He rolls up the window and flips on his blinker, falling in line behind the three cars at the stoplight.
The traffic on these streets is typically light, except around this time of day when folks are coming home. The neighborhood’s calm—families walking dogs, someone unloading groceries. One hundred percent normal.
I look at the front door and hesitate. She just found a body this morning. Walking in through the front feels like an intrusion. I head to the side gate instead, entering through the carport. Looking up at the lights, I can tell she’s on the second floor.
Under normal circumstances, I’d head downstairs—out of sight, out of mind—but I need to speak to Alicia, so I pull a barstool from the kitchen counter where we ate last night and wait.
A few minutes later, footsteps descend. Alicia’s changed into a cream sweater set, hair sleek and pulled back. Everything controlled. Except her eyes. Those give her away—washed out, hollow, like the day scraped something raw.
“Wine?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
“I’m drinking. You can have water, and we can pretend you’re joining me.”
“That works,” I say, fully understanding where she’s coming from. “Heard you had a rough day.”
“One for the books,” she says, the lightness forced.
“I plan to stay out of your way, but before I duck downstairs, I was hoping you’d tell me about this morning.”
She opens the fridge and reaches for a wine bottle, eases the stopper out, and pours herself a generous glass.
The bottle clinks on the countertop when she sets it down. She closes her eyes and leans against the counter. “You heard it all, right? And that the lab found digoxin.” She opens her eyes, reaches for another wine glass, and turns on the tap. Sliding the water to me, she says, “A police officer called me this afternoon. They’d like to ask more questions. This morning, it was… I think we all thought he’d had a heart attack or something. I tried CPR.” She laughs once—brittle, sharp. “Haven’t done that since Stella was a baby. Richard insisted I take a class.”
Frustration oozes. If I were to guess, the frustration stems from her perceived failure.
“You tried. That’s more than most.”
She takes a sip, sets the glass down, stares at the counter.
“When you went back to that room,” I ask, “were you supposed to meet him?”
Her eyes snap up. For a fraction of a second, something flickers—then it’s gone, replaced by that steady assessment. “No. I was looking for somewhere private to talk. My ex called. I thought we’d argue, so I wanted space.” She swallows. “I walked in and he was already down. I don’t remember much after that.”
“Did you know him?”
“The victim?” Her voice catches slightly. She clears her throat. “Public relations is a small world. I’ve seen him at events.” She picks up her wine glass, takes a deliberate sip.
“That’s all?” I ask.
“That’s all.”
“So you weren’t scheduled to meet?”
Her posture stiffens; both hands flatten on the counter. “Dorian thinks the poison was meant for me? Is that what this is?” She looks toward the ceiling, then straight at me. “No. It was a self-serve breakfast bar. Two hundred people were there. I left my coffee cup on a table outside the conference room before Richard messaged.”
“Got it.”
She’s flustered now, her control thinning around the edges. I push back from the stool. “Think any media will come knocking?”
Her mouth parts, incredulous. “I work behind the scenes.” She picks up her wine and starts for the stairs. “I should call Dorian. If he’s worried about media, he’s panicking.”
I watch her climb—shoulders squared, glass trembling slightly before she disappears from view.
Maybe she can hold it together.
Or maybe she’s holding on by her fingernails, and I’m the only one present to see it.