Ana
I haven’t slept so I brew myself another pot of the concoction I taught to Coraline—black cohosh, matcha, peppermint, and
blackberry. In school we called it Night Owl. It worked its magic for me last night. And I’m still tingling with its effects
hours later, but I need another hit.
Since leaving Lisander and a quick visit to Agnes’s place again, I’ve done nothing but try to find someone else who had motive
to kill Paul, another narrative for my detective friend.
Paul’s picture stares back at me from the screen. The last time I saw him, it was ugly. Raised voices, name-calling. Violence.
But there was heat, too, something intense. Something thrilling. That’s not really love, the kid-shrink told me.
What is love, then? I asked her.
It’s up to each of us to decide what brand of love we give and receive. But when it’s healthy, it’s not violence. It doesn’t
hurt.
I wish someone had told that to my parents.
Now, the sun rising and washing my small kitchen in pink light, I also toss back an energy drink for good measure. Sometimes
nature needs a little assist. My phone pings continuously.
Vera. With all her orders and thoughts, since just before the sun broke the horizon.
Victor and I are getting you at 8. We’ll talk in the car.
Be ready.
Let me do the talking when we’re with the detective.
Don’t answer any questions you don’t have to.
Ana.
Answer me.
Have you figured out who that woman was with the grudge?
Wear something conservative. No heels. Nothing too low-cut.
On and on. For fuck’s sake. No wonder her relationship with her daughter is a cage match. Has there even been a bossier, more
controlling pain in the ass?
The other phone in front of me has been silent. Not a single text or call since I lifted it from Iggy’s house.
I scroll again through the texts there from an unknown caller on the day of the brunch. I’ve tried calling the number, but
no one answers, no voicemail picks up. A burner probably. But who?
I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I’m all alone out here.
I’m scared.
Only one from Iggy: Don’t text me again.
Looking back, Iggy did seem tense and jumpy at the brunch. I thought it was just being away from her baby overlord. But maybe there was something
else going on. There was a time when we didn’t have any secrets. But since I started seeing Paul, and she married Brock, things
have changed.
I’ve tried responding to the texts with an Iggy-like tone: So sorry I was sharp. This is a lot. Are you okay?
But no answer has come. Who is texting Iggy? Why was she so cold in response? That’s really not like her at all. Was she having
an affair? One she regretted and was trying to end?
Never. Not Iggy, the ultimate good girl.
The only other saved text chain on her phone is between her and Brock, a total lovefest, nothing but sweetness and baby pictures,
heart emojis and kissy faces. Gawd. Boring.
Not boring: Detective Bandeau. A lover. An enemy. It’s a combination I find wildly exciting. I swear I still feel his lips
on my throat. That’s what I can’t stop thinking about.
Focus, Ana, Vera would surely chide.
Across my kitchen table, I have my research spread out. A printout of the blog and the text chain I screen shot and sent to
myself from Paul’s phone the last time I was snooping. Paul’s professional portrait stares at me from the printout of his
ConnectIn page. I reread the comment left by someone calling herself Jezebel.
One day, you’re going to pay for things you’ve done.
I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of Amanda Alessi’s social media feeds, the things she’s done, where’s she’s traveled, the people
connected to her. I have found some things that surprised me. I even swung by her house, talked to her nosy neighbor. Maybe
I should become a private investigator. I think I’m good at this.
A theory is starting to take shape, but it’s still unformed, out of focus.
The only things I know for sure:
I didn’t kill Paul.
And everyone, including my sister, at least suspects that I did. Once that detective starts really digging into my past, he’s
going to be less interested in me as a fuckbuddy and more as the main suspect in his murder investigation. Our sexual chemistry
is not going to save me. Or is it?
The thought that I could go to prison like my mother, that I could die there, fills me with a sick dread. How many innocent
women have died for crimes they didn’t commit?
Ana. Are you ready?
I look out the kitchen window and see a Range Rover pull into the lot. My sister with our lawyer, Payton’s ex, my one-night
stand, Victor. We’re off to see the detective.
This should be fun.
If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d be excited.