The screen went dark as Florence jammed a finger violently against the power button.
“I can’t watch anymore,” she declared. “The way they’re talking about Gigi… Seriously, the constant coverage just seems cruel, at this point.”
Gwen had recorded the press conference. We’d huddled around her television to watch it, and all found it difficult to stomach. Detective Aguilar had spoken at length about the measures they were taking to bring Rory home. Then, Georgia had a chance to make an appeal of her own — standing in front of the station at a podium in an elegant pantsuit, her voice shaking slightly as she pleaded for the public’s help. Her mother and older sister flanked her sides for support. They both had Gigi’s light brown hair and foxlike features.
That was difficult enough to watch, all on its own. But the way the news anchors and so-called “experts” discussed her afterward… Making not-so-subtle digs at her decision to allow her boys out after dark on Halloween… Questioning her judgment in trusting other chaperones to watch them while she worked…
It was enough to make me want to smash the television into pieces.
“Delivery is on its way,” Gwen announced, sashaying back into the living room. She nearly tripped over a paint can as she rushed toward the sofa, cursing under her breath when she stubbed her toe. Her house was a bit of a hazard.
Gwen lived in a huge, drafty old Victorian (also courtesy of Aunt Colette) that overlooked Salem Common. It was currently in the throes of major renovations. On the first floor, only the kitchen and dining room appeared to be complete. The rest of the rooms were covered in the detritus of home improvement — paint cans and drop cloths, electric sanders and putty knives. Her television was currently balanced precariously on milk crates, and surrounded by ladders.
She plopped between us on the sofa. “Hope you like Indian, ‘cause that’s what we’re eating.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. Anything sounded good, at this point. We’d skipped lunch.
“Can you drink tequila with Indian food?” Flo asked, eyes on her task. She’d lined up three shot glasses on the coffee table and was pouring Patrón up to the brims.
Gwen nodded. “You can drink tequila with anything.”
“Great.” Florence slid shots toward Gwen and me, then curled her fingers around her own. “Bottom’s up!”
They were so full, we had to bend over the table and slurp straight off the top before we could lift them into the air for a cheers. The tequila burned down my throat — but it was a pleasant burn in comparison to Gigi’s limoncello lighter-fluid.
Originally, we’d planned to cancel girls’ night. It didn’t seem appropriate. Then again, after the last forty-eight hours, none of us had ever needed a drink quite so badly.
“Do you think we should call Gigi?” I asked. “Check in on her? I know her family is in town, but…”
“Those fucking newscasters,” Florence muttered darkly, refilling our shot glasses.
“Forget the newscasters,” Gwen said, wincing. “Whatever you do, don’t read the comments on social media. People are awful. Just awful. The lack of humanity on display…”
I chewed my bottom lip until Flo shoved my shot glass into my hand. “Drink.”
We drank.
We ate Indian food when the delivery guy arrived.
We chatted about inconsequential things, trying to keep our thoughts off Georgia. Off Rory. Off the ongoing investigation.
I wanted to call Cade. Not for an update. Just to hear his voice. I resisted the urge, knowing he was busy with far more important matters. Still, my heart flew up into my throat when my phone began to buzz on the coffee table.
I set down my margarita — Gwen had whipped up a batch sometime between the naan and chicken tikka masala — and yanked it toward my face. It took my eyes a second to focus.
Those margaritas werestrong.
I’d expected to see Cade’s name flashing across the screen. I saw Georgia’s, instead.
“Gigi?” I said as the call connected. “How are you holding up, honey?”
“Imogen.”
Her voice sounded strange. Not frazzled, not heartbroken.
Determined.
A fissure of disquiet shot through me. “Georgia, what’s going on?”