Page 87 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

“Ican’t believe this.”

“I know.”

Soren’s car is slightly too warm when we get back in; I roll down my window immediately, breathing in the fresh air as the stagnant heat radiates up and settles over my skin.

“I’ll get some air going in just a sec,” Soren says from next to me, and I nod, my mind still elsewhere. I watch the neighborhood roll past us as he begins to drive, winding through the perfectly kept streets.

“There was another little book on that bookshelf that I wanted to get a closer look at, thin and green with no title on the spine,” I say. “But then I found the Bible, and I forgot to look.” I glance at Soren. “It looked a little like a journal, one of those leather-bound ones. I should have checked.”

Soren hums. “At least we saw the picture, though.” He shudders, and I understand the sentiment.

That photograph from Carmina’s room is still burned into my mind’s eye, and I might need to sterilize my retinas somehow. There are some things a woman just doesn’t want to see, and Stanley Riggs in the midst of a passionate affair is way up there.

“So she was blackmailing Stanley, and he killed her for it. Right? That envelope of money I found in the café had to be from him. It said she wouldn’t get another penny out of him, basically. So she was blackmailing him with that picture, and he killed her.” I look over at Soren, whose hands are fixed tightly on the steering wheel as he drives. “I mean, we don’t have proof, but that seems realistic, right? And logical?”

“Very logical,” he says grimly, his eyes never leaving the road. “Especially since he was hiding something that would probably destroy his marriage and his reputation in the community.”

I nod, my fingers tapping against my thigh as I think. “I hope Phil takes those photos to the police.”

“I’m sure he will,” Soren says, but…he doesn’t sound sure.

I’m not sure either, to be honest, and I’m torn. I still don’t trust Phil. There’s something about him that just…rubs me the wrong way. And although it’s true that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Soren is right—Phil is a strong suspect, especially when we consider statistics.

“How would Stanley have poisoned her, though?” Soren says, yanking me out of my thoughts.

I blink at him, frowning. “I don’t know.”

“Because he would run the risk of other victims if it was just food he brought to her house or something. Phil and Elsie could have shared anything there.”

An image flashes through my mind, the snapshot the waitress at Chateau Marche showed us—Carmina, all alone, eating her meal.

It would have been easy to poison her there. But as far as I know, she hadn’t returned to the restaurant since allegedly finding the bug in her food.

For that matter, it would be easy for Phil and Elsie to poison her too. Even Mr. Foster could have done it; he was her neighbor, after all. And he does seem familiar, somehow…

Ugh. I have both too much information and not enough information, and it all feels like a mess in my head. I’m starting to get a headache.

“Well,” Soren says with a sigh, “I’ll drop you off and then head home. I’ve reached maximum capacity for the day.” He pauses, and then goes on, “I think…”

I look over at him, my eyebrows raised, grateful for something else to focus on. “Yeah?”

And I don’t know why, but something about his expression has me reaching for his hand. Soren always projects this air of calm and reassurance, but right now he looks…I don’t know. Vulnerable, I guess. He looks hesitant, like he’s worried about how I’ll react to whatever he’s about to say.

“What?” I say, trying to keep my voice gentle. I thread my fingers through his, letting his warm hand engulf mine. “What is it?”

“Uh,” he says, his eyes darting down to our hands. “Wow, that completely distracted me. I forgot what I was going to say for a second.”

I turn my head so he doesn’t see my smile.

“I think I’m going to dig out my old manuscript,” he says, “and read some of it.”

“Yeah?” I say. “Which one? The one you never published?”

“Yeah. The very first one I ever finished.” He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I think I might feel better about my writing if I can see how far I’ve come.”

I nod. “That makes sense.” When he doesn’t say anything else, though, I give his hand a little squeeze. “So what’s making you hesitate?”

“It’s just—what if I read my old stuff and it’s exactly like what I’m writing now?” he says. The words rush out of him all at once, but they have a well-worn air about them—like it’s something he’s been repeating to himself over and over again. “Or what if it’s even better than what I’m writing now? What if I’ve actually gottenworse?”

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