The Last Housewife (13)

I’d known Jamie since we were five years old, so I’d seen him through every phase: when he was the smallest boy in class, skinny-elbowed and bespectacled; then gawky and acne-prone; then tall and deep-voiced, unsure what to do with his long limbs. The last I’d seen Jamie was senior year of college, when there’d been only a glimmer of the man who walked toward me now.

He was beautiful and didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t register the eyes that flitted to him in the restaurant, seemed unaware of the head tilts. That kind of ignorance was a luxury I’d never had, but never mind. Growing up, people had sometimes asked if Jamie and I were brother and sister. He had hair as midnight black as mine, though his was longish over his forehead and styled with some sort of product now, a new trick. He’d grown a beard, a week or two beyond a five-o’clock shadow, and wore dark jeans and one of those well-tailored hoodies that somehow manage to look urbane. But the best part about Jamie had always been his eyes: bright and dancing, even from far away.

It was rare to see an old friend. I drank him in until he stood in front of my table, and my body finally rose.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. I hugged him quickly, then slid back into my chair. Jamie slung his duffel on the floor and took the seat across from mine. We studied each other from opposite sides of the table.

“It’s good to see you,” I offered.

His grin grew wider. His was not a face for podcasts.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to make contact with you for years. I was this close to begging your mom on my knees to give me your number. I even talked to the old crew from Heller High.”

“Painful.”

“Then I actually pleaded in public for you to contact me. So yeah, it’s pretty fucking great to see you, too. I feel like I conjured you.”

“I’m sorry it’s been a while.”

Our waitress slid up to the table, flipping her hair and flashing a smile that lingered a second or two longer in Jamie’s direction. I recognized the move from my own restaurant days. “What can I bring you?”

Jamie smiled. “Whiskey, please. Neat.”

“Look who evolved beyond Shiner.” I looked at the waitress. “A glass of Sancerre, please.”

Jamie said nothing until the waitress took off. Then he burst.

“Tell me everything. What do you do? Where do you live? What’s your life like? I’ve missed you.”

He was smiling, earnest, but that only made me more nervous. I picked up my napkin and twisted it. Immediately, his eyes dropped to my hands, and his smile faded.

“You’re married.”

I dropped the napkin and twisted my ring. “I am.”

“Well, congratulations. Tell me about him.”

At that moment, my phone lit up in the corner of the table: Calvin Deroy calling. I clicked the screen black, heart thumping.

He raised an eyebrow. “Speak of the devil?”

“His name is Cal. We live in Dallas. I used to write for The Slice, but lately…” Lately, nothing. I felt the words die.

Jamie tilted his head. “I never thought you’d end up back in Texas.”

Jamie had been my best friend growing up, but even so, there was so much I’d kept from him. I’d wanted one person to keep looking at me the way he always had. I cleared my throat. “Maybe we should talk about the case.”

“Okay.” He said it slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m doing great, by the way. Bought an apartment in Brooklyn, the podcast numbers are high, my parents are retired and loving it. They ask about you.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Jamie. Of course I want to know how you’ve been.”

“It’s fine.” He bent to his bag and unzipped it. “We can get straight to business.”

He pulled out a file and cracked it open on the table. Inside were papers, each with the seal of the Westchester County Police Department.

The waitress came back and slid our drinks across the table. Jamie casually flipped the file closed, and we both remained silent until she left.

“Laurel’s police report,” I breathed, once she was gone. “How’d you get it?”

“Ah, you know. Those municipal data systems: famously impenetrable. I’ve got someone talented on my team. I asked, he delivered.” He gave me a faint smile, straightening the papers. “How do you think I get so many scoops?”

“What you said in the episode…” I pointed at the report. “That Laurel was found almost exactly like Clem, both on campus. It doesn’t make any sense. Laurel was thirty years old. Why would she go back to college to kill herself? She had a lot of reasons to stay away.”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed, and I could feel his scrutiny travel over me. This must be his reporter face. “You think Laurel was killed, too?”

“I don’t know. Yes? The similarities between her and Clem are too strange to be a coincidence.” Unless it was guilt, my mind whispered.

Jamie’s grip on the papers tightened. “Shay.” He said it urgently enough that I met his eyes. “Who would do this?”

My throat went dry. “I don’t know.”

He held my gaze, and an uncomfortable flush spread down my neck. His eyes were an arresting mix of green and brown. Worse, they were knowing.