“Wow,” says Charlotte. “Can you send that to me?”
“Yes,” Juan Manuel says. They exchange numbers and he texts the photo to her. It takes only a few seconds for the vile proof to replicate on her phone.
Charlotte stands and paces the living room. “It’s becoming more and more clear that Giselle and Rodney had multiple reasons to want Mr. Black dead. But the only way we can prove Molly is innocent is by finding irrefutable proof that one or both of them killed Mr. Black.”
“It wasn’t Giselle,” I say. “She didn’t do it.”
Many skeptical eyes turn my way.
“Oh, Molly. How do you know that?” Charlotte asks.
“I do. I just do.”
Charlotte and Mr. Preston exchange that look again, the look of doubt.
Mr. Preston rises to his feet. “I have an idea,” he announces.
“Uh-oh,” Charlotte replies.
“Just hear me out,” he says. “It’s not going to be easy, and we’ll have to work as a team….”
“That’s a given,” says Charlotte.
“I like this team idea,” says Juan Manuel. “It’s not right, the way they treat us.”
“We’ll have to be conniving,” says Mr. Preston. “We’ll have to make a plan that’s ironclad.”
“A plan,” Charlotte says.
“Yes,” Mr. Preston answers. “A plan. To outsmart the fox.”
Chapter 20
It took well over an hour to hash out the details. During that time, I said, “No” and “I can’t” so repeatedly that I sounded, as Gran used to say, like the Little Engine That Couldn’t.
“Yes, you can,” Mr. Preston told me over and over. “Would Columbo give up?”
“You’ve got this, Miss Molly,” Juan Manuel chimed in.
“If I didn’t think you could do this, I wouldn’t be suggesting it,” Charlotte reasoned.
We practiced and practiced. We ran through scenarios and I perfected my answers to all the questions they could come up with. We acted out the possible things that could go wrong. I had to get past the feeling of dissimulating, of not presenting my true thoughts, but Juan Manuel said something that eased my mind: “Sometimes, you must do one thing bad to do another thing good.” He’s right in so many ways, and I know so from experience.
We rehearsed with Juan Manuel playing opposite me, then with Mr. Preston playing opposite me. I had to forget they were my kind friends. I had to think of them as very bad eggs when in fact they are nothing of the sort. We hashed through details, noted key lines, and came up with contingency plans to deal with any eventuality.
And now we’re finished. Charlotte, Mr. Preston, and Juan Manuel are all smiling and sitting taller in their chairs as they stare at me. I can’t quite be sure, but I think I understand what I see in their faces—pride. They believe I can do this. If Gran were here, she’d say, See, Molly? You can do it if you put your mind to it.
I’m feeling better after so much practice, calmer about the entire plan. I must say, I do feel a little like Columbo, with a team of crack investigators around me. Together, we’ve devised a trap that will hopefully result in Rodney being caught in flagrante again—but this time, in a different way entirely.
The first step begins immediately, with me texting him. We’ve strategized exactly what I’ll write. “I’m too nervous,” I say, once I type the message into my phone. “Can someone check it before I press Send?”
Juan Manuel, Mr. Preston, and Charlotte gather round me on the sofa, reading over my shoulder.
“It sounds good,” Juan Manuel says. “The way you speak, it’s so nice all the time. More people should talk like you, Molly.”
He smiles and I feel a tingle of warmth. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“I’d add the word ‘urgently’ to your text,” Mr. Preston suggests.
“Yes, that’s good,” says Charlotte. “Urgently.”
I adjust the message: Rodney, we must meet: urgently. Mr. Black was MURDERED. I made revelations to the police of which you should be aware. I’m sincerely sorry!
“Okay?” I ask, looking for approval from all of them.
“Do it, Molly. Press Send,” Charlotte says.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press the button. I can hear the swoosh of the message leaving my device.
When I open my eyes a few seconds later, three circles appear in a new text box below my sent message.
“Well, well, well,” says Mr. Preston. “Looks like our cretin is in a real hurry to respond.”
My phone trills as Rodney’s message appears: Molly, WTF? Meet me in twenty minutes at the OG.
“OG?” Mr. Preston asks. “What’s that?”
“Original gangster?” Juan Manuel replies.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlotte asks.
Then it comes to me in a flash, and I figure it out. “The Olive Garden,” I say. “That’s where I’m to meet him. Shall I answer?”
“Tell him you’ll be there soon,” Charlotte says.
I try to type a response, but my hands are shaking too much.
“Do you want me to do it?” Charlotte asks.
“Yes, please,” I say.
I hand her the phone and we all watch over her shoulder as she types: K. CU in 20 min.
She’s about to press Send when Juan Manuel stops her. “That doesn’t sound like Molly at all. She’d never write that.”
“Really?” Charlotte says. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You have to make it more pretty,” Juan Manuel offers. “Use respectful language. Maybe use the word ‘delightful.’ Molly uses this word a lot: deelightful. So nice.”
Charlotte erases what she wrote and tries again: This plan sounds delightful, even if the circumstances bringing us together are not. See you soon.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’d say. That’s very good.”
“That’s my Miss Molly,” Juan Manuel adds.
Swoosh. Charlotte sends the message and then hands me my phone.
“Molly,” says Mr. Preston, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready? You know what to say to him, what to do?”
Three concerned faces await my response.
“I’m ready,” I reply.
“You can do this, Molly,” Charlotte says.
“We have faith in you,” Mr. Preston adds.
Juan Manuel gives me a thumbs-up.
They have all put their faith in me. They believe in me. The only one who isn’t sure is me.
You can do it if you put your mind to it.
I take a deep breath, put my phone in my pocket, and walk out the front door.
Chapter 21
I’m at the Olive Garden eighteen minutes later, which is two minutes sooner than my ETA, mostly because I’m so nervous that I speed-walked the entire way. I’m sitting at our booth under the glow of the pendant light, only this time, it doesn’t feel like our booth at all. It will never be our booth ever again.
Rodney hasn’t arrived yet. As I wait, horrific visions loop in my mind—Mr. Black, his skin ashen and drawn, the photo of Rodney and Giselle, two slippery serpents entwined, Gran’s last few minutes of life. I don’t know why these things replay in my mind, but it’s doing nothing to quell my extreme jitters. How I’m going to get through this, I do not know. How will I act normally when the tension is already jangling the core of my being?
When I next look up, there he is, rushing into the restaurant, searching for me. His hair is tousled, the top two buttons of his shirt are open, revealing his exasperatingly smooth chest. I imagine taking the fork from my place setting and stabbing him with it, right there, where the V of his shirt frames his naked skin. But then I see his scar, and my dark desire evaporates.