Page 51 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

Howe nods, clearly not buying anything I tell her. “Okay, thank you for your time.”

“Wait,” I say, and then I wish I hadn’t said that. But it’s too late now, so I might as well spit it out. “How did he—it was an accident, right?” My voice comes out wrong. Desperate and stilted and just plain wrong. Detective Howe catches it too; I see it in the glint of her eyes. Very much not the kind of question an innocent person would have asked.

“We’re still trying to figure it out. But don’t worry, we’ve got the forensics team out on the cliffside, doing their magic. They’ll figure out exactly what happened.” She grins at me, and I get the sense that I’ve just been given a challenge, or maybe a threat. As she leaves to interview the next person, I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking visibly.

23

Jane

It is forever before I can get Thalia alone. Even after Detective Howe is done with me, I’m accosted by yet another cop wanting a statement, asking me adjacent questions—where was I last night? In bed. The whole night? Yes. Didn’t wake up at any point to go to the bathroom? No.

Unlike me, the others aren’t getting the same amount of grilling. It’s not just my imagination. Monday, for example, is only questioned for about fifteen minutes before being dismissed. And Rebecca even less than that. Whereas questions are fired my way for over forty-five minutes. It feels like an assault, and halfway through I feel as though my mind has been stabbed through from all directions. Nothing makes sense. I don’t understand it. I feel like a hunted animal surrounded by hounds who have caught my scent.But I didn’t do anything wrong, I want to scream.I didn’t, I swear. It was—

No, I can’t think that. Not my sweet Thalia. But she isn’t mine, is she? Never has been.

It’s nearly noon by the time I manage to get to Thalia. She’s talking to Rebecca and one of the male writers, the three of them with their heads bowed, speaking in low murmurs. When I approach, they jump apart and Rebecca stares at me with open hostility while the male writer studies me carefully, like an interesting but dangerous specimen.

“Hey,” I say in a low voice. Then I wonder why I’m speaking in a low voice, wonder if it makes me look even more suspicious, then I wonder why I’m caring about looking suspicious because I did nothing wrong, god damn it. “Can I talk to you real quick?”

I expected Rebecca and the male author to, you know, fuck off like normal people would at this, but instead, they both look at Thalia with a questioning expression. What the hell? I get the feeling that if she were to say no, these two would forcibly remove me. Which is absurd. Right? My imagination is just getting the better of me, right? What the hell is going on?

Thalia nods at them and says, “Sure,” and they very reluctantly move away, but they stay in the room, hovering from a few steps away like protective guards.

“I need to speak with you in private.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the room,” Thalia says, glancing over her shoulder at Rebecca, who’s still watching us.

“Okay...”Not okay, I want to scream. I cock my head at a far corner of the living room instead, hoping like hell she’ll follow. I almost start crying when she does. It’s not perfect, as there are still people around, but I guess it’s the best I can get for now. I lower my voice until it’s barely above a whisper. “Thalia, what the hell happened?”

She looks at me with those round doe eyes. Eyes that brim with innocence and fear. “I don’t know what you mean. A horrible accident, it sounds like.” A sob lurches out of her, and shecovers her mouth and looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry, I just—it’s kind of hard to digest that my friend is gone.”

Uncertainty catches hold of my chest, weighing down on it like a boulder. I’d been so sure that—

That what? I hadn’t been sure of anything. I just had a... an inkling? A worry. A gnawing sensation that she might have been involved somehow. Because that’s two men who were in her proximity who are gone now, and surely, that can’t have been a coincidence? When it comes to deaths, what number is too many?

“Last night, did you uh—” I don’t even really know what I’m trying to ask. “Did you leave the bedroom?”

Thalia’s eyes lock on mine, and now, beneath the lake of fear, I sense something lurking in the deep. Some dark, slouched beast with teeth and claws. I blink, and the beast is gone. I’m losing my mind.

“What are you asking, Jane?” she says, clearly hurt. I can’t stand it, even now, to see that look of betrayal on her beautiful face. “You can’t be—” She chokes on the rest of the sentence, as if the words are too painful to say.

“No,” I say quickly, unable to bear her pain. “I just wanted to know if you heard anything.”

She lets out her breath slowly, still eyeing me like I’ve just kicked her in the heart. “No. I was asleep next to you. I was dead drunk. We all drank way too much.”

“Yes, of course. Yeah.” I nod vigorously when what I really want to do is apologize, tell her the panic and anxiety are getting to me. “Um, I’m sure I’m just imagining it, but the cops—what sort of questions did they ask you?”

“Just routine ones, I think?”

“Okay, because they were asking me all these questions like I had—god, I don’t know, like they thought that maybe I had something to do with it. Do you know why they might think that?”

Thalia’s eyes widen for a second before she frowns. “No, god. Jane, what are you asking me?” Her voice rises; she’s clearly upset. “Why are you asking me these things?” She stops herself abruptly and takes a deep breath.

“Everything okay?” Rebecca calls out.

She looks over her shoulder and flashes a small, reassuring smile at Rebecca. When she turns back to face me, she’s wearing a frown again. “Listen, Jane, I think it may have been a mistake to invite you here...”

She means because someone freaking died, my mind chitters nervously. But I know what she really meant by that. She said it because I don’t belong, and even if Kurt hadn’t died, it had become painfully clear that I don’t fit in with her circle of A-list writers. It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t. And yet.

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