Page 126 of You Know Why

Eden grabs the bottle and sets it upright. There are shards of glass everywhere, and her eyes are doe wide. “Oh my goodness. I am so clumsy. I will clean this up right now.”

“No, you won’t. Leave. Leave my house. Get out of here, Eden. You are not welcome here anymore.”

“But you need me. The children need me. Margot can’t handle them on her own.”

“We can handle things just fine. You’re gone, now. Get your things and leave.”

Her face collapses, and tears form in her eyes. “I just want to help. We’ve had a good time together. Now you’re home, and it’s all disrupted. You’re just upset by the new environment. The doctors said—”

I step to her side and grab her elbow. “I’m not joking. Get out. Now.”

The tears disappear, and her lips thin. Her face is stony and set. “You’ll regret this, Brooklyn. Mark my words.” With another hateful glance, she disappears back into the kitchen.

Moments later, I hear the doorbell ringing. Men’s voices rise in conversation, then a familiar female voice responds. Detective Lee. I don’t know if this is fortuitous timing or a total disaster.

One of the agents appears in the doorway with the detective on his heels. He looks dismayed. “Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Yeah, just . . . stomach’s upset.”

“There’s Pepto-Bismol in the guest-bathroom medicine cabinet.”

“Thanks,” he says, paling even more, and heads toward the powder room.

I turn my attention to Detective Lee. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail; she’s wearing jeans and a blazer and black boots. She looks . . . excited.

“Brooklyn. Hello. It’s good to see you on your feet. Can we talk?”

Margot comes back with a stack of towels and starts mopping the wine from the table. I give my sister a look that says everything.

“The kids,” I say with a nod. “Can you get them ready? Please?” Unspoken: “Go protect my children.” Margot nods and, without another word, disappears into the kitchen.

There’s no leaving right now. But the second this is finished, and Eden has been banished from our house, we are out of here.

I’ll find a way to get word to Trey, but our home has been defiled. This ends now.

I lead Detective Lee to the living room and realize immediately that everything there has been rearranged as well. The chairs now flank the fireplace, and the sofa has been moved to face them. The whole room’s been cleaned and straightened, and the knickknacks reset. The fireplace mantel has been cleared, all the photos of me and Trey are gone, and all the family photos, years of mismatched frames and loose pictures, have been replaced by a single photo of the children that I don’t recognize, and a vase of bloodred roses at the corner. All traces of the balloons and flowers from the hospital are gone.

This is so flipping weird. And I can’t tell Detective Lee, because she and Eden are tight.

“Sit down, please,” she says, then shocks the hell out of me. “I want to talk about France. I want to talk about your time with Roger Bandolier.”

And More Denials

Eden

The kids are dutifully chowing down on their sandwiches when Margot comes into the kitchen with the sopping-wet towels, red with wine. Or are they soaked with watered-down blood? Could be either. I take them from her, put them into the sink, then pour some of the leftover wine and hand her the glass. I try not to scratch my scars. They’re already red and raw from my attentions.

She takes a deep draft and sighs heavily. “What the hell, Eden? You knocked that over on purpose. Brook is furious.”

“It was a slip. You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“I’m starting to wonder,” she says.

I stare at her. How dare she say such a thing? My blood begins to boil.

“That is completely unfair. And I need to say something. I don’t like how I’m being characterized by you or by Brooklyn. I’ve done nothing but help you. I’ve held your hand, mopped up your messes, babysat, run errands, been the entertainment, the chef, the maid, the nurse, and done it all with good grace and humor. My God, Margot, I transferred my entire life here to Nashville so I could be of service to you.” I move closer, twist a bit of her hair between my fingers, and tuck it behind her ear. “So I could be with you. And this is how you repay me? With accusations? Asking me to leave?”

“It’s not my home. It’s Brooklyn’s. And she wants you to go.”