Best Friends Forever: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you hooked in 2018

“Yes.”

“How would you define that? What a heavy drinker is, I mean,” he qualified.

“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I observed, I’d say that Howard was an alcoholic,” I told the detective. “Almost every time I saw him, he was drinking.”

“But you just said that you saw Mr. Grant only at social events,” Oliver cut in. “Times when drinking alcoholic beverages wouldn’t be unusual.”

“That’s true. But even then, he drank quite a bit more than I would consider a normal amount. And Kat and I are close. She was concerned about how much he drank.” It felt odd disclosing this confidence—Kat and I had always guarded each other’s secrets—but I didn’t see any way around it. “Wasn’t he drinking the night he died?”

“At the time of his death, Mr. Grant had a blood alcohol level of .30. Do you know what that means?” Demer folded his hands on the table and looked steadily at me.

“That sounds high.”

“It is. For a man his height and weight, he would have consumed around eleven drinks in a three-hour period. Most people would have passed out by that point.”

I nodded. “I guess that’s how he fell off the balcony.”

“But, see, that’s the thing we keep going back to. Why was he even out on his balcony? If he’d had that much to drink, so much that he should have passed out, why was he outside in the first place? Did he suddenly get the urge to go look at the stars?” Demer said.

“And more to the point, how did he fall over the railing?” Oliver chimed in.

I frowned. “You just said he was so drunk, it was surprising he was even conscious. Maybe he leaned over the railing and blacked out.”

I shifted in my seat. I might not have liked Howard, or been close to him, but I certainly didn’t enjoy conjuring up the gruesome image of him toppling off the second-story balcony of his and Kat’s lavish Mediterranean-style house. The thought of his body falling heavily to the patio below, smashing against the Italian travertine, and the ambient lights around the pool illuminating his blood as it spread outward from his broken body made me queasy.

“Have you ever leaned over a railing?” Oliver stood. “The automatic tendency would be to brace yourself like this.” She demonstrated falling forward and splayed her hands out in front of her, catching them on the table. “It would actually take some effort to go over the railing. Even if you were drunk.” She shrugged. “Especially if you were drunk, since your coordination would be impaired.”

“So, what...you think Howard jumped?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “You think he committed suicide?”

“No.” Demer leaned forward slightly, his brown bloodshot eyes fixed on me more intensely than I was comfortable with. “We definitely don’t think Howard Grant committed suicide.”

This stark statement hung between us. I felt a frisson of fear.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Demer said. “How long have you known Katherine Grant?”

3 (#uf1d01923-31d4-5d46-91e9-d4d9540e04be)

Three Years Earlier

“Attention, passengers on Flight 523 to West Palm Beach. We are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the aircraft that will cause a delay in our departure time. We will update you as soon as we get additional information. Thank you for your patience.”

I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. It was the third time a delay had been announced over the crackling airport intercom.

“How much longer are we going to be stuck here?” Liam whined.

“Forever,” Bridget moaned.

I privately agreed with my daughter that it certainly did feel like we would be stuck there forever in airport purgatory. The terminal at JFK was crowded with holiday travelers. Everyone looked grumpy as they slumped on uncomfortable seats, their luggage and possessions scattered around them. When the announcement had begun, the herd had raised their heads hopefully, ears pricking up. At the news of another delay, shoulders sagged and groans rang out all around.

“Mom, my tablet is almost out of power,” Liam said, waving the device at me for emphasis.

Like most modern mothers, I firmly believed that my children should spend less time on electronics, staring at screens, and more time in the real, nondigital world. Looking at the scenery, interacting with real people, reading actual books. I was, however, willing to abandon these scruples completely when we were in crowded airports, only halfway through our journey, with no hope of being home before—I checked my watch and stifled another groan—midnight.

“Let’s find a place to charge up.” I looked around.

Liam nodded toward a bank of high stools in front of a counter equipped with touch screens and electrical outlets. Most of the spots were occupied, but miraculously one of the screens was free.

“Hurry. Let’s grab those stools.” I moved swiftly, pulling my small wheeled suitcase behind me. The kids took longer to gather up their belongings, so by the time they joined me, I had already claimed three stools, by sitting on one and putting bags down on the other two.

“Are you, like, using all of those?” a twentysomething girl asked, her voice a contemptuous squawk. She had squinty eyes ringed with black eyeliner and long, straight hair in an odd shade of pink-streaked blond.

“Yes, I am.” I nodded toward my approaching children. “My children are sitting here.”

The girl let out an exasperated snort, rolled her eyes and turned away. I felt a surge of petty pleasure at this small victory.

Once seated, Liam and Bridget were keenly interested in the touch screen. After they each plugged in their devices, they started tapping and discovered the screens offered very slow internet access as well as the ability to order food and drinks from a nearby restaurant in the terminal.

“Hey, Mom, can we get fries?” Liam asked.

“Only if there’s something resembling dinner on the same plate,” I said. “Do they have hamburgers?”

I got out my credit card while Liam tapped at the screen. He frowned. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe you’re tapping it too much,” I said. “Give it a chance.”

“It’s really slow,” the woman sitting next to us said. “It takes forever to place your order.”

“Did you get it to work?” I asked.

“Yes, finally. And not a moment too soon,” she said as a waiter arrived, bearing a single martini on a tray.

I looked at the drink and smiled—I loved martinis, and a drink seemed like the perfect antidote for the too-bright, too-crowded airport terminal.

The woman, I noticed then, seemed incongruously glamorous to the disheveled mass of weary travelers. I guessed that she was a bit older than I was, probably in her mid to late forties. She was very thin and had shiny dark hair cut into an angled chin-length bob. I’d always coveted a sleek bob, but it was a style I’d never be able to tame my wavy hair into. Her eyes were a startling bright blue, and her face was made up of interesting, strong lines—a long nose, full lips, square jaw. Her features were too angular to be truly pretty, but she was a very striking woman.

“A vodka martini, straight up, with a twist?” the waiter asked, setting the drink in front of her.

“Perfect,” the woman said, trying to give him a five-dollar bill.

The waiter raised his hands. “All tips have to be done electronically.”

The woman crinkled her nose. “Really? I didn’t know.” She tried to hand him the bill again. “Please, take it. I didn’t add one on my total, and I already checked out.”

The waiter shrugged and turned away.

The woman looked at me with a smile. “I guess I’ll have to order another one and double the tip.”

I looked at her drink again, this time covetously. “I’m jealous. That looks delicious. I wish I could have one.”