I rub my nose, forcing myself to summon tears. You need to see that I am distraught by this news—this accusation. “Did she tell you what she did? Why I blackmailed her?”
“Not exactly. I asked, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it, just that I needed to believe her about you. Now that I’ve had time to think, I’m sure it was about that wreck.”
“Right—exactly so. Then you have to know the whole story, Faith. Don’t accuse me of things I didn’t do until you listen, okay? I loved Lola, but she wasn’t perfect, and she hated me because I could see all her flaws.”
“Why do you think I came here? I could have gone to the police and told them what Lola told me, especially after getting hold of this contract, but I came here. I’m giving you a chance because I know Lola wasn’t perfect, and I know she liked to lie and play the victim. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use this contract to my own advantage.”
You maneuver through the furniture and pass my three-thousand-dollar, bamboo coffee table to get to the sofa.
“So, I’m all ears. Convince me that you had nothing to do with what happened, get me to believe you, and then we can discuss how to split the ten million dollars so I can keep my mouth shut about it.” You grin.
I fight a grimace.
This is interesting. See, I’d heard from Lola while eavesdropping on one of her phone calls with Arabel that you, Faith, were on the brink of a divorce and were lashing out at your friends because of it.
What is it now? Is your husband getting tired of you? Did you catch him in an affair? Are you bored now, and looking for ways to keep money in your pocket when he leaves you?
It explains your behavior during the dinner Lola set up, when she announced the location of the gala and invited you and the others to join her for the event. You lashed out at Ivy, accused Lola of moving too fast with her, and you were drinking too much. Yes, I saw and heard it all.
I assumed the divorce thing was a rumor because Lola never spoke of it again, but now I see. It wasn’t a rumor. Your husband is about to leave you, and now you want to lash out on someone else.
Well, not today. Not with me, bitch.
I am going to London and no one is going to stop me, especially not you.
I make my way to the kitchen and pull down a box of tea, my back to you, and then I open my purse, which is right below the tea cabinet. I have several prescription bottles inside. Antidepressants. Opioids. Take too many at once and they’ll likely kill you, you know?
The antidepressants were prescribed for me by a therapist I forced myself to see, just to cover my tracks. People needed to know I was deeply affected by Lola’s death. They had to know that despite inheriting ten million dollars, my heart was broken. You can understand that, I’m sure.
Sadness is an easy emotion to pull off. My therapist helped me to cope by prescribing antidepressants so I could get back on my feet. As for the opioids, well, I suppose growing up in Wynwood had its perks. I still know people who can get these kinds of drugs for me for a fair price.
I turn to look at you, Faith, after taking out the pill bottles and tucking them into the pocket of my jumper. You stare at me with a glint in your eyes and a cocked brow, as if you have the advantage—as if you have me all figured out.
But Faith . . .
Faith, Faith, Faith.
There is this thing called minding your own fucking business. All you had to do was forget about me and suffer through your damn divorce, but instead, here you are in my face, threatening to take the money I worked my ass off for.
That doesn’t sit well with me, Faith.
“Before I begin,” I murmur, wiping away a tear, “would you like to share some tea with me? I think it will calm me down a little.”
You hesitate at first, but then you give me an oh-what-the-hell kind of shrug. “I don’t mind a drink, but I’d prefer something stronger than tea. Got any wine?”
And I nod. “Of course.” Then I turn and I smile, bending down to open my wine fridge. Wine and antidepressants. The same cocktail Lola was so quick to scarf down while she was arguing with Corey over their pending divorce, right before requesting her favorite cocktail.
I lower to a squat and pretend to clang around in the wine fridge below the counter. I name some of the wines for you, to see if any are familiar to you that you might want. Your last drink should be a good one, no?