“I’m fine. Just Braxton Hicks.” As she rights herself, she forces a smile. “I think this is a conversation you should be having with your therapist or whomever. Not me.”
I fold my napkin and lay it over the dessert she set out for us. I haven’t touched the lemon pie. The whipped cream melted into a puddle on top. “Who was there that night?”
I’m not letting this go. I was angry with her. I remember this. Whether the memory was altered in some way, I didn’t imagine her behavior in the hospital. She knows more than she told the police—more than she told me.
She releases a lengthy breath. “Just us…and some random people we didn’t know. And Torrance, the bartender. Which I’ve told you and Dutton a million times.” She turns to head into her house. “Now, please go.”
“I saw Torrance, Cam. He’s part of an investigation into a cold case that involves the murder of a woman a year ago. Circumstances much like mine.” I pause to let this information sink in. “So is his brother. Did you know he has a brother?”
She looks tired, defeated already. “How the hell would I? I was only with him that one time. Which is a complete blur from being drunk. Oh, and also, from my best friend nearly being murdered. That does tend to make everything else pale. What is it that you want, Cynthia? Why are you here, now? After all this time?”
The burning question.
I’ll make him pay…
“Did you see Drew that night?”
Dumbfounded, she sits back down. Pushes her long blond hair behind her ears. “I made him leave,” she finally admits.
Nearly four years and so many lies later…
But I realized the only reason why she’d have been so angry with Drew at the hospital was if he had shown up that night. If something else had happened between them.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shakes her head absently. “I don’t know. The police were already singling him out and—”
“And you knew that it couldn’t have been him,” I say.
Her eyes find mine. Years of buried guilt rises in the sheen. “I told Drew that I’d meet him later,” she says. “I didn’t sleep with the bartender that night. I left with him, but I didn’t follow him to his place.”
I nod slowly, the puzzle pieces coming together to finally fill in the gaps. Cam knew that Drew wasn’t my attacker because she was with him. “That’s why you didn’t try to make me leave with you at the Dock House. You said you did, but you left me there. So you could be with Drew.” Her statement to me at the hospital felt false then, I just didn’t know why. “Was there anyone not sleeping with Drew while we were dating?”
She flinches at my incensed accusation. “It wasn’t like that, Cynth.”
“Don’t call me that. It’s not my name.” Not anymore.
She swallows hard. “I mean, how could you not know? He was a hot college professor. The epitome of a cliché. I didn’t realize how serious you were about him at first…and then, it was only a couple of times after that. I loved you, Cy—” She cuts herself off. “I wasn’t with Drew that night. Not like that. I really was angry over the Chelsea situation on your behalf, and I didn’t want Drew at the bar hurting you further. So I met him at his house and told him what a douche I thought he was for doing what he did.”
Still, the damage is done. She pitied me back then. The introverted, clueless loner who fell for her college professor. I wonder how much of our friendship was based on pity.
“What time was that?” I ask, slipping into my professional persona, suiting up like armor.
“I’m not sure… Maybe around eleven-thirty?”
I make a mental note. “And what time did you see Drew at the Dock House?”
“Cynth—”
“This is not about me,” I say, steeling my resolve. “Another woman was killed, possibly more. I need the truth from you now to help her.”
She nods. “It must’ve been about nine or so. It was about an hour before I left with Torrance. I saw Drew lurking around the dock, and I intercepted him before he could approach you and sent him away.”
“You told Detective Dutton that you and Torrance left the Dock House at approximately ten p.m.” It’s comfortable here, in this safe persona. I dig in with my heels. “That’s roughly an hour where you don’t know where Drew was.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “That can’t be right. I must have my times wrong. It was so long ago. I swear, Cynthia. I blew Torrance off and headed straight to Drew’s. I saw him. I talked to him. There’s no way he could’ve—”
“No, maybe not. But there’s a window where I need information and answers.” I stand and grab my bag from the back of the chair and shoulder it. “Drew had Chelsea cover for him as his alibi for that night. Why?” I look into her eyes, searching. “Why didn’t you both just tell the truth? Why try to hide it after everything?”