Page 39 of The Wedding Party

“Which groomsman?”

“That’s just it. He refused to tell her which one. He said he didn’t want her to hate that friend of his. He then went into his office, shut the door, and didn’t come out for a while.”

“Which wasn’t normal for him?”

“No. Not at all. And she went to check on him and the door was locked. She was worried Oliver was cheating on her, which to me seems a natural fear. But that man adored her. He would never have cheated. It was in his eyes every time he looked at her.”

“Was there any other reason she thought he might be cheating?”

“She said that after that box showed up, he didn’t act the same. He was withdrawn and unsettled in some way. So much so that one night when he was working late, she surprised him at the office.”

“She thought he wouldn’t be there?”

“Or that he would be doing something he shouldn’t,” she replies. “His secretary is apparently gay, but also very attractive.”

“And?” I query. “What happened when she got there?”

“He was thrilled to see her and to sit and have dinner with her before he finished his work.”

“How often did he work late?”

“His dad retired earlier than expected, so I think that put him in a tough spot. He suddenly had to take over the company. That’s why they put the wedding off last year.”

“They put the wedding off?” I ask, which sounds like trouble in paradise to me.

“Yes. She was upset, but he bought her a house to make up for it.”

My phone buzzes and I look down to find a message from York: Carrie’s family is headed into town.

In other words, Carrie will lawyer up soon and I need to talk to her now, not later.

I sigh and eye Lana. “Anything else?”

“One night when I was with Carrie, there was this news story about a young boy getting hit by a car. It was horrible. She started crying and wouldn’t talk to me.”

“That’s extreme.”

“It was,” she agrees. “I told Oliver. He pulled me aside and told me that when they were kids—Carrie and her brother—they were riding bikes and he fell into traffic. He died.”

“Oh Jesus,” I say, a distinct pinch in my chest that has everything to do with my mother’s own car accident.

“Yeah, I know,” Lana says. “It’s horrible. And Oliver told me not to bring it up to her or her parents. I got the impression on some level they blame her? I don’t know. He was weird about it, and I’m just sharing the gut feeling I had. It may not be true at all.”

“Why did they blame her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s natural to blame the surviving child? I’ve seen spouses blame each other over the death of a child. I think that’s what makes me read some blame into what Oliver said. I’ve seen blame thrown around a lot in the ER and even in pediatrics.”

That’s all true, I think. I have seen similar reactions to tragedy myself. I make a mental note to check out the details of the accident and go for closure. “Anything else?” I ask again.

“No. That’s it. I hope it helps.”

“Thank you for telling me. It does.” I stand up. “I’ll check in with you later today.” I head for the door.

“God,” she whispers from behind me, and then: “Andi, wait.”

When I turn, she’s standing, fingers wringing together. “There’s more, but, Andi, I swear I don’t think she did this. She loved him.”

“Tell me,” I urge.