“So you reached out to her?”
I cock my head. “What? To Lauren?”
“Yes, you—”
“No, I didn’t ‘reach out.’ Why would I do something like that? She’s the last person in the world I’d want to talk to.”
There is no reason for me to be coy about my hostility toward Lauren. An innocent person wouldn’t hide his disdain for her, under the circumstances.
And technically, my answer is truthful. Ididn’treach out, and sheisthe last person I’d want to talk to.
“Do you still belong to the Grace Country Club? ”
“Yes, I do. As a legacy.”
“When was the last time you were there?”
“It’s been years,” I say. “Many, many years.”
“Have you been back since Lauren joined?”
“I didn’t know Lauren was a member,” I say. “And I don’t know how long she’s been back in town.”
Nice try, Jane.
“Her friends tell us she went to the club almost every day,” says Jane. “Tennis, golf, lunch.”
“How nice for her,” I say.
“So you haven’t spoken to Lauren since she came back to Chicago, to Grace Village?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You haven’t been inside her house?”
I laugh. “Give me a break.”
“Is that a ‘no,’ Simon?”
“That’s a ‘no.’”
“So you just let it go, her coming back? This woman stole all your family’s money and basically caused the death of your mother.”
“Yes, I am well aware of what Lauren did, believe me. It’s not the most enjoyable thing to revisit.”
She puts up her hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just have to cross every ‘t’ and dot every ‘i’ here, you understand.”
“Then cross whatever ‘t’ you need to cross, and dot whatever ‘i,’ and be done with it.”
“Got it. Will do. So just to be clear.” She puts her hands together, steers them toward me. “You have never set foot inside Lauren Betancourt’s house?”
“Correct.” My hands still. My knees still. My feet still. Arms not crossed.
“So there would be no reason for us to find your fingerprints inside that house.”
“I can’t imagine how my fingerprints would be inside that house.”
Also true. I wore gloves the whole time I was in there. So did Christian, I assume, at least from what I could see.