Page 50 of The Right Woman

The next morning, he leaves early, but tells me to meet him at an address I don’t recognize after my shift. I dress in an orange paisley short button-up dress with a wide belt and white mod boots, then head to Rainy Day for a much-needed latte.

Maggie eyes me suspiciously as I give her a bright smile. “Why do you look like that?” she asks.

“I’m just happy. And tell Bob I’m paying.” It’s not much, but I’ve saved up about thirty dollars to cover my enormous tab. Bob’s head pokes out from behind the kitchen door, and his jaw drops as he sees me flash the cash at the register.

Grabbing my hot cup to go, I head toward the exit, but am halted when my mother pipes up from an empty seat. “Piper!”

A grimace forms across my lips, but I can make an excuse that I don’t have much time before work. “Hello, Mother.”

“Hello to you, too. Don’t act like that. Sit down and drink coffee with your mother.”

“My shift starts soon and?—”

“Oh, yes. Your little job. Well, you can spare five minutes.”

Slumping into the chair across from her, I wait for some negative comment to spew from her mouth.

“Always so dramatic.” She reaches across the table to grab a few sugar packets and pours them into her coffee, then sticks some in her purse. The motion triggers my memories from that day Meghan was murdered.

“Mom?”

Her green eyes flash to mine. I rarely call her that. “Yes?”

“Did you know Meghan Martinez? Like, before that day?”

She snorts a laugh. “The day before she choked, you mean? I’d seen her around with your father. But I heard he got himself into hot water with that one. Threatening to sue him for sexual harassment. Serves him right.”

My eyebrows meet, and I get a nauseating feeling deep in my belly. I lean across the table, whispering harshly, “Did you put something in her drink?”

A haughty expression coats her made-up face. “Oh, nothingserious, Piper.” She giggles. Actuallygiggles, as if recalling what she had done.

“Mother, what did you do?”

“Bitch had it coming to her. I put a little liquid stool softener in her coffee, that’s it.”

It feels like I’m having a heart attack. “What if she was allergic to that? What if you…” My voice drops even lower. “Mom? What if youkilledher?”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she laughs. “You’ve always been so dramatic. Embellishing everything. It wasnothing. A prank. It’s not like I murdered her. I didn’t.” Insteadof a jovial expression, her face changes into something darker. “WouldI have?”

I can hardly swallow the anxious lump forming in my throat as I await her answer to her own question.

Green eyes meet mine with a solid seriousness that steals my breath.

“Yes. And would be quite happy about it.”

I’ve been furious with my family. Grown to hate them, even. Embarrassed and avoidant, sure. Butafraid?

Not until this moment.

I’m not even sure I tell her goodbye before I stand and leave, wandering toward the library in a rushed haze.

What do normal people do in this situation? Ones without sick fucks for parents. People that can hold more than one feeling at once and be okay with all of them. Perhaps even name them all. I’m sure there are fully productive members of society who have a tangled mess of thoughts like this and know exactly what to do about each one.

Instead, I feel fragmented. Like my body is split into hundreds of shards of who I used to be. There’s a memory of her…but she doesn’t exist any longer.

Are my parentsmurderers? My hands slap at my cheeks. What if they were in this together?

I believe my feet make it into the library. My hands hang my jacket up on the coat hook. Thighs help me sit on a chair.

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