I can’t seem to focus on anything today. I wanted to record an episode of my show—I figured snickerdoodles would be an easy one, because I make those all the time. But I burned my first batch, then when I tasted the second batch, they tasted terrible. I think I forgot the salt. My heart wasn’t in it today.
I just keep thinking about what happened to Brianna. And that stupid burner phone.
Maria must be responsible for what happened to Brianna. And if I could get that phone, I could prove it. But how could I get my hands on it?
In the early afternoon, I see Maria take off for her job. She’ll probably be gone until the evening. Shortly after, Sean’s truck leaves their driveway. The Cooper household is empty.
It would be a perfect time to look around. I looked in Maria’s purse the other day, and the phone wasn’t there. Granted, Maria may have the phone in her pocket, like she must have when she snapped a picture of me being apprehended by the security guard. But this morning when she left, she was wearing a dress. There was nowhere for her to put a phone. I would guess with the police asking questions, she might not want to be carrying it around. And even if I can’t find her phone, there’s got to be some other evidence around of her connection to Brianna. I’m convinced I can find something.
Anyway, it can’t hurt to have a look around.
I have just slipped my feet into my ballet flats when the doorbell rings.
I race over to answer, but I check the peephole first this time.
It’s Detective Hanrahan again. Oh God. I’m not in the mood for this.
I take a second to compose myself. I pat my blond hair, which feels disheveled, but there isn’t much I can do about it. I plaster a smile on my face and throw open the door.
“Hello, Detective!” I say brightly. “How can I help you?”
He returns the smile, and the fine lines around his light blue eyes crinkle. “Could I come in for a minute, Mrs. Masterson?”
“Of course!” I exclaim, like I’m absolutely delighted that this man who is investigating the murder of my husband’s mistress is entering my home. “Can I offer you some coffee? Or maybe some homemade cookies?”
“Oh right.” Hanrahan snaps his fingers. “You got that cooking show.
Something Secrets…”
I get a sick feeling in my chest. How does he know about my show? Has he been investigating me? I’d prefer he knew nothing about me. “Sweet Secrets.”
“Right. Sweet Secrets.” He nods. “I saw the one where you were making chocolate chip cookies. That was a good tip with the sea salt. If I ever find myself making cookies, I’ll go ahead and do that.”
I swallow. “Could I offer you a cookie, Detective?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Masterson.” He pats his gut. “Watching the waistline, you know?”
“Right.” I force a smile. “Unfortunately, Elliot isn’t here at the moment. He went to work.”
“Well, that’s okay. Actually, you’re the one I wanted to speak to.”
I have to grab onto the banister to keep from collapsing. He wants to speak to me. That’s not good. “Sure. What about?”
“Well, here’s the thing…” I feel the detective’s pale blue eyes studying my face. “I spoke to the woman who had the book club last night, and she said you weren’t there. She said you came for a minute, but then you left.”
“Right.” There’s no point in denying it. There were too many witnesses. “I just came for a very short time.”
“Huh. Interesting. So tell me…” He cocks his head to the side. “Where were you last night when your husband thought you were at the book club?” “I just…” I take a step back. “I went to get some dinner at Taco Bell.
Then I pretty much came right back.”
“Okay, I see,” he says. “And how long did that take?” “About half an hour. Then I came home.”
Half an hour couldn’t possibly be long enough to have killed Brianna and make it back home. Granted, the actual time was more like two hours. But Elliot will vouch for me. We can be each other’s alibis.
Unless they think we killed her together.
He nods at the front door. “Is that your SUV out front?” “Yes…”
“It’s just interesting.” He shrugs. “We have a witness who noticed a white SUV driving around Brianna’s neighborhood late last night.”
I swallow. “Well, it’s a very common color. I mean, there are probably three or four white SUVs on this block alone. Even my next-door neighbor has one. We all have big cars because we’ve got kids, and SUVs are very safe. And white is the safest color, because you’re more visible.”
He smiles again but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Well, I am right. White SUVs are very common. That’s not enough to lock me away for murder.
“Is that all?” I say, a touch coldly.
“I think so.” He starts to turn around just like last time, but once again he pauses. “Wait. One more question.”
God, no more of this. Please. “Sure.”
“What were you and Brianna fighting about yesterday morning in front of your house?”
A sick feeling comes over me. I should have known one of my nosy neighbors would have witnessed that fight. “Fighting?”
He smiles almost apologetically. “Your neighbor said she saw the two of you fighting. I was just wondering what it was about.”
My “neighbor.” I’m willing to bet any amount of money that this helpful neighbor was Maria Cooper.
“It wasn’t really a fight,” I say quickly. “It was more like… it was too early and… that’s all.”
Hanrahan blinks at me. “Was it because Brianna was pregnant?”
My legs wobble beneath me. If I weren’t gripping the banister, I might collapse. “What?”
“Sorry, let me say that more clearly. Were you fighting over Brianna being pregnant?”
I’m starting to dislike this detective. “I… I didn’t realize she was pregnant.”
“Oh.” He nods thoughtfully. “Interesting. Because I was just thinking if Brianna was pregnant and you thought the baby was your husband’s, that would be a pretty good reason for you to be fighting. Don’t you think so?”
I can’t even bring up the breath to answer his question. For a moment, we just stand there staring at each other. I’m still gripping the banister to
keep my legs from giving out underneath me. He thinks I killed her. He thinks I killed Brianna, and he probably also thinks I killed Courtney.
I should tell him about the text messages. I can prove someone has been harassing me. But if I do that, he’ll see the photo of me being arrested for shoplifting. A photo of me kissing a man who isn’t my husband. Those text messages are a catalog of every bad thing I’ve ever done. I don’t think any of that will help my case.
“Well,” he finally says, “I guess that’s it for now. But I may come back later and talk to you and your husband together again. Maybe we’ll go down to the station and have a little chat over there.”
He wants me to go down to the station. That is not a good sign.
“Sure, I’ll help in any way I can,” I say. My voice sounds unnaturally high, and he has to notice it. He’s a detective, after all.
I’ve got to get that burner phone.
