Sunday evening, Grandma sends me to pick up dinner for the two of us at Plumpton Diner. On my way out, Mom informs me that their salads are disgusting and warns me against ordering one.
“Who orders salad at a diner?” I ask, one foot out the door, the sticky humidity and chilly air-conditioning mixing together in a weird, unpleasant way.
She sniffs. “Well, everything else there is dripping in grease.” “Sounds delicious.”
I escape before she can invite herself along.
The diner has been around since I was a kid, and it looks exactly the same on the outside. On the inside, the seats have been upgraded from cracked red plastic to a much nicer shade of blue. It’s cleaner than I remember.
I walk to the counter and ask the red-haired teenager standing there about our order. Judging from the bored look on his face, he doesn’t appear to recognize me.
“It’s not ready yet.” He looks down at his phone, scratching at a pimple on his cheek. “You can sit wherever while you wait.”
I slide onto an unsteady stool at the counter, glancing around at the other diners. It’s early for dinner—five o’clock—and the place is pretty empty. There’s a couple in the corner. A mom with her two kids at a table nearby.
And a dark-haired man by himself in a booth by the window, staring at
me.
I recognize him right away. Ben Owens. Smug podcaster. He lifts one hand. He’s waving at me.
I almost laugh.
And then, I imagine getting back in my car and ramming it into the side of the diner. Straight through the window. Ben’s body sprawled out on my hood.
“Hitting him with your car is bo-ring,” the voice whispers in my ear. “Put your hands around his neck until you can feel the life drain out of him. That’d be fun, right? He probably deserves it. They always deserve it. Let’s kill—”
Shut up, I tell the voice calmly.
It can’t be a good sign that I’ve started talking back to it again.
Ben doesn’t move, but he tilts his head slightly, an expectant look on his face. It’s an invitation, maybe.
I imagine that he’ll just get up and walk over to me if I decline the invitation.
I slide off my stool and walk across the diner.
“Such a lovely throat you have there, sir,” the voice says. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”
He smiles, flashing his perfect, white teeth. Braces and regular whitening. Those teeth did not happen by accident.
I suspect that nothing about Ben Owens is an accident. He extends his hand. “Hi. Ben Owens.”
I ignore the hand. “I know who you are.”
He gestures to the seat across from him. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the table next to a laptop, which he closes and pushes aside. He also flips over a small notebook so I can’t see what was written there.
“Please, sit.”
I’m still standing next to his booth like an idiot, and I guess I didn’t come over just to say hi.
I slide into the seat. He drops his pen on the floor and has to get out of his seat to retrieve it. He’s flustered.
I imagined him a lot smoother. Confident. Working a room.
He settles back into his booth. His dark eyes meet mine briefly, and then his gaze is anywhere but at me. I don’t know whether he’s nervous or embarrassed or just really high-strung.
“I’m speaking to you off the record right now,” I say. “I don’t want to have a conversation if any of this is going in the podcast.”
“Do you have something you want to tell me?” He plays with the edges of the notebook paper, like he’s itching to turn it over and write something down. His fingers are long, the nails neatly trimmed, and I quickly look away.
“No, nothing in particular. I just wanted to make it clear that this isn’t me consenting to an interview.”
“Okay. Off the record.” “Okay.”
“I heard you were in town. How’s your mom?”
“She’s fine, thanks. I heard you were in town too. Why?” “Because you’re here.”
I cock an eyebrow. At least he’s honest.
“Thought I might change my mind about an interview once I saw your charming face in person?”
The edges of his lips twitch. “Maybe.”
“You’ve already gotten some good ones.” “You’ve been listening?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?” “Riveting.”
“Thank you.” He apparently didn’t notice—or chose to ignore—my sarcasm.
I slouch down in my seat, propping up the soles of my shoes on the booth next to him. “So what’s the verdict? Did I do it?”
He rubs the edges of the notebook paper more determinedly, giving me an amused look. “I’ve heard you’re direct.”
“It’s one of my many charms.”
“I’m collecting evidence and presenting it, not making judgments.” “Bullshit, you totally weigh in with your opinions eventually. I’ve
listened to the first season.”
“Thank you for that. And eventually, yes, I’ll bring my own opinion into it, but not right now.” He leans forward, both arms on the table. “Let me
interview you. No one ever gets your side of things.”
“My side of things is just going to be a fucking disappointment to you, Ben. I still don’t remember anything.”
“Not that. I mean, yes, if you suddenly remember what happened that night, by all means, call me right away—”
“You’ll be my first call for sure,” I say dryly.
“—but you can give your side of things on so many other issues. Your relationship with Savannah, Matt, what happened at the wedding…”
“I am not putting my relationship with Savvy out there for everyone to judge again. I hated doing it the first time and I’m not doing it a second time.”
I glance over at the counter. The teenager has disappeared. “I enjoyed your books,” Ben says.
My gaze snaps back to his face. “What?” “Your books. The Eva Knightley books.”
I drop my feet from the booth and straighten. He looks smug again.
“How did you even?” A pit begins to form at the bottom of my stomach.
“Let’s kill, let’s kill, let’s kill—”
“My PI is very good.” Smug, smug, smug.
“Listen, those books…” I clasp my hands together, cracking my knuckles. “I can’t write under my own name. I mean, no one wants to read romance novels from the girl who allegedly bashed her best friend’s head in.”
He looks startled by that.
“And I’ve managed to keep that name a secret so far, and I would really appreciate it if you—”
“Relax, Lucy, I’m not going to tell anyone.” He smiles. Smugly. I hesitate. “If I give you an interview?”
“What? No. Jesus, Lucy, I’m not blackmailing you. I really did like the books.”
“You read romance novels?”
“Well, no, these were my first, but maybe I should read more, because they were very exciting. I liked the one with the couple that pretended to be married best.”
“Why?”
“Apparently I enjoy a good fake-marriage trope. This is something I’ve just discovered about myself recently.”
I barely resist the urge to laugh, but my lips twitch. Fuck. “No, why did you read my books?”
“I was interested. And I did consider putting it on the podcast, honestly. Read some passages. But I can’t really see how it’s relevant. Paige—my assistant—said that putting it on there would just be a dick move, and I have to agree.”
“I like your assistant.” “She’s smarter than me.”
“Ma’am?” The teenage boy at the counter has reappeared, and he’s talking to me, holding a large plastic bag full of takeout containers. I know that everyone calls women ma’am here, no matter their age, but it still makes my eye twitch. I’ve been in Los Angeles too long.
I start to slide out of the booth.
“Just one question.” Ben reaches forward like he’s going to touch me.
He doesn’t. He presses both palms flat to the table. “Off the record.” “You can ask, but I may not answer.”
“How well did you know Colin Dunn?” I sigh. Colin Fucking Dunn.
“You think Savvy’s boyfriend did it. How original. Why didn’t anyone else think of that?” I deadpan.
Literally everyone has thought of that. It’s always the boyfriend or the husband.
Except, in this case, it wasn’t.
“How well did you know him?” he asks again.
“Not well.” Colin’s face flashes through my mind—he had a great face.
A strong jaw, and a slightly crooked smile. Savvy loved his smile.
“You really think Colin went straight home that night? Why’d you guys leave him and Matt at the wedding?”
I slide out of the booth. “This is more than one question, Ben.” “I never was a rule follower.”
God, he’s the worst.
He grabs my hand and presses a card into it. “Call me if you want to talk about Colin after tomorrow’s episode.”
