Jean-Luc sails past our table on his way to another, saying, “Don’t take it personally, monsieur. Elle est folle.”
Chris is on his feet and dragging me across the patio before I can lash out at Jean-Luc. He pulls me inside the restaurant and makes a hard right turn toward the restrooms down a hallway at the back. He kicks open the men’s room door, slams it shut behind us, and pushes me against it with his hands gripped around my upper arms.
Leaning in so we’re nose to nose, he says gruffly, “Of course I didn’t. Emmie’s death was a freak accident, you know that—”
“She was murdered,” I say loudly, my face hot. “A drive-by isn’t an accident, Christopher. It’s murder. She didn’t fall into a pool and drown. That’s an accident. She didn’t slip and hit her head, or choke on a piece of food, or
