Both girls wear dresses with floral prints, but the little cousin’s is much shorter and fits tight against her thin body. She’s clearly way too young for me to even look at, but it’s hard not to acknowledge she’s on her way to becoming a knockout.

  “Noah, this is my cousin, Britta,” Max tells me. “She’s staying at our grandma’s while her mom is in Hawaii.”

  “It’s so lame she wouldn’t take me with her,” Britta says with a cute roll of those big blue eyes. “But I stole some of her weed, so we’re even.” She digs in her little white purse and pulls out a joint. “Want some?”

  I blink several times, shocked that a pubescent girl is offering me weed. Even Max doesn’t act weirded out by the idea. I’ve smoked it a few times, but usually with guys my age. What kind of people raised Max and her cousin?

  “Maybe later,” I say once I’ve recovered. I point up at the ceiling. “We better wait until those guys are so bombed they won’t care if they smell it.”

  “Whatever,” Britta replies, shrugging before plopping onto the sectional couch. “So, what are we watching?”

  “Your cousin and I will pick something,” I volunteer, guiding Max over to where my mom’s movie collection is stored inside a closet custom-built by my dad. “How old is she?” I whisper to Max.

  She snorts while scanning a shelf of the most recent titles. “Eleven going on twenty.”

  I touch her arm, waiting for her to turn to me before I ask, “Are we okay?”

  “Of course.” A bright smile parts her lips. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “You haven’t stopped by in a couple of days. I worried you were mad about…something.”

  Her eyes dramatically roll to the ceiling. “I was busy entertaining Brit.”

  I don’t push the subject further, not wanting to spoil the mood.

  We decide on the first Vacation movie and settle down next to each other on the couch. An hour in, Max falls asleep, resting her head on my shoulder. It’s tempting to wrap an arm around her and pull her close. But I’m worried she’ll wake up and think I’m a total creep.

  “Are you two doing it?” Britta asks, her voice a little louder than a whisper.

  “What?” I snap my head in her direction. “Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s kinda obvious the way you two flirt.”

  “We’re just friends,” I say, leaving out how much I want more.

  “Whatever.” She rips into one of the candy boxes my mom keeps on the coffee table as part of a “movie night” display. After popping a piece of mint chocolate into her mouth, she asks, “Has she told you why she’s living with our grandma?”

  I take a minute to think about it. Should I answer honestly or lie? As much as I want to learn the truth, talking about Max when she’s asleep doesn’t feel right. What if she’s only pretending? “She said she doesn’t get along with her mom.”

  “At least she’s not lying to you. But that’s only a small part of the truth. You’re probably not ready to deal with the reality of her situation.” After eating the single piece of candy, she tosses the mostly full box back onto the table. “You got anything good to drink around here? Beer? Wine? Whiskey?”

  “I’m not getting an eleven-year-old drunk,” I mutter, carefully running a jittery hand through my hair without disturbing Max. I glance down at my sleeping friend, scolding myself for being a coward. I should’ve asked her to be my girlfriend weeks ago.

  Most importantly, I shouldn’t be talking to her devious little cousin behind her back. For all I know, this girl is a habitual liar.

  “So what’s the rest of the story?”

  Britta’s eyes shine with mischief. “It’ll cost you.”

  “I don’t have much for cash,” I say, shaking my head. This is wrong. “I won’t have a job until the pool opens next summer.”

  “Cool beans, you’re a lifeguard, but I wasn’t talking about money.”

  Pangs of unease twist through my stomach. “What the hell are you talking about then?”

  “There has to be some kind of booze you can swipe from upstairs without anyone noticing.”

  “I’m not getting an eleven-year-old drunk,” I repeat, trying to mimic my dad’s strictest tone. “Do you know how much trouble I could get into? People go to jail for supplying to minors.”

  She crosses her arms and sinks back onto the couch with a sigh. “Then I guess you’re not gonna hear the rest of your wanna-be girlfriend’s story.”

  At some level, I’m aware giving into this bratty kid’s bribe is a bad idea. I should give Max a chance to tell me for herself.

  More than anything, however, I want to learn the thing Max is too afraid to tell me.

  8

  PRESENT DAY

  Maxine

  Britta’s remembrance of life service is held eight days after her death in a ballroom at Key Largo, the other lakeside restaurant and bar. The building’s plethora of windows provides a stunning view of the outdoor tiki bar and a smattering of tables overlooking the lake where the boats of several attendees, including Noah’s speedboat, are moored to a maze of docks. The ballroom’s hardwood flooring and punched tin ceiling give an elegant vibe even without the lavish bouquets of white flowers and white linen on the tables.

  Both locals and some of Britta’s business connections who have flown in from all across the country pack the space. Since Taylor insisted on following her mother’s wishes to be cremated and Britta’s body has yet to be examined by a forensic expert, Britta’s family decided to proceed without her ashes.

  Oliver hired security and paid extra for a private event inside the ballroom to ensure the news media wouldn’t crash the party. Several photographers had followed Taylor’s fiancé from the airport, hoping for a shot of Britta’s grieving daughter.

  When we first arrived, as the staff and Britta’s family were setting up for the service, I’d hugged Oliver out of obligation. It felt necessary with Taylor and Britta’s family as witnesses. The embrace was rather stiff and unnatural on both ends. As far as I’m concerned, I won’t have anything to do with him again until Taylor’s wedding.

  I only spent a few minutes paying respects to my cousin. One of her professional headshots sat on an easel, surrounded by an obnoxiously grand spray of white roses. Her bright smile, sparkling blue eyes, and perfect hair in the photograph made me uneasy in a way I couldn’t explain.

  For the remainder of the service, I camp out on a stool alongside Taylor and Gabby at the boat-shaped bar on the restaurant side of the building. Taylor wanted nothing to do with the throng of mourners, and I can’t say I blame her.

  Amidst the twang of country music, we’re outnumbered by patrons wearing swimsuits and sporting burns from playing in the sunshine. Christa, a pretty bartender with striking eyes and an appropriate amount of sass, ensures our drinks are always full.

  Lingering outside the French doors leading into the ballroom, Oliver portrays the part of a grieving husband with surprising ease. Beyond him, Noah socializes with mourning guests like a candidate at a rally, working his way around the ballroom to visit with old friends and Britta’s extended family.

  My gaze flutters across the packed bar, settling on Detective Kelly camped out in a quiet corner. She occasionally either sips soda from a straw or glances down at the menu in front of her like a regular patron. Several times, I’ve caught her observing the room of mourners through the glass windows separating the bar from the ballroom.

  As often as she studies Oliver, I wonder if he’s an official suspect. Has she followed up on my suggestion to check the flight logs for his shared airplane?

  “Mom would’ve hated all these white roses,” Taylor muses between sips of her tap beer. “I tried to tell Aunt Ronda, but she insisted anything else would’ve been tacky.”

  “It’s still a step up from those dreadful carnations your father suggested,” Gabby reminds her, tapping her blood-red manicured fingernails against her glass. “I mean, the nerve of that man. He could afford to fly Martha Stewart in to decorate this place with angel wings and fairy dust, but he’d do anything to save a buck. If I’d been in the room when he suggested carnations, he would’ve had a stiletto permanently wedged up his ass.”

  “Angel wings and fairy dust?” I ask with a snort. “Really?”

  Gabby waves frustrated hands through the air. “You know what I mean. Our Brit deserved the very best.”

  Taylor giggles for a moment, then catches the condensation on her glass with a finger, all at once somber. “Do you guys think he killed her?”

  Gabby throws me a wide-eyed look. “The police are still looking into it, sweetie,” she offers, patting Taylor’s forearm. “But if he was involved, you can bet your pretty little butt⁠—”

  Taylor’s great aunt, Ronda, approaches with a crass look. She’s a stout woman with a neck like a bulldog’s and curly hair dyed as black at night. Although I’m not related to the woman since she’s a sister of Britta’s father, I’ve spent more time around Ronda than I’d prefer. She was in attendance for each of Britta’s life events and repeatedly makes a point to show her disdain for my existence.

  Still, I’d rather deal with her than Britta’s mother. With the decline of my aunt’s memory, it was decided she would be better off left at the memory care unit. Last Taylor had heard, her grandmother refused to believe she was old enough to have an adult daughter.

  “You need to come back in and converse with your mother’s friends,” Ronda scolds Taylor. “They’re here to seek comfort from others who loved her. Your poor fiancé has been stuck talking to a strange couple from New York for over an hour. Now’s not a good time to become intoxicated.” While anxiously fingering the cross hanging from a dainty gold chain around her neck, she shoots me another disapproving look.

  I return a wide-eyed stare, wishing I dared to say all the sharp things burning against my tongue. “Did you need something, Ronda?”

  “I like your necklace, Ronda,” Gabby interrupts. “My husband was wearing something almost identical when he died in a fiery car crash. The paramedics said it was melted into his chest.”

  Mumbling something under her breath, Ronda finally scampers away.

  “Good one,” Taylor tells Gabby, giggling. “Guess I better go save Payton. God knows how much up-and-coming producers hate socializing.” She slugs down the rest of her beer before trailing after her pretentious aunt.

  “She’ll be okay, right?” I ask Gabby.

  “Are you kidding me? That kid was born to dominate the world. She’s got her mother’s stubborn independence and balls-to-the-wall determination.”

  A set of strong arms encircle me from behind. A heartbeat later, my husband’s designer fragrance of citrus and nutmeg fills my next breath.

  “How’re you holdin’ up, sweetheart?” he whispers, his beard hairs tickling my ear.

  I sink into his embrace. As much as I resisted being reunited with him initially, he’s become my rock. I may not have survived the last week without him.

  “Would it be considered rude to leave early?” I whisper back, folding my arms over his.

  “Not at all.” He presses a lingering kiss against my temple, then brushes his nose across my cheekbone. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  His cell phone chimes with an incoming text. I’ve learned to accept that it’s constantly chirping or ringing at the highest volume possible. Even though he’s always making business deals and doesn’t want to miss anything involving his corporation, it’s annoying.

  I spin around as he retrieves his smartphone from the pocket of his pants to check the screen. A chill ripples through my core as his gaze clouds over with irritation, and his mouth pulls into a tight line. I could count on one hand how many times I’ve seen him angry since the first day we met.

  “What is it?” I ask, touching his wrist. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” He shoves his phone back into his pocket. His comforting smile returns before he drops a kiss inside my hair. “Work stuff.”

  “Get her outta here, handsome,” Gabby tells him. She glances over her shoulder to eye Oliver with blunt displeasure. “I think the grieving widower might be gearing up to give a bullshit eulogy or whatever it takes to shift the focus and make this about him. I’m heading out after this drink. We’ve all endured enough ridiculousness for one day.”

  By the time Noah and I say our obligatory goodbyes to Taylor and Britta’s family, the sun has begun to set over the tranquil lake. The deep red hue blends with the glowing lights stretching along the restaurant’s small lighthouse, creating a picturesque backdrop.

  When Noah holds my hand as we cross through the grassy backyard to descend the wooden stairway leading to the docks, he’s still visibly tense.

  He’s clearly unsettled by whatever he’d seen on his phone.

  Uncomfortable silence lingers in the warm summer air on the short boat cruise back to our house. Setting my clutch down, I head over to the sleek bar in the kitchen corner to pop the cork on a chilled bottle of Prosecco. While pouring the sparkling wine into a stemless champagne flute, Noah settles in close behind, gripping my hips.

  “What was so upsetting in that text?” I demand, regretting that I hadn’t waited to ask when I could witness his expression.

  “There was a mix-up in the agreement I made with our new clients from Tokyo. It’s not something you need to worry about, I swear. It’ll be sorted out soon enough.”

  The apparent lie spews so smoothly from his lips that I wonder how long he’s been dishonest about other things. I take a long swig of Prosecco, feeling only somewhat comforted by the bubbles slipping down my throat and warming my belly.

  His warm fingers sweep my wavy hair away from my neck. “Talk to me, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting without Britta. Tell me what I can do to help you get through this.”

  I release an exasperated sigh. “She’s gone, Noah. There’s nothing you can say or do to bring her back.”

  “Of course not, but I hate seeing you in so much pain.” His soft lips and smooth beard hairs dust across my jaw. “Would it help if we went somewhere, just the two of us? We could go back to St. Thomas. You loved it there. It’d take your mind off things for a while. We could stay until they’ve arrested her killer.”

  Setting the glass down, I spin to face him with a chill braiding around my spine. “What makes you so sure the killer will be caught?”

  “You’re not in Chicago anymore. This is a small community. You remember what it was like around here.” He swipes a bottle of imported beer from the beverage refrigerator and pops off the top, shrugging. “Unless some random traveler with violent tendencies was passing through, which I highly doubt is what happened, the person who did this will eventually screw up and expose themselves. Small towns, small minds.”

  Scoffing, I rub my hands over my bare arms. “I didn’t realize you were an expert on murder.”

  “My ex was into true crime, made me watch a lot of documentaries on this kind of thing.” He takes a chug of the beer before continuing. “Stabbing usually implies the murder was intimate—the killer had a personal connection with the victim.”

  Laughter clings to my throat. “Maybe you should be working alongside that detective.”

  With a shrug, he slowly shakes his head. “I’m just telling you what I learned.”

  “Which ex was this? You hardly ever talk about either of them.” Come to think of it, I know little about his second wife beyond her name and pictures I’ve seen of her on social media. Neither of his wives appeared to have aged well, with unnaturally stiff faces pumped full of collagen.

  “You said you didn’t want me to talk about them.” He says this with a harmless chuckle before he realizes I’m still agitated. Confusion shines in his gaze. “When we reconnected, you told me you wanted to leave everything that happened in the past behind us. You made a point of saying the people we were before we met are now irrelevant. I assumed that meant you didn’t want to discuss my first marriages.”

  A dark shadow passes over me as I dwell on the truth. The man I married is essentially a stranger. The sixteen-year-old who wanted to protect me is long gone. “What went on in your second marriage? Was she the problem, or was it something you did? And what about other past relationships? I’ve heard the rumors about you since I moved here. Who else have you slept with?”

  He holds his hands out at his sides. “Sometimes figuring out how to please you is like trying to decipher hieroglyphs. Are you being serious? Why are you asking me that now?”

  Before I can answer, my cell phone buzzes from my clutch. I retrieve it to find Taylor’s face on the screen. Shuffling away from Noah, I answer the call.

  “Max?” Taylor cries. “Can you please come get me?”

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Dad…he told me—” her voice breaks and she pauses, letting out a stifled cry. She sniffles, then says, “I can’t talk about it right now. Will you just come here?”

  “Of course. I’m on my way.” I grab my clutch and double-check my key fob is inside. “I’m taking the car, so it’ll be a good fifteen minutes.”

  “Just please hurry.” Her voice wavers on the verge of more tears. “I’ll be waiting outside behind Pelican Cove. I can’t deal with anyone else right now.”

  “Hang tight, kiddo. It’ll be okay.”

  Noah strokes his beard with one hand as I end the call. “Everything alright?”

  “Taylor’s dad said something to upset her.”

  Red blotches fill his cheeks. “Do you think that asshole⁠—”

  I hold up a hand to stop him from saying anything more. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’m taking Taylor to her mom’s. I have a feeling I won’t be back tonight.” I take a moment to study his defensive pose. “A bit of distance might be what we need right now anyway.”

  As I spin away from him, he calls out, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s talk. Don’t leave things like this!”