Page 37

Eight days after

At dawn, I wake to the sound of egrets and sit at the edge of the dock, watching them take flight, willing myself to feel anything. A couple of paddleboarders skate by on the early morning calm of the lake. They wave, and I wave back.

Over here! I’m the widow that everyone is talking about! Did you hear? Do you know it’s me?

They’re gone as the sun breaks over the tops of the houses. A glare bounces off the metal trim of the boat. I shield my eyes for a second.

I used to love the view down here, watching the water change with the weather patterns.

Big, puffy cumulus clouds often build in the morning and early afternoon as the ground heats up.

Some days the clouds are so close it feels like you can reach up and touch them if you stretch a little.

This morning, the water’s so calm it reflects the sky above.

Will loved these days.

“Look at that water. It’s like glass,” he’d say before insisting we take the boat out.

I consider lowering the boat now, but something stops me. The same question that’s been hanging over my head since they told me he was murdered.

How could this have happened?

I find myself looking around, examining the grains of wood on the dock for clues or blood.

I scrutinize the smooth fiberglass and the swirling script of the boat name: Don’t Settle.

Then, I’m climbing in and out of the boat to try to see if there are any signs that a struggle occurred here.

I raise the boat in its lift, then lower it.

Nothing makes sense. I look out over the open water and consider how easy it is for anyone to get here from the lake, passing through the canals, in the dark of night. I shake off the shivers that this thought triggers.

Was someone else here?

I walk up the dock, back toward the house, and take a few steps into the lake where the dock levels off with the shoreline.

The water’s cold and my steps are weighed down by the soft sand sinking under my toes.

From where I’m standing, I can see that the water level at the end of the dock is well below six feet.

If he had been conscious going into the water, he would’ve been able to swim or even stand up and stumble his way to shore.

Desperate for more information, I head back down the dock and climb back into the boat.

Five minutes later, I’m powering across the water almost full throttle.

The wind rushing by my head is the white noise I’ve been desperate for.

The static in which I can find the oxygen to breathe.

I take in a few deep breaths, feeling almost like myself again for a second.

And then my phone dings. I suppress the impulse to pitch it into the lake.

I see that it’s a text from Autumn, and I have three missed calls from Este.

Shit.

I throttle back and turn the boat for home as I read Autumn’s text.

8:49 a.m.

Nora, I’m at your house. We need to talk.

What now? What could possibly be happening now?

I pull the boat back into the slip, and as I’m knotting the line, Autumn and Este come out of my house, heading down the lawn.

“Did you take the boat out?” Este asks, almost confused.

“Yes.” I don’t offer anything else up. I’m not in the mood for her judgment. Although it is nice that she’s not treating me with kid gloves anymore.

“Just…for, like, a ride?”

“Yes, Este. I took my boat out for a ride. It was pretty out this morning, and I can do those kinds of things, right? It’s allowed? I’m allowed to be a human person who does things?”

“Ooohkay. Of course it’s allowed.” Este folds her arms. “Listen, Nora, we have a bigger thing to talk about.”

Autumn seems awfully skittish, but I assume it’s because of me and my…“state.”

“Can it wait? I need coffee.”

Autumn nervously checks her watch and glances at Este.

“For fuck’s sake, Autumn, you can’t be a chickenshit about this now,” Este snaps. “She’ll be here in like ten minutes.”

“Her who? And here, where?” I ask.

“Constance. She’s coming here. Fritz called Autumn and said that Constance feels it’s important that you plan Will’s service together.”

I guffaw at the idea of that. “What the fuck?”

Will is dead, and Constance wants us to put on a united front. Nothing is real.

“I know.” Este wrinkles her nose at me.

“She was thinking because of Mia that you should work together,” Autumn says, and even though I’m ready to start a fight with almost anyone these days, I soften when I think about the spot she’s stuck in.

She has the worst position in this whole thing.

Her livelihood is so embedded in this community.

She can’t alienate her clients—not me or Constance. She adds, “I am super happy to help.”

“Constance said the word ‘together’?” I ask.

Autumn frowns. “Well, not as such—”

And just like that, the slightest sign of goodwill vanishes. “What a joke. Constance is incapable of even making eye contact with me. But I have to just slap on a smile and let her plan my husband’s service?”

Este raises a hand. “I don’t think you should, personally—”

“Este, I think we have to try to be inclusive here. For Mia.” Autumn shrugs a little.

“Fine. Sure. Whatever. For Mia.” I push past Este and Autumn and don’t stop walking. I need to get to the house to make coffee.

—

Fifteen minutes later, I open my front door to find not only Constance but Gianna Hall on the other side.

Oh, this is perfection. My living nightmare gets worse by the hour.

Any hope I had of contributing to the planning of this service has evaporated. I’m glad there’s Baileys in my coffee.

“Constance. Gianna. Thank you for coming by.” My voice is wooden even to my own ears.

Constance feigns a weak smile but doesn’t say anything.

“That’s quite the collection of reporters you have out front,” Gianna says as she crosses the threshold first. Even next to Constance, Gianna’s a royal wrung higher.

Maybe when Constance and Will were still married—before I dethroned her—maybe then they had equal footing. But I doubt it. Gianna always wins.

“All within their reporter rights, I’m afraid,” I say.

“We’re so very sad about Will. All of us.” Gianna places a bony hand on my shoulder and leans in for what I think she thinks is a hug, but to anyone watching could also look like she is about to push me into the glass window by the front door.

“Thanks, Gianna.”

Constance comes in, and I look her over, unable to quell my suspicions.

I tense up. The last time I saw her, she was accusingme of disappearing Will, and now he’s dead.

I brace myself for a fight, but to my surprise, she gives me a hug.

And I’m momentarily stunned that the embrace feels authentic for half a second.

What is this charade? She knows what she accused me of. I know she has no alibi for the night Will died. We could have it out right here. But instead, we’re planning Will’s funeral with a level of decorum that would make the Social Register proud. This is next level, even for you, Winter Park.

Constance pulls away, righting herself, and the air between us settles into thick unpleasantness. I look to Gianna, realizing that she knows everything that has transpired between Constance and me in the past few days.

Does she know what I said? Probably. Constance must have asked Gianna to come as backup. Like a bodyguard or an enforcer.

“Shall we talk in the kitchen? I hope Autumn got my call to meet us here.” Gianna starts for the kitchen with an entitled air, like my house is just another property in her portfolio of real estate holdings.

And what if Autumn hadn’t? Were they just going to come here and surprise me? Funeral by ambush?

I know the answer is yes, which makes this all that much more exasperating.

Constance trails Gianna on their way to the kitchen, and I see it as my window of opportunity.

Even though the last time that I saw her things were ugly, it occurs to me that there’s a chance she knows something about Dean Morrison.

If he’s from Will’s hometown, maybe she met Dean in her past life with Will.

Despite everything between us, it’s possible she has useful information.

“Did you know Dean Morrison?” I ask, and we both stop in the living room.

There’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes that she quickly covers.

“Only from on the news the other day.”

But she’s avoiding direct eye contact, which makes me want to pry more. “Will never talked about him?”

“Will knew him? How?” She frowns.

This is bad theater. If she had a day job, I’d tell her to keep it. Does she know Dean was a private investigator? Does she know Will trusted him?

Whatever she knows, she’s not sharing. I’m no better.

I’m holding on to every scrap of information—hoarding it.

But I’m considering what details I’d be willing to trade on to find the connection between Dean and Will dying so close together—it’s all just too coincidental—when Autumn calls from the kitchen. Gianna must be growing impatient.

As we come into the kitchen, Gianna is seated at the head of my breakfast table, priggishly waiting for us to gather.

Seated beside her, Este shoots me a look filled with disbelief that Gianna is making herself at home. I return a clandestine nod. Este smiles back at me as if to say “game on.” I try to signal my gratitude by way of best-friend telepathy.

As Constance and I take our seats, Este pops up to give Constance a hug that is mostly unreturned. “I’m so sorry for you and Mia. This is just awful.”