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GRANT

The next hour passed in a blur. The detective showed up, along with the president of the Brighton Estate’s homeowner association and their head of security. I had to go through my story again, then stood by as an officer placed calls to Mandolin’s and Bridget’s parents, who handled the news in markedly different fashions. Mandolin’s parents said their nanny would be over shortly to collect her, while Bridget’s mother stated that she needed to call their attorney and that she was going to record the phone call.

I hadn’t yet brought up the Folcrum murders and wasn’t sure how and when to. I needed to keep my mouth shut, and I needed to call an attorney. The latter was made more difficult by the fact that I still didn’t have my phone and was lost without its list of contacts.

The detective arrived, a short man with bright-red hair who introduced himself as Hal Heinwright but said I could call him Hal.

I didn’t want to call him Hal. I was going on my third day without more than an hour of sleep, and I was exhausted and neurotic enough that confessing everything was starting to sound like a good idea. I needed to get to Sophie and get us both somewhere quiet and private.

I walked over to Hal, who was resting his forearms on the hood of his unmarked car, a coffee cup between his hands. He straightened at my approach and stopped whatever he was saying to the CSI beside him. “Hi, Grant. What’s up?”

“If I could use a phone, I’d like to call an attorney. Just want to make sure I’m not doing anything wrong.”

He pursed his lips. “Sure, of course.” He unclipped a cell phone from his belt. “Use mine.” He unlocked the screen and passed it to me.

Paul Reachen. Bill’s recommendation was imprinted in my mind, and I googled his name, pleased to see an emergency contact number on his website. I glanced at the sky, which was just starting to gain light, dawn still at least an hour out, and initiated the call. I didn’t have time to wait. I needed someone here, to act as a barrier between me and a confession.

They had already shown me the evidence on Paige’s phone. Dozens and dozens of text messages I had never seen and certainly had not created. Nothing horrible, but a lot of back-and-forth communication I’d never been aware of, all with a flirty tone I abhorred.

Most damning, there was a call from my phone to Paige’s at 1:14 a.m. She had answered it, but the line had been dead. “I” had immediately followed up the calls with a series of incriminating texts.

Everything is going wrong. I need you to come to the house.

Did you get this?

Come A.S.A.P.

The front door may be unlocked, if not, use your code.

Please be quiet and meet me in Sophie’s room. Perla is asleep. Hurry.

My stomach had dropped at the precise A.S.A.P. , which was exactly how I always typed it, with spaces and periods in place. Someone—a forensic expert on the stand—would point that out. Use it to prove that I was the one who had sent the communication.

What had Perla planned for when Paige got here? To kill her? Or to frame me and Paige for the crime?

The call to Paul Reachen rang, and whatever part of me had felt guilty retreated a little farther into my chest.