“That’s tampering,” she accused.
“Don’t worry. The police already know about it.” I paced the room. I didn’t hear any movement from upstairs, and I wondered where Dr. Blocken was.
A cruel smile played on the corner of Mrs. Blocken’s face. “You can’t prove anything.”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “But you and I both know it was you. You’ve been waiting to blame something on Mark for years. He was never good enough for your Olivia.”
“Oh, please, you knew that it wouldn’t last.”
I shrugged. “So I did, but my brother didn’t. He really loved her. He still loves her.”
“So, you are here to tell me that your brother is innocent, and that I framed an innocent man.”
“Yes. I can assure you that the last thing Mark wanted in the world was to hurt Olivia.”
She glowered at me. “I suppose you also think I killed my daughter.”
“No,” I said honestly, because as much as I disliked Mrs. Blocken, that was the one thing I could not picture her doing.
Mrs. Blocken was silenced by my unexpected answer. She fell into the armchair in tears. “Then who did?”
It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. Her pain filled the room like an unexpected storm that comes on a summer night with violence and speed.
I looked out onto the darkened patio and remembered Olivia that day at the picnic. When I remembered her another person came to mind. Bree. Bree who was bustling around the party following Olivia’s every command, taking the maid of honor responsibilities to the extreme. But why? Why had she behaved that way? A prick of unease crawled up my spine.
“What do you know about Bree?” My voice was low.
She looked up. Her perfect makeup was ruined. “Bree?”
I sat across from her. “Yes, it’s important. What do you know about her?”
She blinked and rubbed her cheek, smearing mascara into her hairline. “She’s a sweet girl.”
She looked pointedly at me, silently saying that I was not. The fire was back in her eyes. I was relieved. I found a sad Mrs. Blocken made me more uneasy than an angry one.
“She was always helping Olivia with this and that. I don’t know how many times I called Olivia, and she said that Bree was there helping her with this project or that project. Also, Bree was always volunteering at Kirk’s gym.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why was Bree so helpful?”
“Why wouldn’t she be? Olivia was her friend.” Again, she looked pointedly at me.
“That’s true to a point, but all that helping out sounds like it was more than friendship.”
Mrs. Blocken’s eyes narrowed. She pulled tissue from her robe pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “What would you know about what it means to be a friend?”
I let that comment pass. “Why would Bree volunteer at the gym? Kirk’s business was making plenty of money. He mentioned at the picnic that he just opened a new fitness center. He can afford to pay someone.”
“I know that Olivia was giving her money.” She was on the stairs. Neither Mrs. Blocken nor I had noticed her. I wondered how long she’d been standing there. How much had she heard? She came down the stairs in a rock band nightshirt.
Mrs. Blocken looked up, shocked. “What are you talking about? Olivia wouldn’t do that.”
O.M. shrugged. “I overheard them talking before the picnic. Bree asked Olivia for a check, and Olivia said that they would talk about it later.”
I felt very cold as my brain put the pieces into place. “O.M., this is important. Did you see Bree the morning that Olivia was attacked?”
O.M. bit her lip. “No, I was asleep.” Her eyes darted away.
She was lying, and we both knew it. Her eyes flicked over to her mother.
“Whatever it is, I promise you won’t get in trouble,” I said.
“You can’t make any such promise,” Mrs. Blocken said.
I shot her a look so fierce that it silenced her immediately. That was the first time in the history of the world that anyone had silenced Mrs. Blocken with a mere look.
O.M. swallowed. “It was about seven in the morning. I was just getting home.”
“You stayed out all night?” Mrs. Blocken roared.
O.M. shrank away from her. “My band had a gig, Mom.” Her voice was small like a child’s. “I knew you would never let me go.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t let you go. You’re only fifteen.”
“Mrs. Blocken, please,” I said. I turned to O.M. “What happened?”
“When I got home, I was just going to slip upstairs. I knew Dad would have already left for the office, and that both Mom and Olivia sleep late. But when I got there, I saw Olivia in the kitchen window, already up, so I had to hide out by the garage. I didn’t know how I was going to get inside without her seeing or hearing me, and I knew she would tell Mom if she caught me. Finally, around seven thirty, just when I thought that I couldn’t stand it any longer and was going to go inside and face my sister and Mom, Bree pulled up in this tiny red car. She didn’t get out. Olivia must have been looking for her, because she ran out and jumped right in.” O.M. looked down. “I remember thinking at the time how lucky I was that Bree came and got her.”
Mrs. Blocken stared at her youngest daughter as if she didn’t even know her. Maybe, she didn’t.
“O.M., call the police,” I ordered.
“What? Why?” She looked scared and more like the fifteen-year-old that she was than I had ever seen her.
“Because Bree Butler killed your sister, and now she is alone with my friend.” I told her Bobby’s address.
Mrs. Blocken gaped.
I ran out of the house and jumped in my car. I threw the car in reverse, running over a rose bush in the process.
Chapter Forty-Five
A weak yellow glare backlit Bobby’s mini blinds. I shifted on the balls of my feet and rapped the brass knocker.
Bobby blinked at me. “India? What’s wrong?”
“Bobby, thank God,” I exclaimed. I tugged on the sleeve to his red flannel robe. Embarrassed, I looked down. “Is Bree here?”
Bobby belted his robe more tightly over his blue boxer shorts and white T-shirt. “Yes,” he said cautiously.
“Where is she?”
“She’s sleeping. Not that it’s any of your business.” He smoothed his tangled hair.
I pushed through the threshold. “Let her sleep.”
“What’s—”
“There’s an emergency at the library. We have to go.” I scanned the room, seeing Bree under every table and behind every chair. Bobby’s laptop and trashy romance notes sat on the dining room table. A mug of coffee topped a short stack of romance novels.
“Wait.” He waved his hands in my face. “What happened? Sit down. I can’t understand you if you jump around the room like a deranged kangaroo.”
“Didn’t you hear me? It’s an emergency. There’s no time to sit down.”
“No way. Not until you tell me what happened.” He sat on an armchair. “You look horrible. Did you remember to brush your hair today?”
