I said when we’d crammed my six shopping bags and Bridgette’s four into the trunk of her white BMW convertible. “Why didn’t you tell me that you and Bain were probably the last people to see your cousin alive?” “Stop saying that,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses. We pulled out of the lot and into the sunshine. “First, because that is completely not true. There were ten people there—” “Nine,” I said, remembering the photos at the police station. “Whatever, nine. And second because you two—I mean Liza and Aurora—left the party by themselves before any of the rest of us. Not to mention Liza died miles away.” For some reason I decided not to tell Bridgette about hearing the poem in my head in the police station or seeing—whatever I had seen—in the dressing room. Instead I said, “What about Ro’s secret boyfriend?” She nearly swerved into the red Honda next to us. “What are you talking about?” “The one with the floppy brown hair and the big hands?”
