“I suppose,” the detective said. “I want to ask you one more thing, Bri. Did you write the anonymous note to Rosalee, telling her to make sure she sexually satisfies her husband, so you don’t have to?”

Bri’s mouth fell open in surprise, and then she tilted her head back and laughed. “No, of course not. Why the hell would I say that about my own brother?”

“To make it seem like your brother had a side piece. To stir up drama, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’m many things, and some of those things aren’t good. But I am loyal to my brother. I’d never tell a lie about him,” Bri said.

“Then who would?” the detective pressed.

“I know who wrote it, but it wasn’t true. My brother only had eyes for Rosalee,” Bri said, with a tight, knowing smile.

“Who wrote it then, Bri?”

She leaned back in her chair and dropped her hands on the table. “It was Mara, okay? She admitted it to me while she was drunk our first night at the house. She thought my brother really might be sleeping with Georgia, and she wanted Rosalee to confront her about it. But I told her that was ridiculous, my brother and Georgia have always just been friends. I think she felt bad for writing it, but by then, it was too late to tell Rosalee the truth without making her hate her for it…”

The detective nodded and pushed back her chair. “That’s all for now. Thanks, Bri.”

“Can I get that drink now? Maybe a coke? I bet you have some Scotch in your drawer somewhere.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Interview: Suspect #5

“Out of everyone at the party, you had the most reason to feel angry and betrayed,” the detective said, bracing herself against the table, unable to sit anymore. After more than twenty-four hours without sleep, and her body surging with adrenaline, she felt strangely keyed up and exhausted all at once, her eyelids leaden and her ass numb from sitting in the interview chair. She was itching to return to the crime scene—the scene itself seemed to provide more helpful information than this cluster of troubled women…

Rosalee Mumford stared the detective straight in the face, unflinching. But she didn’t answer the question. In fact, she hadn’t said a single word since telling the police she wanted to wait for her lawyer husband.

Her friends had described her as nice—too nice, at times—but she wasn’t giving off soft, flowery vibes tonight. Not to the detective, at least.