Wish You Were Gone(18)
Lizzie was surprised that Gray had put the two of them on the same level as Emma’s closest friends. If pressed, Lizzie would never have said the same. She was Emma’s best friend. She was the one who listened, who gave her a job when she was so bored at home she wanted to pull her own hair out, who was there whenever Emma called. Gray seemed to think of Emma as a puppet to be molded and controlled. Although after this morning’s conversation it seemed pretty clear that there was a lot about Emma that Lizzie didn’t know—a lot about Emma’s marriage that she didn’t know—information that Gray was privy to. She wondered if Gray had been walking around all day preening over that fact. Add a point to the Gray column.
Lizzie hated the idea of keeping score—even metaphorically. It was so childish. But she was certain Gray was doing it, too.
For once, though, the two of them were in agreement on something. Going off on some wild-goose chase was not going to help Emma grieve properly. And what if James had committed suicide? What if that was what Emma discovered in the end? That he wished he’d chosen a different path. Or a different woman? That he had been unhappy in his marriage all these years. So unhappy he’d taken the most drastic way out.
Lizzie was about to ask Gray what she was thinking when she noticed that Gray had made no move to remove her coat, or to sit at the design table. She stood in the middle of the store, her black hair shining under the pot lights, and hanging perfectly straight in a blunt cut to her shoulders. She must have had it trimmed every week to keep it looking that perfect. She must have spent a fortune. Gray regarded her, chin held high, her briefcase clutched in front of her along with those incredibly lush-looking gloves. Lizzie felt the oddest tingling of fear. Gloves were good for keeping fingerprints off of things. Like cars. Like door handles.
“Do you… know something?” she asked.
Gray laughed derisively. “Of course, you would go there.”
“It’s a simple question, Gray,” Lizzie said, moving behind the counter just to put its heft between herself and this woman. This enemy. “You come in here all jittery and tell me we have to distract Emma, so of course I have to wonder—”
“I’ve never been jittery a day in my life.” Gray put her briefcase on the counter and slapped the gloves down next to it, rolling her neck a bit, as if talking to Lizzie was just so trying. “Of course you’d have some half-cocked conspiracy theory, but no. I’m just worried about my friend. Emma, you may not know, has anxiety—she has a tendency to fall down the rabbit hole when the going gets tough.”
Lizzie’s skin burned at the implication that she didn’t know Emma as well as the great Gray Garrison did. Maybe she’d been in the dark about certain things, but she knew her best friend. “I’ve never seen her fall down the rabbit hole,” she said. “I’m sure this will pass. She just has to get back into her normal routine. Maybe we should take her out for a hike or something. Some fresh air could do her good.”
Another snort from Gray. “Right. Sure. Take her camping. Whatever. Go crazy. But we’re in agreement here? This whole murder theory is asinine?”
“I’m not ready to call it asinine,” Lizzie said, mostly to piss Gray off.
It worked. Gray’s catlike eyes flashed. “Fine. If you want to play this game… where were you the night James died?”
A chunk of scone rose up Lizzie’s throat. She stood up straighter and swallowed hard. “I was home. With Willow and Kelsey. I’m sure Emma told you that I brought Kelsey back that night after the police called.” She closed her computer and shoved it into her bag. “Besides, I barely even knew James. Why would I kill him?”
Gray said nothing as Lizzie gathered up some papers and her phone. She should be home by now. She should be making dinner with Willow. She’d been in a semi-peaceful state of mind while Ben was here. Why the hell did this woman have to sweep in and get her all riled up? And what was with all the silence?
Lizzie grit her teeth and zipped up her bag. “You’ve always had it out for me.”
Gray lifted one shoulder, an elegant gesture. “It’s not my fault you’re unnaturally obsessed with Emma.”
“Me? You treat her like she’s your child, always telling her what to do and how to do it. And I know for a fact you didn’t like James. Where the hell were you on the night he died? Where was Darnell, for that matter?”
“Don’t you talk about my husband,” Gray spat.
“Oh, hit a nerve, did I?” Lizzie wished she wasn’t trembling, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. The caffeine from the apple spice coffee wasn’t helping.
Be the change… be the change… bethechange!
“Maybe that’s why you’re here trying to get me to talk Emma out of looking into what happened. Maybe Darnell had something to do with it. The cops always look at the people closest to the victim, right? Well, we know Emma didn’t do it, so who else did James spend every single day with? Do you even know where he was?”
Gray whipped her briefcase and gloves off the countertop and tugged at her coat, pulling it taut. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. Emma is my oldest and dearest friend, and if you don’t have her back, then I will.”
Lizzie followed her to the door and locked it behind her, slamming one flat hand against the frame. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she fumbled it out. A text from Willow.