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“I’m still waiting on two others,” she said. “They should be here any second.”
The server nodded and backed away. Eliza waited until he’d gone, then greedily pulled the frothy mixture toward her, studying the intricate heart detailed by the barista on the surface, the white foam freckled with flecks of black lava salt. Only in Santa Monica had coffee become a form of art. And the sort of thing one needed financing to purchase.
Eliza ignored the price tag and instead closed her eyes and savored the thick, milky flavor, the rich espresso and hints of bitter dark chocolate. Her headache temporarily eased at the first hit of caffeine.
Along with the easing headache came a surge of another emotion. Guilt, maybe? Shame? Confusion? The second half of the night had turned into a blurry, sludgy memory. Unfortunately, those memories weren’t so far gone that she couldn’t recall the topic of conversation.
Guilt, she thought.
The feeling in her belly was definitely guilt.
Eliza forced the sensation away, cramming a million tiny pieces of guilt into the recesses of her mind as she surveyed the café around her in search of her two friends. Book club buddies. Partners in crime? she wondered dubiously.
But Penny and Anne were late, late, late. They should have arrived ten minutes ago. Under normal circumstances, Eliza wouldn’t have minded their tardiness. She’d have zipped through emails on her phone, arranged calls with clients, read the latest manuscript to cross her desk—but not this morning. This morning, she didn’t have the energy for any of it. She wanted her damn friends to show up and reassure her that last night had been nothing short of a bad, bad dream.
Eliza studied the ambiance around her, basking in the rare seventy-degree February day in Los Angeles. Ladies balanced on pale-blue retro bicycles, pedaling down Main Street. The community garden across the way bustled with activity, the exterior fences tipped with pops of yellow sunflower leaves and fat, juicy tomatoes dripping from vines. Overgrown boys carried surfboards across their shoulders, and women with scraggly dreadlocks strolled the sidewalks in ragged-looking swimsuits and cover-ups, completing their outfits with five-hundred-dollar sandals.
The sun warmed her cheeks. The not-quite hangover lulled Eliza into a false sense of calmness as she sat back in the white wicker seat, a small umbrella shielding the worst of the rays from the outdoor patio. Her eyes closed again, and she drifted into black waters, her fingers tapping listlessly against her coffee mug.
“Eliza Tate?”
A man’s low, rumbling voice pierced the thin curtain of Eliza’s sleep. Her eyelids flashed open behind her sunglasses. She was grateful for the mask, even more so when she realized the man standing before her was a uniformed police officer.
“Yes, that’s me,” Eliza said briskly. “How can I help you?”
“Is there someplace quieter we could talk?”
Eliza’s gaze wandered over his shoulder, and she caught sight of Penny making her way up the steps to the café. The young woman’s eyes flicked over the patrons, brightening when she saw Eliza. Penny gave a quick wave, then froze as her eyes slid seamlessly over to the cop.
Eliza studied Penny curiously. The young woman’s face had gone as white as Eliza’s frothed milk, and her posture was stiff, sharply pointed, like the blade of a knife. Her hand gave a nervous twitch, and as Eliza watched, Penny’s car keys clattered to the cement walkway. The sound shook Eliza back to reality.
“No, here is fine,” Eliza said, trying to hurry the officer along. She gestured toward Penny. “I’m busy at the moment, meeting some friends for brunch. Is it a parking ticket?”
“I’m sorry, but I really think—”
“For God’s sake, spit it out. I don’t have all day.”
The cop’s face twitched with an unidentified emotion. So many unidentified emotions, Eliza thought sullenly. If people just wore their hearts on their sleeves, it would solve a lot of issues.
“I’m very sorry to have to inform you, Mrs. Tate, that we found your husband’s body this morning.”
Eliza felt shards of glass in her throat. Scratchy, bloody pieces.
“My husband’s body?” she repeated. “His body?”
“Your husband passed away late last night. I’m so sorry.”
Eliza pressed her hands to her forehead. It wasn’t enough. She reached for the complimentary glass of ice water, pressed it against her cheek. Beads of sweat bloomed on the back of her neck, slid down her skin, and soaked into her blouse. She asked weakly, “Was it a car accident?”
“We suspect foul play,” the officer said. “I’m sorry again to have to break the news to you. I hope you’ll understand that we need to ask you a few questions. Mrs. Tate, where were you last night?”
“I stayed at a hotel,” Eliza said. “My husband and I…”
The cop waited.
“I was out late with the girls,” Eliza revised. “I got a room at the Pelican Hotel. You can check.”
“I will. Now, if you wouldn’t mind—”
