Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

gossip, something that makes me totally forget about my situation, that I can’t stop spewing rapid-fire questions at Beth without allowing her to answer a single one. I will not leave this restaurant until I am satisfied.

A flash of sadness hits me when I realize that under normal circumstances, I would go home and tell Dave all of this, and together we’d bad-mouth Beth and her behavior. We’d get a good laugh from it all and feel better about our lives in comparison to hers. I wonder if Dave could put our differences aside for a while so we could enjoy dishing about this secret.

Probably not.

I turn my full attention back to Beth.

“That’s a lot of questions,” she says.

“This is a lot of news,” I reply. “So start spilling.”

“He’s a good guy. We get along, and he doesn’t make things too complicated, but I’m not sure how I feel about him.”

“Do you know how you feel about Devin? Did something happen between the two of you?” I say, leaning into the table, remembering we’re sitting in the middle of a restaurant.

“Nothing happened, really. I love him. He’s a great father—everything I could ever want in a husband, really.”

“So why are you fucking all of that up?”

Beth looks at me as though she’s never considered that she’s ruining her life with these actions. She’s only thought about how she could benefit.

“It just happened. The moment presented itself, and I went with it.”

She pauses, looks at me, and then closes her eyes for a good ten or fifteen seconds, breathing deeply, seemingly looking inside herself for answers.

“And then it kept happening, and now I don’t really want it to stop, and I don’t think he does either. He just got engaged. We avoided each other for a few days, but . . .”

She trails off.

“So who is he?” I ask. “Someone from the kids’ preschool? Do I know him?”

Beth has taken a drink of wine and she’s still trying to swallow when she says, “Maybe.”

I don’t break eye contact with her, waiting for more information. How do I know him? Possibilities cross my mind, but I can’t really think of anyone other than the couple of guys from Dave’s work I remember from Lana’s funeral.

She finally opens her mouth, chuckles a little first.

“Actually,” she says, “it’s kind of funny. Well, not funny, really, just . . . kind of weird.”

“Okay,” I say, confused.

“It’s Detective Ryan Kirkpatrick. I think he’s working on your case. Lana’s case,” she corrects herself quietly, after redirecting her gaze from the table to me.

“I . . . what? I don’t understand,” I manage to mutter.

“I know, it’s insane. If you want me to end it, I can.”

“I don’t know what I want,” I say, downing the rest of my glass of wine. I grab my things, get up from the table, and walk out, getting to the parking lot with no recollection of how I ended up there.

I bend over and put my hands on my knees, trying to catch the breath that I swear has been sucker-punched out of me. I feel sick.

I walk over to the bushes and throw up. Sweat is dripping down my face, and I’m shaking too. I can’t stop. I can’t see. My head hurts.

Suddenly a hand is on my back. I turn around to find Beth standing there. I stand up and wipe my mouth. I stumble, nearly falling over. Beth steadies me.

“I need to sit down,” I say.

She leads me to a bench, and we sit. She gives me a Kleenex and a mini bottle of water from her large handbag. I wipe my mouth and take a small sip. It’s warm, so I swish and spit over the side of the bench.

“I didn’t mean to tell you,” she says. “It just came out. You needed something to talk about and I needed someone to tell and it just came out. I’m sorry, Mags.”

I feel like I’m a kid and Beth is my mom. Like she’s apologizing for ruining my first date or something. But this is worse. Oh so much worse.

Why is this bozo detective sleeping with my sister? I can only imagine it’s to get information about me so he can charge me with Lana’s murder. He wants to weave a complex web out of the lies I’ve told, my presumed motive, and hatred. For some reason, he thinks Beth knows something. I’ve got news for him: not even Dave has the full picture.

We all have secrets, the things we barely admit to ourselves, let alone outsiders. Yes, Beth is my sister, and Dave is my husband, but they are both outsiders in my world, as I am in theirs. Each of us peeking into a window to catch a glimpse, allowing us to better figure the other person out, not realizing that it’s not at all possible.

“What have you told him about me?” I ask, no longer angry, mostly because my energy has been zapped. I wonder if I’ll even be able to drive myself home.

“I try not to tell him much. I know anything I say could be used against you. He did find some eyedrops you gave me. Said they were glycerin or something weird like that. I don’t know. Just glad I didn’t use them.”

I didn’t give her weird eyedrops. I don’t even use eye drops. I’ve always had a thing about them, have to be pretty much sedated for someone to squeeze them into my eyes. Hate needles, too, and the sight of blood. I’m a very squeamish person, actually. And I’m being accused of killing someone. Okay, nearly accused, but still.

“I didn’t give you any eyedrops,” I say.

“Yeah, you did. Don’t you remember? What do you have, early onset Alzheimer’s or something?”

“No,” I say as sternly as I can manage. “I didn’t give you any fucking eyedrops.”

“Whatever you say, Maggie.”

She thinks I’m wrong. We often have long, drawn-out arguments about things like this. She thinks she’s right when actually, I am. Most