Chapter Six Harriet
Chapter Six
Harriet
George George, my mother’s fourth husband, is dead—murdered—and I feel…nothing.
Is something wrong with me? Am I a sociopath?
Sure, George was never my favorite person, but still. I know him. Knew him. And he was stabbed to death right out there on the beach.
Possibly by someone I know.
Maybe even someone sitting on this porch.
The thought hits me hard. I hunch into myself, scanning the crowd. Could it be one of the caterers huddled around Nic’s mom? Or a town council member—Barbara Patterson maybe, who’s whispering by the back stairs.
After the cops dragged Sara away, they gathered the rest of us here and asked us not to leave. Now we’re stuck, sizing each other up with suspicion.
It’s freezing out here; the rain blew the humidity of the day out to sea, and I’m shivering in my stupid dress. Across the porch, I see Gogo and Vicky huddled together wearing jackets and scarves, my mother beside them, a mink fur draped over her dress.
I eye her. I’m currently giving her a wide berth; when I tried talking to her a few minutes ago, she screamed this was all my fault.
Someone pokes my shoulder. Steven, holding two bottles of champagne and a coat.
“Thank god. Give me that.” I reach for a bottle.
He drapes the coat over my shoulders and sits. “Have you talked to your mom?”
I take a small sip from the bottle. “I tried. You know how she is.”
“Yeah. I know.” He tucks a leg under himself, settling back against his seat.
“This is crazy. Someone killed your stepfather. It’s unbelievable.
” He thinks for a second. “Okay, maybe not totally unbelievable, given who George was and all but…still. Murder? Like, who does that? Are we in a soap opera?”
I almost smile. Steven continues talking a mile a minute, shifting into a monologue about Martin Patel: how hot he is in his uniform, how he looks even better in person than on Instagram, how Steven always had such a big crush on him back in the day.
It’s fine by me. I don’t have the energy to keep up my end of a conversation right now.
“Oh my god, this is bananas.” Maggie staggers up, interrupting Steven’s monologue.
She falls into an empty chair and slips off her heels, rubbing her stockinged feet.
“I’ve read about criminal cases in school, but I never thought I’d see something like this close-up.
” She leans forward, squeezing my hand. “How are you doing?”
I shrug. “I’m weirdly…okay? I think maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“Yeah. That’s normal. After my mom died, it didn’t really register for months. I kept expecting her to walk through the front door—” Her voice breaks, and she falls quiet. Her mom was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer our freshman year of high school and died two short months later.
Now it’s my turn to squeeze Maggie’s hand. One thing I’ve learned in my twenty-six years on this planet is that there is family you’re born into and family you choose, and sometimes the latter is far more important.
Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by a ding from Steven’s phone. He sucks a sharp breath through his teeth as he reads the screen. “Shit,” he says. “The local news got hold of the story.”
He holds out his phone. The screen reads brEAKING: LOCAL REAL ESTATE SCION GEORGE GEORGE FOUND DEAD IN SUSPECTED HOMICIDE.
My stomach sinks. “How did they already find out?”
Steven gestures with his chin to the thirty or so people around us. “People love to insert themselves into drama. I mean, it’s what you did when you were writing for Humans, right?”
I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it, but his words sting nonetheless.
I stand. I need some air, some space to breathe. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Har,” Steven says. “I didn’t mean—”
The missing tears are pricking at my eyes. “It’s fine,” I say with a tight smile, then hurry across the porch and down to the beach.
I realize my mistake the moment I hit the sand: It’s packed down here. Cops, EMTs, town government folk all mill around the beach. It’s still very much an active crime scene, with the police tape to prove it.
If anyone spots me, they’re going to be seriously pissed. I consider retreating back up to the house, but I really do need some space. I slip into the shadow beneath the porch and press myself against the back side of a wooden support beam.
I lean against it and close my eyes, enjoying the momentary peace. Maybe when I open them, I’ll find all this was nothing more than a stress-induced nightmare.
I wonder how Nic and his mom are doing. It’s not like the cops really think Sara did it, do they? They only arrested her because she took off running.
But then again…why did she run?
“…create a mess.” A familiar voice shakes me from my thoughts. Chief Sharkey, his voice clipped.
I peel one eye open. He’s nearby—back out on the beach.
“Well,” a woman replies.
I hold my breath, straining to hear.
“It’s going to get a lot worse if—” Her words are lost under the roar of the waves. “…we need to protect the project. His death could knock things sideways, and we can’t let that happen. Even if it means compromising a little, pinning this on someone who’s an easy—”
Pinning this on someone? What does that mean? I strain to hear more, but she cuts off as a phone rings.
“Hello?” Sharkey says. “Hi. Yes, of course. I’ll look into it right now.”
“Was that—” the woman asks.
“Yeah. Gotta go deal with it. You’ll contact the DA’s office?”
“Tomorrow, first thing.”
Then silence as their words spin through my mind.