Chapter 52
When Adeem and Libby arrive the next morning, Adeem has a Tupperware container full of brownies with him.
“Meera made them,” he says as he hands the container over.
“How thoughtful,” I reply, setting it down on the counter. “She must’ve heard I’ve been through the wars.”
“Well,” he says, counting on his fingers, “the first time we came, you were assaulted. The second time, you were arrested.”
“Brought in for questioning,” I clarify, peeling open the lid of the Tupperware. “There’s a difference.”
“Glad to hear it,” Libby says. “Let’s aim to get through today without anyone being hospitalized.”
“Ambitious, but I like it.”
While I plate the brownies—which are thick and glossy, with just the right amount of crackle on top—Adeem sets up the tripod in the living room.
Libby hovers at the kettle, fiddling with her ridiculous tin of loose-leaf tea.
Today it smells like lemon and something else—myrtle, maybe?
—and I’ll admit it’s not unpleasant. But I have too much self-respect to start drinking infused flowers at eighty-one.
“I was watching the footage back last night,” Adeem says, as Libby and I return to the table. “You’re a fantastic storyteller, Elsie.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly. “The material, admittedly, is quite compelling.”
“One comment which the media grabbed onto was a note in your diary where you said you were”—Libby glances at her notes—“delighted Mr. Loukas was dead.”
She looks up.
“Well …” I start.
“It’s an interesting word choice, ‘delighted,’ ” Adeem says. “Not ‘glad,’ not even ‘happy.’ ‘Delighted’ is a word you’d use to describe how you’d feel about looking after someone’s kitten.” He shoots a look at Libby.
“I’m not looking after your kitten, Ads. I’m allergic.”
“What is a word you’d use,” I ask him, “to describe how you’d feel if someone who betrayed you in the worst way died?”
He thinks about that. “Pleased?”
“Thrilled?” Libby suggests.
“Overjoyed?” Adeem is getting into it. “Elated? Jubilant?”
“Jubilant?” I say, exchanging a glance with Libby. “Wow, Adeem. Makes ‘delighted’ look tame.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just talk, would you, Elsie. And pass me a brownie.”