Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
“Those six might not have done it either,” Alex spoke up, stealing our attention. “I was thinking about that this morning, but those six people weren’t the only people upstairs during the time... it happened.”
“What?” Rhodes stood up. “What are you talking about? Who else was there?”
Alex gave a long, serious look. “About half a dozen cops.”
“You’re not saying...” I trailed off, body chilling. “You think a cop... did that to my mother?”
“I’m not saying one of them did for sure, but just think about it.” He leaned off the chair, his hands out to me. “They arranged their shifts and their placements among themselves. We just opened the door and let them in—we didn’t even know who the fuck half of them were. If one of them did come here with a plan, and they put themselves in charge of guarding the hall to Omma’s room, then who would’ve noticed them slipping away?”
I shuddered, bile rising up my throat. “That’s horrible. That’s so h-horrible, I can’t— I can’t even—” Rage squeezed my throat closed.
“I’m not saying that’s what happened,” Alex continued, finally coming over to me and taking my hands. “But if your friend is innocent, it means someone planted that knife in her bag. And who would’ve had the best opportunity to do that?”
“A cop.” I know I spoke, but the voice sounded nothing like mine. “How do I prove it?”
“Sue,” Rhodes began. “We don’t know—”
“How do I prove it?” I barked.
The guys shared another fucking look.
“We need a reason,” Micah finally said. “A motive. I mean, you know that Omma pretty much shut herself away from the world when she started losing her hair. This is an old grudge because she wasn’t making any new ones while she was locked in her room ignoring everyone. Do you know who she may have gotten into it with before she started isolating? You got any other best friends who pelted her with cupcakes?”
I appreciated his attempt to make me smile, but my lips didn’t move a millimeter. “I don’t know, but I do know people who might,” I replied. “I need the AGN.”
THAT WAS HOW I ENDED up at the Bluebell Café two days later, sipping tea with Mrs. Choi.
Mrs. Choi was the first friend my mother made when she and my father moved to Lantana, and she was a good friend to have. Not only was she a member of one of the richest families in the whole town, she was also the leader of the Korean American clique.
I wish I could say Lantana’s diversity was reflected in the friendships made and the groups formed, but that’d be a lie. There were four distinct charity cliques in Lantana, and the charity cliques were everything. Pretty much the entire social and networking calendar of the community revolved around them.
Stay-at-home moms or working moms, it was considered gauche in the extreme to flaunt the kind of wealth Lantanans did, but not give to charity. So almost everyone did so—which was good—but it was mostly so they’d have an excuse to throw huge, gaudy parties and flaunt more wealth—not so good.
Either way, instead of joining together, the middle-aged and elderly white, Hispanic, Black, and Korean members of the community split the four main causes: health, education, environment, and human services. One clique got one cause. Of course, everyone was invited to every party, but all the chatting, dining, befriending, and planning of said parties only happened with their own kind.
Balogun was right, I thought, sweeping the café and all the Asian patrons just like me and Choi. This community is horribly exclusionary.
Despite that, the Bluebell Café was a cute little spot with fresh flowers on every table, and all the specialty teas and coffees anyone could think of.
“Oh, Soo Min.” Mrs. Choi took my hand across the table. “I’m so sorry, dear. I can’t believe this happened. Ha-eun was one of my closest friends. I’m utterly devastated.”
Mrs. Choi wasn’t just saying that because it’s what you’re supposed to say. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and not even the heavy makeup was hiding it. Like my mother, Mrs. Choi was pushing against her seventies, but you wouldn’t know it from the expertly dyed black hair, and wrinkle-repelling eyes and cheeks.
“What can I do for you, sweetheart? Anything you ask, it’s yours,” she said. “Do you need help organizing the funeral? Contacting and flying your extended family over? Do—” She looked around, then leaned in. “Do you need me to track down Sarang again?”
I froze. Again?
“I don’t care what was said and done in the past,” she went on. “She must come back for her mother’s funeral. Anything else would be obscene.”
“I...” Everything I walked in here prepared to say flew out of my head. Of course, Mrs. Choi and the AGN had known my mother for over thirty years. They damn sure knew she had twins, but what they’d never known, was how to tell us apart.