She did a pretty good job of keeping her face neutral and matching her friends’ expressions of polite interest. The corners of her mouth were turned upward slightly, and she nodded and muttered along with the rest of them. She still maintained her perfect posture, her shoulders pulled back and square, her chin slightly raised.

An outside observer would think she cared not a bit more and not a bit less than anyone else in the group.

But an outside observer doesn’t know faces.

Not like I do.

Behind the coolness of her steady gaze and unaffected smile, I could see something else.

Emma, with the perfectly styled hair, perfect manicure, and perfect style, was uncomfortable.

Really uncomfortable.

And I was the only one who knew why.

Chapter 7

Claire

The Night in Question

“Ms. Emma Bentley?”

Claire watched the woman with the short blond bob as she swayed back and forth in her kitchen. Emma’s arms were crossed in front of her chest, and her gaze was trained on the floor.

“Ms. Bentley?” she said again. “I’m Detective Claire Puhl. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Emma blinked a couple of times and then looked up at the detective standing in the entryway.

“Yes,” she finally said, her voice breathy and low. “Yes, of course.”

Her shoulders were slumped forward, her eyes red and puffy, and she clutched a piece of tissue in her hand. She raised it, wiping at her nose in a small, delicate motion that for some reason felt more symbolic than functional. Claire had a sense that Emma Bentley wasn’t the kind of woman who wiped away snot in public, no matter how tragic the circumstances. As if to support that suspicion, Emma sniffled politely and then turned and walked to the kitchen table, where she pulled out a chair and sat down. She reached out a hand and gestured toward one of the other seats.

“Thank you,” Claire said, walking over to join her and pulling out a chair. “Am I right that you own this building?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “My father left it to me when he passed away three years ago. My younger sister lives downstairs.”

Claire nodded and wrote a note. “Her name?”

“Meggie. Megan Bentley, but everyone calls her Meggie.”

“She was at your party tonight as well?”

“Yes,” Emma said. As she spoke, she began to tap her finger against the kitchen table, a quick, nervous motion.

“You told the responding officer that Beverly Brighton was also here at some point this evening.”

“Yes,” Emma said again. “She was.”

“How well did you know her?”

Emma frowned as if the question surprised her. “How well did I know her? Bev was one of my closest friends.”

Claire nodded. “So you were just having a little get-together for your sister and friend?”