“No. Because like I said, I wanted to believe it too. And telling her my secret brought us closer together, even if that secret was a big fat lie. The police and emergency workers who rescued me knew the truth… It was clear that my dad died of his injuries and the cold, and I wasn’t strong enough to lift a boulder like that over him anyway. I think they felt sorry for me for the lies. They just nodded and went along with it, then shipped me off to live with my aunt and cousin. The rest is history.”

“Thank you for explaining that to me,” the detective said, sincerely. “I think you need to also explain it to Tinsley soon, when you get a chance. Because she believes it, wholeheartedly, and that’s why she wrote that note. I think she truly believes you’re hiding the truth of your past from your future family.”

Rosalee nodded.

“I suppose, in a way, you are. They deserve to know what you’ve gone through. Perhaps they would be kinder to you if they knew the truth. Did your friend Mara think you killed your father too?” the detective asked, tentatively.

Rosalee’s head drooped.

“Come on, Rosalee. You’ve already talked to me about Tinsley. I think it’s finally time for us to discuss Mara, too.”

Rosalee’s eyes were flooding with tears again, her body shaking with grief.

“We’ve examined all of Mara’s belongings that were in her room. I found a notebook in her bag where she was practicing writing her well wishes to you, too.”

Rosalee used her sleeve to wipe a drizzle of snot from her nostrils. “Okay, so?”

“So, she’s the one who wrote the note about sexually satisfying your future husband.”

Rosalee froze.

“She admitted to Bri when she was drunk that she wrote it. I don’t think she was actually sleeping with him. She just wanted to rile you up and get you to confront Georgia…” the detective revealed.

Rosalee was shaking her head from side to side, as though she wanted to loosen the spinning thoughts in her head.

“Tell me, Rosalee. Is that the reason you killed your best friend?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Interview: Suspect #6

“How long have you worked at the Leblanc-Landry mansion?”

Delfina shifted nervously in her chair. She was wearing a stiff white uniform, as though she were still serving food for guests. But her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as though she’d been crying.

“I don’t know. Eleven or twelve years, maybe?” she said, timidly.

The detective nodded, scribbling down the answer in her notebook. She then continued to click the retractable pen open and closed several times, then she set it back down on the table.

“Delfina, how many parties have you hosted there?”

Delfina looked startled by the question. “I don’t know. I don’t keep track, ma’am. Probably a thousand, or more.”