearly drops it into her margarita.
“Oh! Bizzy! Hi!” She laughs a little too loud, and a little too bright. “I didn’t see you there. I mean, I saw you, but I didn’t think you’d want to sit with me. Not that you wouldn’t! I just meant—”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not! It’s not like I own the table or anything.” Another laugh that carries across three tables.
The music has shifted to something about trucks and heartbreak, and the air is thick with the smell of grilled onions and lime juice from the margarita station.
Kennedy has a half-empty glass in front of her and her phone face-down on the table, but she keeps glancing at it like it might spontaneously combust.
Her manicure is chipped, polish cracked at the edges, and she has a carefully put-together look that costs less than it appears but takes twice the effort.
“Wild night,” I say.
“Yeah! Totally wild! So fun!”
Her enthusiasm is cranked up past believable and sailing straight into manic territory.
Behind her, Mom’s on the dance floor with Ella in her arms, spinning slowly to the music.
It looks like Ella finally roused back to life and is clapping her tiny hands, reaching for the chili pepper string lights overhead, laughing that belly laugh that babies do when everything is magic.
Her gray eyes are sparkling—Jasper’s eyes, exactly—and the guilt hits me square in the chest.
I brought my ten-month-old daughter to a dive bar in Edison to interrogate murder suspects.
Mother of the Year material right here.
I clear my throat as I look at the suspect at hand. “So how do you know Mackenzie?” I ask, pulling my attention back.
“College! We were in the same sorority.” Kennedy pauses. “Well, adjacent sororities. Technically different houses, but we did mixers together. I was in Kappa Delta and she was in—well, hers was more prestigious, but we were friends! Sort of. I mean, we knew each other.”
Already establishing herself on the outside looking in. Story of her life, probably.
“Must be hard,” I say. “Losing Brittany and Tamsin so close together.”
Kennedy’s face does some gymnastics—relief mixed with guilt mixed with something that might be actual grief.
“Yeah. I mean, Brittany was... She was complicated. But Tamsin was actually nice. Sometimes.” She takes a long drink from her margarita. “Brittany could be really mean.” She winces. “But I guess I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“What was she mean about?”
Kennedy hesitates, glancing around to see where the others are. Blaire and Sloane are at the bar. Mackenzie is organizing someone’s Uber and letting the entire bar in on the details.
“Everything,” Kennedy continues. “Your clothes, your job, your relationship status. If you had a boyfriend, she’d say you were settling. If you didn’t, she’d say you were desperate.”
“I heard she was an expert at digging up the dirt and holding it as ammo. Ridiculous stuff.” I wave it off like it’s no big deal. “But she had it on everyone, so I guess she had it on you, too.”
Kennedy closes her eyes for a moment. “It sounds like you really knew her. Of course, she found out something about me. Something from my past.”
I lean in slightly, and Kennedy takes it as permission to continue.
“I didn’t finish college,” she whispers before downing the rest of her drink. “I tell people I have a degree from Boston University, but I dropped out sophomore year. Community college, actually.”
The shame on her face is genuine. She’s waiting for me to judge her, to pile on, to confirm every awful thing she thinks about herself.
“Brittany found out somehow,” Kennedy continues. “She was going to tell everyone. She was going to destroy my career unless I paid her.” She rolls her eyes like the blackmail was ridiculous, but there’s a fury in her eyes that says she’s been handing over thousands and watching her life implode.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five hundred a month. For six months.” Her hands are shaking slightly. “I was going broke. I was going to lose my apartment, my business, everything.”
She just confessed to a financial motive for murder. Either she’s innocent or spectacularly drunk.
“I know how that sounds.” Kennedy’s voice rises, and a couple people at the next table glance over. “I know I had a reason to want her gone. But I didn’t kill her! I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”
Tears begin to spill and she swipes at them angrily.
“What were you going to do?” I ask. “About the blackmail?”
“I don’t know. Confess, maybe. Come clean.
Start over.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“I’ve been faking it for nine years. Forged diploma, fake recommendation letters, campaigns I stole from bigger agencies and passed off as mine.
My ex Jake wanted to get married. Have kids.
I couldn’t say yes when my whole life is a lie.
What kind of mother builds a family on plagiarism and fraud? ”
The pain in her voice is real. Whatever else Kennedy Mills might be, she’s not a good liar. Which is ironic, considering her entire professional life is built on lies.
Across the bar, Georgie’s teaching the guy in chaps how to do the Macarena. Mom is still dancing with Ella, who’s now trying to grab Mom’s feathered earrings and a tug-of-war has begun. Here’s hoping Mom wins, but something tells me she won’t. My daughter has been known to draw blood before.
“Who else knew about Brittany’s blackmail?” I ask.
Kennedy blinks. “What do you mean?”
“She was blackmailing you. Was she blackmailing anyone else?”
“I don’t know for sure.” Kennedy takes another drink. “But Blaire was really happy when Brittany died.”
“Happy?”
“Not like celebrating. But relieved. She said something weird the other night—said ‘at least some secrets stay buried.’” Kennedy leans forward. “And she had a huge fight with Brittany the week before. I heard them screaming at each other outside Blaire’s engagement party venue.”
I guess Blaire had a motive, too.
“Brittany was threatening to ruin the engagement party,” Kennedy continues. “Show up with evidence of something. I saw her showing Blaire some kind of casino surveillance footage on her phone. I think Blaire’s fiancé Preston has a gambling problem. Or had one. I don’t really know.”
A crash comes from the dance floor, and we both turn that way to see someone has knocked over drinks. Georgie is now coordinating what appears to be a conga line. And one of the waitresses looks resigned to her fate.
“You know who I actually feel bad for?” Kennedy says. “Sloane.”
That gets my attention. “Why Sloane?”
“She and Brittany were actually friends once. Before Brittany went after her business.”
“Her business?”
Kennedy nods. “Brittany was a real estate agent, right? She knew a lot about property values, inspections, all that stuff.” She lowers her voice, glancing around. “Sloane mentioned once that Brittany was ‘poking around in things that weren’t her concern.’ Something about client complaints.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“I think Brittany might have been investigating Fletcher-Ramsey, Sloane’s renovation company.” Kennedy shrugs. “Like you said, Brittany loved having dirt on people. And Sloane’s company does high-end work—lots of money involved. Maybe Brittany thought she could find something.”
She pauses to take another drink.
“But Sloane’s smart. Really smart,” she continues.
“She wouldn’t leave evidence lying around.
Plus, she’s got that husband—Travis? He handles all the tough stuff.
” Kennedy’s phone buzzes, and she glances at it and frowns.
“Sloane always says, ‘Travis takes care of problems.’ It’s kind of their thing. ”
I tuck that away. Travis takes care of problems. The phrasing feels deliberate, but I can’t put my finger on why it’s bothering me.
She thinks I did it, Kennedy thinks to herself, and the self-loathing in her internal voice is almost painful.
They all think I did it. She sighs hard.
I should have just married Jake. Had the babies.
Lived a normal life. Instead, I’m sitting in a dive bar being interrogated while my fake life falls apart because of every left turn I’ve ever taken.
I glance over at Mom and Ella again. The song has changed to something slower, and Mom is swaying gently with Ella against her shoulder. By the looks of it, my mother’s earrings seem to have survived, and more to the point—her ears.
My daughter’s eyes are drooping once again, one tiny fist clutching Mom’s collar, and she looks so much like Jasper it makes my chest tight.
Ella spots me watching and waves, her whole face lighting up with a smile that could power the entire Eastern Seaboard.
I wave back.
After this case is over, I’m taking a week off. Just Jasper, Ella, and me. No murders. No investigations. Just family.
“If you don’t mind, one more question,” I say to Kennedy. “Did Brittany ever mention being afraid of anyone?”
Kennedy thinks, picking at her chipped manicure.
“Not afraid. But she was really focused on Sloane the last few weeks. Kept making comments about ‘perfect lives hiding imperfect secrets.’” She finishes her margarita. “She said something at brunch a couple weeks ago. ‘Some people build their whole lives on sand. Wait until the tide comes in.’”
“She said that about Sloane?”
“I assumed, but only because she was staring right at her when she said it.”
Kennedy’s phone buzzes again, and she looks at it. Her whole face falls.
“Rent’s due tomorrow,” she says quietly. “I don’t have it.” She puts the phone down, looks at me, and sighs. “I keep waiting to feel worse about losing Brittany and Tamsin than I do. Does that make me a terrible person?”
“It makes you honest.”
“Well, then, I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
She gives me a sad smile, then gets up and heads toward the bathroom, weaving slightly. The margaritas are hitting her hard.
She takes off, and I quickly scan the bar for familiar faces when I see that Georgie’s conga line has reached critical mass. She’s wearing a cowboy hat now, definitely not hers, and is leading at least twenty people in a serpentine path around the tables.
Mom appears at my elbow with Ella, who’s now covered in chip crumbs and fighting sleep like it’s a noble battle.
“We should probably extract Georgie before she gets arrested,” Mom says.
I’m about to agree when a ruckus erupts. People are screaming, laughing, and pointing. And well, you can probably guess where.
Georgie spots us and waves both arms. “BIZZY! GET OVER HERE! WE’RE FORMING A HUMAN PYRAMID!”
“We’re leaving!” I call back.
“PARTY POOPER!”
The bartender looks relieved.
Maybe Kennedy’s telling the truth. Maybe she’s not. But she just might have given me the key to cracking this whole thing wide open.