Page 45

Ardell looks at me like I’m baby Bambi personified. So cute. So stupid. “Nora, Constance was one of the first people we questioned.”

I wind my hands up as if to say “Spit it out.”

“She does have an alibi. She was on a Zoom with her…well, her psychic for over four hours that night.

There’s a ringing in my ears as my thoughts catch up to what Ardell’s just said.

“And the psychic confirmed, and we’ve verified the times with Zoom. Apparently, they talk a lot.”

Constance was home. She’s going to be alibied by Madame Cleo.

And Marcus was right; I wasn’t an interloper. I was the person who knocked Constance off her pedestal, sent her running to consult with the stars.

Constance is saved by some cosmic medium. What does that say about karma?

I shake off the disbelief and try to regroup. “What about Will’s phone records?” I almost can’t believe I’m mentioning it after how quickly Ardell shut down my questions about Dean, but it’s the only card I have left to play. “What about that Mia call?”

“Oh, we know that you weren’t honest about that call. It was never Mia.”

He’s going to turn that call around on me?

“I wasn’t dishonest about the call,” I say. “And I told you there were things to look into and you basically patted me on the head. So, about the call, Will told me it was Mia. If it wasn’t her, who the hell was it?”

My heart is racing. I’ve been waiting a long time to hear the answer to this question, and Ardell looks over the folder in front of him like the answer is right there. I sit forward in my chair—waiting for him to say something.

He clears his throat. “Well—”

There’s a knock on the door, and he gets up.

Fritz comes barging in. “Come on, Nora.”

Behind him, I can see Este standing in the hallway, looking ready for a rumble if the situation calls for it.

I put up a hand to stop Fritz. “Just a second.”

“Nora, stop talking. You’re going home.” Fritz has me on my feet and heading for the door, pulling hard on my elbow.

“Fucking ow ! I want to hear this,” I protest. “Ardell, who called?” I have to get this answer before Fritz inserts himself.

Ardell tries to get between Fritz and the door. “Fritz, I’ve got to talk to her—”

Fritz snaps a look in Ardell’s direction. “Have you charged her with something?”

Ardell shakes his head, practically cowering.

Bad dog.

“We’ll be going now.”

Fritz stands next to me and then escorts me down the hallway with Este in tow. “I really hope you didn’t say much. You should have asked for a lawyer.”

I shake my arm loose from Fritz. “I didn’t think I needed one, Fritz. I didn’t do anything. And Ardell has information that might be helpful—”

“I fucking hope so. He’s leading a murder investigation.

You are not a detective. You are a housewife.

Go to your house.” His nostrils are flaring.

“Este, take her home. The press is here, so I want to keep your face as hidden as possible, and don’t let them get a good shot of you. I will talk to Travis.”

I don’t budge for a minute. I’m tired of being bossed around by Fritz Hall. He takes a step toward me and lowers his voice, “Nora, go the fuck home and stop talking to people without me.”

I fold my arms and give him a mutinous glare.

“What’s your plan here, Nora?” His voice is at the edge of taunting. “You want to cause a scene in the middle of the police station? You think that’s going to help your case?”

Este steps between us and pulls me away. “Come on,” she encourages in a gentle voice.

I go, because deep down, in the part of my rational mind that hates to admit Fritz is right, I know I can’t get him to budge, and it would be a mistake to try to argue in such a public place.

Este offers me a sunhat, which I pull on and sling low over my face as I walk out the door without another word to Fritz.

—

We have to crawl through the crush of reporters, who are now desperate to get a shot of me. I’m curled up in a ball, back to the window, hat obscuring my face. Este expertly parks her car at an angle, so I can slide out directly into the garage, shielded from the press.

Este really does think of everything.

She gets out of the car, flipping off the reporters as she slips into the dark garage, and promptly closes the garage door.

I walk to the kitchen, hating the feeling that lingers in the air. The house looks almost normal—almost. But little things here and there are just out of place, moved or picked up by the officers sent to search the house. It feels like someone has just broken in, like someone is watching me.

I pick up two different prescription bottles.

“What are you doing, Nora?”

“Just going to head back into oblivion, thanks.” My nerves are shot and I’m exhausted. I start to unscrew one of the bottles, thinking a three-hour nap might take the edge off, but Este slaps my hand down.

“No. No more Grey Gardens bullshit. This is serious now, and as much as it pains me to say it out loud, Fritz is right. Don’t talk to anyone else. Not without him around.”

I huff. But I know she’s right.

“Did you see how many reporters are out there? They’re multiplying like fucking rabbits.” I slump down onto the couch, and Este joins me. “I didn’t do anything, Este.”

“Oh, come on. You and I both know that doesn’t matter now.

You’re the perfect poster child for people like Lindy Bedford to splash all over the news.

‘Young, dumb, pretty wife is actually a young, dumb, pretty murderer.’ America eats that shit up with a spoon.

The whole world does. Give them a few more weeks and they’re going to try and convict you on cable news before Ardell can move on to another suspect. ”

Fuck.

I pull out my phone and google my name to make a point. I stop dead when I see the first thing that pops up in Google search.

“What the—”

On my screen is a picture of me from the funeral, talking to Marcus.

His hand is on the small of my back, and the headline blasts out that I’m a prime suspect in my husband’s murder, looking “cozy” with an unidentified man.

Even I think the photo makes me look suspicious, maybe even guilty of murder.

Este takes my phone and scrolls through a few pictures that are up on some rag-mag site.

“This is why the press is all over your house and the station.” She chucks the phone on a couch cushion.

“These people live for a murder. And they are waiting with bated breath for you to be the one who did it, looking for all of the so-called evidence that they can get their hands on. They’re going to sell a million magazines to a million murder-obsessed housewives.

And then the TikTok murder girlies are going to find you.

Lindy’s chumming the waters with every new broadcast. Someone’s going to start a fucking podcast.”

She stops and takes a breath, and I can tell she’s holding back the last thing she was going to say.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

Este shrugs it off. Shakes her head in an unconvincing no.

“Fuck you, Este. What’s wrong?”

“I saw you one morning. Coming home. I saw Marcus drop you off at like six a.m. ” She looks at me and there’s genuine sadness in her eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you, or ask, but…those pictures, that morning. What’s…going on there?”

“Fucking nothing. ” I’m pissed. I stand up and pace around in front of the fireplace. “Why didn’t you just ask me? Or tell me that you saw me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to be seen, so I was waiting for you to tell me what was going on.”

“The answer is still fucking nothing. Will and I had a shitty fight, a really shitty fight, and I left and was driving around, and I got a flat. I called Marcus for help. And then Will didn’t bother to call me or find me, so I stayed at Marcus’s. In the guest bedroom.”

I can feel my blood pressure ticking up and don’t want Este to know it, so I sit back down and hang my head in my hands. “That is all that happened,” I say, my voice muffled through my fingers.

“I am going to ask you something one time, and whatever the answer is, I’m here. I’m your ride or die. Okay? But I have to know so I can help you.”

I drop my hands and hold her gaze. I’ve never seen her look so serious.

“Are you in this? Did something happen?” she asks.

“Are we talking about a murder weapon buried somewhere that we need to go make disappear? Maybe it was all just an accident. Something went too far in a heated moment? Just tell me and I’ll get a shovel and a convertible, and we’ll ride off into the sunset and no one has to know. ”

“You’re really asking me this?” But I know I can’t even be mad. The Marcus pictures, Constance’s accusations, my nonexistent alibi. None of it looks good.

“A good friend holds your hand. A best friend gets the shovel.”

“Este. Have you buried a body?”

“No. Have you?” she bandies back.

“I didn’t kill Will, Este.” I look at her and I hear myself panting. “I didn’t kill him. I loved him…I think.”

Is it possible to feel yourself coming unglued?

“Okay.” Este must see the wild look in my eyes as a cry for help. She softens and puts a careful hand on my arm. “Sweetie. You’re exhausted. And you smell a little bit like a police precinct.”

“Hurtful.”

“And still shockingly accurate.” She gives me a little pat. “Go take a shower. I’ll run home and figure out something for dinner.”

A shower. Some food. I know Este is right. I have to find Will’s killer before I end up taking the fall for his murder.