Chapter Text
Sophie
"I'm sorry," Sophie croaks, the rain hammering against the ground so hard it drowns out her own voice. She rocks back and forth, catatonic, soaked through. "I'm so sorry."
Margo's face looms above her, unflinching, her gun steady in her hand. "I know," she says evenly, eyes sharp and unreadable. "I am too, honey."
And then she pulls the trigger.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Sophie jolted awake, tangled in sheets that felt like a straitjacket. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she kicked them off, clammy pyjamas sticking to her skin. She stumbled into the en suite, not daring to glance at the mirror. She hasn't liked what stares back in a long time — though now, it's for reasons even she couldn't quite untangle.
The shower knobs squeaked under her trembling hands. Cold water slammed against her chest, shocking the panic out of her lungs just enough to steady her breathing. She stood there until her teeth chattered, then twisted the dial toward warmth — because she didn't hate herself enough to freeze into pneumonia. Not yet, anyway.
Today was a bad day. She could tell already. Most days that began with dreams of her were. Sometimes Sophie awoke guilt-stricken, Margo's voice echoing in her ears. Other times, worse, she would wake flushed and aching, panties damp. Both were unbearable. Both had to be hidden from Graham.
Graham.
Fuck.
Sophie cut the water, wrapped herself in a towel, and padded into the kitchen. Relief and dread crashed together when she found the room empty. His coffee mug sat abandoned on the counter, but he was gone. He left for work without her.
No morning argument. No snarling over burnt toast or forgotten dry cleaning. A reprieve.
But also—
She had overslept.
And Graham would be angry. That's the only thing he seemed capable of anymore.
By the time Sophie finished dressing, the sound of small feet thumping down the stairs pull her back into motion. Jack burst into the kitchen, hair a mess, his Spider-Man backpack dangling half open.
"Mommy! I can't find my sneakers!"
Sophie forced a smile, slipping easily into the role she knows best: the good mother, calm and patient, no matter what storm brewed inside her. "Check under the couch, buddy. That's where things go to hide."
Sure enough, a minute later Jack reappeared, triumphant, sneakers in hand. Sophie helped him tie the laces, her fingers surprisingly steady considering her heart still hadn't slowed from the nightmare. She ruffled his hair, kissed the top of his head, and reminded herself: he's why you keep going.
The drive to school was short, quiet except for Jack humming tunelessly in the backseat. Sophie gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles pale, rehearsing answers in case Graham called her. I woke up late. Yes, I'll do better. No, it won't happen again.
When she pulled into the drop-off lane, a familiar chorus greeted her. The Maple Brook moms: perfect hair, perfect yoga pants, perfect smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
"Morning, Sophie!" chirped Kelly, whose son was in Jack's class. "We're doing a playdate this weekend. You and Jack should come!"
Sophie hesitated, her mouth dry. For one awful second she thought about Graham's reaction, the way his face would tighten whenever she dared to make plans without asking. But then Jack's hopeful little face popped up from the backseat, eyes shining.
"Can we, Mom? Please?"
Sophie swallowed, summoning that mask again. "That sounds great, Kelly. Text me the details."
The other moms beamed, reassured she was still playing along with their little suburban charade. Jack waved as he disappeared into the swarm of backpacks and chatter, leaving Sophie alone in the car, the smile fading off her lips the moment he was out of sight.
For a fleeting second, she let her head drop against the steering wheel. Just long enough to feel the weight of it all pressing down.
Then she straightened. Because she had to.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The clink of cutlery was the only sound in the dining room for a while, Jack's small voice the occasional reprieve.
"...and Mrs. Cartwright says we're gonna make solar systems out of Styrofoam balls, and I get to paint Jupiter, and—"
"That's great, bud," Sophie said brightly, too brightly, her smile stretched thin.
Across from her, Graham carved into his chicken breast, chewing slowly, his jaw tightening. Finally he set his fork down with a loud scrape. "This is dry."
Sophie's heart dropped into her stomach. She lowered her gaze to her plate, pulse spiking. "I— I'll try a new recipe next time."
Jack glanced between them, frowning. Sophie tried to send him a reassuring smile across the table. Even at seven, he could feel the storm brewing under the surface. He poked at his peas, suddenly quiet. She felt like like a failure.
Graham leaned back in his chair. "Guess what happened today."
Sophie looked up cautiously, willing her husband to keep talking.
"I'm overseeing a new project," he said with satisfaction. "A big one."
"That's great news, Grah-" Her relief was short-lived.
"It's for Jed Banks."
The name hit her like ice water. Sophie's fork clattered against her plate. "Jed—?" She tried to recover, but her voice still shook. "I thought— didn't you— he..."
Graham's mouth twisted. "Yeah, I thought he hated me too. Guess it turns out money talks louder than grudges. Or misdemeanours."
Heat crawled up Sophie's neck. "Graham," She sat frozen, her chest tight, searching for words that wouldn't set him off further.
Graham shrugged. He took a long sip of his water, then smirked — although grimaced was probably a better word for it — across the table. "And get this — we've been invited to the Banks' next party. Jed wants me there, and you too."
Jack shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension even if he didn't understand the words.
Sophie forced herself to swallow, her hands trembling in her lap. The thought of seeing Margo again, of being under Jed's roof, made her heart race for all the wrong reasons.
"Isn't that good news?" Graham pressed, his smile thin, his eyes cruel and knowing, nothing like the Graham she had met on those steps that fateful afternoon.
She plastered on a brittle smile. "Of course. Great news."
But her stomach churned with dread. Because she knew that whatever awaited her at the Banks' party, it wasn't going to be good.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Sophie had changed five times.
First a black sheath dress that felt too severe, then a floral sundress that looked more like a brunch uniform than a gala choice. She tried on a silk blouse and skirt, then tore them off, convinced she looked like she was heading to an office job instead of a party dripping with champagne and diamonds. Then back to the sundress.
Finally, she settled on a strappy navy dress that clung in the right places and swayed at her calves. It showed more skin than she was comfortable with, but hiding under a soviet dress would only invite more stares.
She told herself it didn't matter. Nobody would be looking at her.
But her hands trembled anyway.
Three months. It had been three months since she'd spoken to Margo, since the night when Kyle's blood stained her hands and Margo, instead of calling the cops, had helped cover the tracks. Sophie still didn't know why Margo hadn't turned her in, hadn't called the sheriff. Sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night expecting the knock on the door, the handcuffs, the mugshot. But instead, there was only silence.
They had decided to lay low for a while, pause contact.
But that silence had stretched into a gulf between them. Sophie had run into Margo once at the Sweet Blossom Kitchen, another time in the wine aisle at H-E-B. Both times she had ran away before she could risk blowing up her marriage once again.
Graham had been pleased by that. No more Margo. Sophie had thought their marriage would improve because of it. She told herself it was better this way. Safer.
It somehow made it worse.
But tonight, walking up the steps to the Banks' sprawling estate with Graham at her side, Sophie's stomach clenched so tightly she thought she might be sick. Because tonight there would be no avoiding her.
The party was already in full swing, the kind of Maple Brook soirée where everyone was overdressed and over-loud, where the champagne flowed faster than the air-conditioning. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in orange and lavender. Lanterns flickered on the balconies, laughter spilled out of every doorway.
At the entrance, Jed Banks clasped Graham's hand with performative warmth.
"Graham O'Neil," Jed drawled. "Thought you'd fallen off the map. Good to see ya back in the game."
Graham chuckled, puffing his chest. "Likewise. Heard you needed the best man for the job."
Jed smirked. "Or maybe just the only one desperate enough to take it." The men laughed, trading barbs as though Sophie weren't standing there, as though she weren't suffocating under the weight of the house, the memories, the knowledge of who might be just a few rooms away.
She laughed when she was supposed to, smiled where she was expected to, and then drifted.
Nobody stopped her. Taylor and Monae gave her quick waves across the room, friendly enough until Callie slid in between them, her laugh pointed and her glance sharp. Then they all looked away, leaving Sophie to hover on the edges of the crowd.
So she did what she always did: she disappeared.
She wandered through French doors and onto a side balcony, the cool night air brushing her skin. From there the noise of the party dulled into background chatter, replaced by the hum of the night and the clink of glasses inside. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring out over the lawn that stretched into darkness, and let herself breathe.
"Thought I might fin' ya hidin' out here."
Sophie startled, spinning around. She'd recognise that voice anywhere.
Margo.
She looked just as beautiful as Sophie remembered — maybe more so. The light from the house framed her in gold, the sequins of her gown shimmering like starlight. Her hair was perfectly set, her lipstick bold, her smile soft but unreadable.
Sophie's throat closed. She had imagined this moment a hundred different ways, and none of them prepared her for the ache that swelled in her chest now.
"I..." Sophie faltered. "I didn't mean to—"
Margo tilted her head, that feline grace still so effortless. "To what? Avoid me? Sugar, I've gotten used to it."
Her words stung, but her tone was gentler than the bite Sophie expected. Earnest. Maybe even wistful.
Sophie gripped the railing, fingers digging into the cool iron. "I thought— I figured you didn't want anything to do with me after...after everything. That it was better this way."
Margo stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the stone. "You always did think too much." And Sophie could think of a millions different ways that sentence was true.
Sophie looked down, shame flooding her, unable to meet Margo's eyes at the memory of their last night. "You hate me."
She felt Margo's breath hitch. Then, softer than she'd ever heard her: "I could never."
Sophie's heart gave a little skip, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that. She had spent three months convincing herself Margo hated her fucking guts for killing her brother, and now here she was, in front of this goddess of a woman, being told she was wrong. "I don't know why you did. You should've let me burn for it."
"Don't say that." Margo commanded. "Don't say that."
"I mean it." Sophie's voice cracked. "I ruined everything, and you risked everything. And for what? For me?"
Margo was standing in front of her now, close enough that Sophie could smell her perfume — heady, floral, intoxicating. Her voice dropped, low and unshakable. "Yes. Of course for you."
Sophie's chest rose and fell too fast, her heart slamming against her ribs. She wanted to believe it. God, she wanted to so badly. She dared look up to her. "I don't even know if I believe that."
Margo's eyes softened, as if willing Sophie to look through her. "You should believe. I wouldn't do it for anyone else."
"You've lied to me before," Sophie's jaw moved before her brain could catch up, "You've looked me straight in the eye and lied to me before."
She wasn't trying to start anything, not when she's missed the other woman so much it physically hurt. But she also couldn't forget the lies, the manipulation, the going to jail. And yet, the brunette did fix it, didn't she. She got her out, she got her absolved. And she didn't call the cops after Sophie killed her brother.
Margo's gaze lingered on her face, searching, aching, like she was trying to memorise her all over again. "You think you're the only one who's been hurting? You're not."
Sophie's lips parted, but no words came. Of all the things she thought Margo would say, this was not one of them. The yearning between them was a living thing now, filling the air, pressing against her skin.
Margo reached out, fingers brushing Sophie's hand on the railing, just barely. Enough to make Sophie shiver. Enough to make her remember every touch, every stolen look, every unspoken promise that still burned between them. "You've changed," she said, looking at her as if trying to decipher all the ways in which Sophie had. Too many to count, Sophie thought.
"So have you."
It was true. Something was different about Margo. She seemed softer somehow, like life had beat her down one too many times — Sophie's chest tightened because killing her bother had probably a lot to do with it. She still looked the perfect future First Lady of Texas, but Sophie could see the change in the slope of her shoulders, in the curve of her lips, in the storm in her eyes. Three months no contact and she still knew her tells.
The sounds of the party swelled faintly behind them — laughter, a burst of music, someone calling for more champagne. But out here, on the balcony, it felt like another world entirely, one suspended between confession and catastrophe.
Margo tilted her head, eyes never leaving Sophie's. "Three months, and I still knew I'd fin' you out here. Always hidin' when it matters most."
Sophie swallowed, her throat tight. "And you always seem to find me."
The corner of Margo's mouth curved, not quite a smile, more like the memory of one. Sophie wondered if she was also thinking of that night, how she'd recognised Sophie's panicked breaths right away over the phone.
Then suddenly Graham's sharp, impatient voice called her name from inside.
Margo's gaze darkened, her lips parting like she wanted to say more. Instead, she lifted her chin, the mask sliding neatly back into place. "Go on. Wouldn't want your husband to get the wron' idea."
The words were casual, but Sophie heard the ache underneath them. Felt it. Trouble was, Margo couldn't possibly imagine how close to home those words hit. And as she slipped back into the party, her pulse still hammering, she knew: this wasn't over. If anything, after three months of being careful, she had just been pulled back into Margo Banks' orbit.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Two days later, Sophie sat on a sun-warmed bench at Maple Brook's small park with Kelly and a couple of the other moms, watching Jack and his friends tear across the playground. His laughter carried on the breeze, bright and unbothered, the sound of someone who hadn't yet learned the weight of secrets. Sophie tugged her cardigan tighter around herself, pretending the April sun wasn't beating down mercilessly. It was easier than coming up with a convincing lie.
"Mommy! Watch this!" Jack shouted from the top of the slide, waving both arms before plunging down with a delighted squeal. Sophie smiled, clapping lightly.
"Looks like you've got a daredevil on your hands."
The voice startled her. Low, smooth and unmistakable.
Sophie's head snapped up, and there she was.
Margo Banks, in dark sunglasses and an ivory dress, holding a paper cup from the café down the street. Even here, away from chandeliers and champagne flutes, she looked impossibly composed — like the sun had risen just for her.
Sophie's mouth went dry, but before she could say anything Kelly had gotten up to give her a brief hug, drawling out her name. "Margo, how are you?"
For some unknown reason Sophie felt a flash of jealousy at the scene. She looked on, unsure whether to stand, to run, or to stay rooted in place.
Margo smiled faintly, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. "Kelly, what a pleasure," she replied, in a tone indicating it was anything but.
Before anyone could reply, Aidan came bounding over, asking his mom for water. Jack followed closely behind, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He stopped short when he saw Margo, tilting his head. "Hi, I'm Jack."
Margo crouched to his level without hesitation, her tone softening in a way Sophie hadn't expected. "Well, hello there, Jack. I'm Margo."
Jack looked at her solemnly and Margo — to her credit — waited patiently crouched down. "You're the lady with the jet ski," then grinned. "Wanna see how fast I can go down the slide?"
Margo chuckled. "I'd love to."
He darted away with Margo, and Sophie decided to follow, aware of the curious looks the other moms were sending her way. He left the two women standing too close on the edge of the playground. Sophie tried not to stare, but she couldn't ignore how natural Margo looked watching Jack, how her smile lingered even after he'd disappeared up the ladder.
"Relax, sugar. I'm not here to bite."
"You didn't have to talk to him," Sophie murmured, her voice betraying nerves she wished she could hide.
Margo glanced at her, eyes shining in the late afternoon sun. "I never do anything I don't want to."
Sophie's breath caught.
They stood in silence for a beat, only the sound of children's laughter between them. Sophie could feel the words pressing at the back of her throat — I hate you, I missed you, I still dream of you, I don't know how to breathe when you're near me and when you're not. But she swallowed them all down.
Jack waved at them from the top of the slide. "Watch me go again!" He screamed once at the bottom.
Instead of any of her thoughts, she said "He likes you."
Margo's lips curved, soft and wistful. "Good. I like him too." Her eyes flicked back to Sophie, lingering. "Runs in the family, I guess." Then a wink.
Heat rushed to Sophie's face, and she looked away quickly, pretending to check the time. But her heart was hammering too loud, and, judging by the way the other woman was smirking, she knew Margo could hear it too.
Before Sophie could get awkward — the older woman always had a way of making her say stupid things — Jack came barreling back to the edge of the clay ground, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed. "Mom, can we get ice cream? Please? They've got the truck over there!" He pointed to the corner of the park where a line of kids was already forming.
Sophie opened her mouth to deflect, but Margo was already in motion, brushing non-existent lint from her dress. "Well, I never coul' say no to ice cream. What do you think, sugar?"
Jack's eyes widened with delight. "Really? You'll come too?"
Margo smiled, glancing at Sophie with a tilt of her head. "If your mama doesn't min'."
Sophie hesitated. A hundred reasons to refuse sprang to mind — Graham, the mothers on the bench shamelessly gawking, the risk of being seen with her. But Jack was practically bouncing, and Margo's gaze was steady, unwavering.
"... Sure," Sophie said finally, her voice quieter than she meant. "Why not."
They walked together, Jack skipping a few steps ahead. Sophie could feel the eyes of the other Maple Brook moms on her, their whispers carried faintly on the breeze. She kept her chin up, pretending not to notice. If she let herself notice, she'd crumble. Margo's arm brushed slightly against hers, giving her quiet comfort.
At the ice cream truck, Jack deliberated far too long before settling on chocolate with rainbow sprinkles. Margo ordered pistachio, her tone light, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Sophie chose vanilla, though she barely tasted it as they sat at a shaded picnic table.
Margo watched her for a moment, then raised a brow. "Long sleeves, in this heat? Sophie O'Neil, you'll melt."
Sophie forced a laugh, tugging at the hem of her cardigan. "I just...run cold, I guess."
Margo's lips curved, but not in amusement. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so Jack wouldn't hear. "You were always a terrible liar."
Sophie's smile faltered. She stared down at her cone, the ice cream already dripping onto her hand. Her throat tightened, words lodging there, unspeakable.
They drove home in silence, Graham shutting the door a little too hard. "You disappeared," he said flatly.
"I already said I'm sorry." Sophie murmured, setting her purse down. "I just needed air."
She turned, meaning to retreat in the bedroom, but his hand shot out, fingers clamping around her forearm. Pain bloomed instantly as he yanked her back, slamming her against the hallway wall.
"Don't walk away from me," he snarled, his grip bruising. "Were you talking to her?"
"Graham...."
His hand drove her into the wall again, harder this time. Her apologies tumbled out, frantic and breathless, until finally, he released her, satisfied she'd had enough. That night she went to bed with her arm throbbing, careful in the morning not to let Jack see.
The memory snapped back into the present when Margo's hand brushed her sleeve, resting gently on her forearm. Sophie flinched before she could stop herself.
Margo's eyes sharpened. "Sophie..."
"It's nothing," Sophie rushed out, too fast, too practiced. She pulled her arm back, pasting on a weak smile. "Really. Nothing."
Sophie took a shaky bite of her cone, sweet and cold against her tongue. Across the table, Margo licked her pistachio scoop with infuriating calm, but Sophie felt the weight of her gaze all the same. For a second Sophie thought she'd press, that the floodgates would burst open right there at a sticky picnic table with Jack licking sprinkles off his fingers.
But then Jack popped up, chocolate smudged across his grin. "How often do you use your jet ski, Miss Margo? May I go on it next time, please?"
The tension fractured. Sophie blinked, grateful for the interruption, desperate for it.
Margo sat back, lips pursed but saying nothing. She let Jack climb into her lap to beg with wide eyes, her hand steady on his shoulder instead of Sophie's arm.
Sophie exhaled slowly, pretending to focus on her son, but her skin still burned where Margo had touched her, and her pulse hadn't calmed. Because she knew Margo wasn't going to let that go so easily.
And sooner or later, she'd ask again.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Margo
There were very few things in life Margo Banks wanted and didn't have. One, her bother back. Two, Sophie O'Neil.
And, ironically, it had been three months since she had spoken to either of them.
When Kyle's body had washed ashore, a week after Sophie had foolishly pushed him off that cliff, she'd waited with bated breath. She'd changed Sophie's car tyres, and had sent a trusted friend to scrub her car free of any evidence. And yet, nothing was ever a hundred percent, and she had worried.
She'd grieved her brother. A lot. Jed had been less than compassionate, almost happy of the fact there was now one less loose end to tie before his official campaign began. She hated him.
(Three, her husband dead.)
She had brushed off her worry for Sophie as anxiety for justice, and took her first easy breath five days after that, when the sheriff of the next over county had ruled Kyle's death as gang violence. She'd already lost him, there was no reason to lose her too.
And yet, as the time passed and the silence stretched, Margo did lose her. And each time Sophie avoided her gaze, or ran away, her heart cracked a bit more.
As she watched Callie's naked, sleeping form next to her, she couldn't help but contemplate how she got here. She hadn't meant to start having sex with her again. She knew the redhead, despite what she might say, was in love with her, and nothing good could come out of it, especially since Margo did not reciprocate her feelings. And yet.
Convincing Jed to take her back had been easy. Going on her knees and asking for forgiveness had opened the door. Heels and a matching lingerie set had done the rest. After all, he was a man who liked power and respect, and his big political plans only worked if his wife was standing by his side. A divorce would most likely crush his chances. Margo hadn't regretted going back, not if it meant having Jed's influence behind her if Sophie's name came up in the Kyle investigation. Not if it meant keeping Sophie safe, and out of jail. (Again.)
It was just that ever since Jed had taken her back, he'd become meaner. Making snide remarks and putting her down for sport, the memory of her betrayal still fresh in his mind. He barely touched her anymore, and when he did it was rough and for his enjoyment only. Being touched by Callie's small and soft hands had seemed like the only right thing to do, in lieu of what, or who, she couldn't have.
But now Sophie was back in her world, looking so beautiful and broken, and all of Margo's protective desires had reignited like a house on fire. Something was going on with her sweet Sophie, something that had made her shy and timid, and she would get to the truth.
(Margo thought of the night on the cliff, her brother's caked blood under Sophie's fingernails, the younger woman's back and forth bouncing on the ground, a thousand I'm sorry's whispered in the rain, and a shiver ran down her spine. Better him than her. She would've never forgiven Kyle if he'd hurt Sophie.)
Margo was almost certain that Sophie's odd behaviour wasn't related to Kyle's death. At least not directly.
She stared at her phone longer than she cared to admit. The whiskey on her nightstand had gone watery with melted ice, Callie's soft snores drifted from the other side of the bed, and still her thumb hovered.
Finally, she typed it out:
Come over tomorrow. Just to talk.
For one blissful second, she let herself imagine Sophie saying yes; she imagined the blonde slipping into the Banks' lake house kitchen with her hair damp from a shower, sitting across the counter while Margo poured her a glass of wine, both of them pretending it was as simple as that.
The fantasy shattered when her phone buzzed back.
Don't text me again.
Then, another buzz.
Please.
Margo's chest went tight, anger threading with fear. Sophie wasn't just avoiding her. Something was wrong.
She didn't respond. Couldn't. Not when Sophie was that spooked.
But Margo Banks wasn't a woman who waited patiently, either.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Two mornings later, she slipped on her running shoes — brand new, not even broken in — and took herself down the trail she knew Sophie favored. She'd seen her there before, hair pulled back, expression taut, pounding the gravel like she was running from something she couldn't outpace.
Sure enough, halfway around the loop, there she was.
Sophie slowed the moment she spotted her, suspicion flashing in her eyes. "Margo. What are you..." She gestured vaguely at the trail, at Margo's pristine gear. "Since when do you run?"
Margo smirked, though her chest was heaving harder than she liked. "Since today, apparently. Figured it was a good morning for it."
Sophie shook her head, already edging away. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why not?" Margo's tone was light, but her gaze didn't waver. "It's a public trail, darlin'. Anyone can come."
"I mean it." Sophie's voice cracked, low and urgent. "You can't... I can't..." She trailed off, catching herself, biting down on the words like they might betray her.
Margo stepped closer, not touching or pushing, but close enough that Sophie had to look at her. "You text me like tha', and I'm just supposed to sit pretty and preten' everything's fine? I won't do that."
"We shouldn't be seen together." Sophie's jaw clenched. "It's complicated."
"I don't care how complicated it is," Margo said softly. "Kyle's death was ruled as gang violence. No one even thought you coul' be involved."
But Sophie shook her head so hard strands came loose from her ponytail. "It's not that, okay. Just... please let it go."
Her eyes glistened, the plea cutting deeper than any confession.
Margo swallowed the dozen things she wanted to say — I can't let it go, I foolishly feel like you're mine to protect, tell me who hurt you and I'll bury them myself. Instead, she nodded once, sharp and restrained.
"Alright," she murmured. "For now."
They stood there in the quiet, birds chirping in the shade of the trees, sweat dampening their skin, the air thick with everything unsaid.
Then Sophie turned and started jogging away. Sophie thought she could keep her secrets, but Margo knew better. She'd find out what was bothering her friend — ex-friend? ex-lover? — no matter what it took.
"Wait for me, honey, I'm runnin' with you today."
Sophie turned around sighing, clearly exasperated but not quite enough to send Margo away. "You're just gonna slow me down."
Margo arched a brow. "Someone has to admire the view from back here."
Sophie's face went even redder, if that was possible.
"Don't worry, honey, I'll send you a postcard from ten steps behind."
That earned her the ghost of a smile, small but real, before Sophie turned back to the trail. They fell into step, Margo's rhythm a half-beat behind, the crunch of gravel and the steady hum of birds filling the silence.
Sophie was fast, although Margo could tell she was holding back for her. After a few minutes, she glanced sideways, breathless but amused. "You okay back there, Banks? You look like you're regretting this already."
Margo smirked, though her lungs were burning. Sophie was right — she was slowing her down, though the blonde didn't seem to mind too much. "Right, because your blistering five miles an hour is so intimidatin'."
Eventually, they slowed near a rest station, where a battered water fountain sat under the shade of a live oak. Sophie bent over, hands braced on her knees, sweat darkening her collar. She unzipped her lightweight running jacket just an inch, tugging it away from her neck to breathe.
That's when Margo saw it.
A flash of mottled purple at the edge of her shoulder, too high to be from clumsiness, too dark to be anything but what Margo already feared.
Her chest tightened. Without thinking, she reached out, fingertips brushing the fabric. "Sophie."
But Sophie flinched, jerking back, her hand flying to cover the zipper. "Don't. Please, don't touch me."
Margo froze, the air between them crackling. She withdrew her hand instantly, forcing her voice gentle even as anger coiled hot in her veins. "Alright. I won't."
For a long moment, Sophie wouldn't look at her. She busied herself with the water fountain, drinking too fast. Margo let her have at it for a minute, swallowing down every demand she wanted to make, every vow to find out who had done this to her.
"Who did that to you, honey?" She asked, when the water turned off, leaving behind a rhythmic dripping. Then, softer, hoping to mask the anger — "Was it Graham?"
Sophie froze mid-swallow. A bead of water slipped down her chin, ignored. Her knuckles whitened around the knob of the fountain.
For a heartbeat, Margo thought she'd misstepped, pushed too hard too soon.
Then Sophie spoke, her voice low and raw. "Don't."
Margo took a slow step closer, her tone steady though her blood was boiling. "I'm not gonna stop askin' just because you say the word. Was it him?"
Sophie's shoulders stiffened. She still wouldn't look at her. "It doesn't matter."
"The hell it doesn't." Margo's voice sharpened, anger slipping through. She reined it back, gentled it, tried again. "Sophie, you don't have to live like this. Not with him."
Finally, Sophie turned. Her eyes were glassy, wide with panic. "You can't— Margo, please. If he even thought—" Her breath hitched. "If he knew I was here with you, that we were talking, he'd..." She trailed off, shaking her head hard, as if even naming it might summon him.
Margo's stomach twisted. Rage like she hadn't felt since knowing Kyle threatened Sophie burned through her chest, white-hot and unrelenting. She wanted to find Graham O'Neil, put him on his knees, and make him bleed for every mark he'd left.
But she saw how Sophie was trembling, how she hugged her jacket tighter around herself like it was an armor.
So she softened, forcing her voice into a hush. "Alrigh', sugar. Alrigh'. You don't have to say it. Not yet."
Sophie's throat bobbed, her relief tangled with guilt.
Margo reached out, slow enough not to spook her, brushing a damp strand of hair back behind her ear. "Just know this. Whatever he's doin', whatever's goin' on behind those doors, you don't have to face it alone."
For a moment, Sophie leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. Then she pulled away, quick, like she'd remembered herself. "This was a mistake."
Margo shook her head. "No, it wasn't."
"I need to get back," Sophie said. Margo didn't try push harder and watched her jog off down the trail they'd just come from, the gap between them stretching wider with every step.
She took a deep breath in, and exhaled.
Now she just needed to come up with a plan to kill Graham O'Neil.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Margo hated the farmer's market. The humidity, the smell of livestock carried in from the fairground, the endless small talk with women who pretended not to despise her. But Jed insisted they make appearances in every corner of Maple Brook, so here she was, clutching a basket of produce while he glad-handed half the county.
He caught up to her at the fruit stand, his smile pasted on for the crowd. "You do know the cameras don't care what you buy, right? They care what you say."
Margo slipped a peach into her basket, slow, deliberate. "Maybe I just want peaches."
His smile didn't waver, but his voice dropped, sharp enough to cut. "Maybe you coul' stop making yourself look like a fool. If you're going to stan' by my side, you coul' at least try to remember your lines. D'you know how stupid you sounded just there?"
Margo's jaw tightened. She adjusted her sunglasses, the only shield she had. "I'm sorry I don't speak in soundbites," she drawled, her tone smooth as glass.
Jed leaned in, his hand brushing her elbow, firm enough to leave her rooted in place. "You're window dressin', Margo. Try to remember that. I'm the candidate. You're just here to look pretty, smile and keep your mouth shut, unless you can remember the notes."
He released her and turned back toward the vendor, flashing that perfect politician's grin.
Margo exhaled slowly, her chest hot with humiliation and fury. She reached for another peach just to give her shaking hands something to do. As she lowered it into the basket, she saw her.
Sophie.
Standing at the honey stand at the stall opposite hers, Jack tugging at her skirt. Their eyes met across the crowd. Sophie froze, startled, then dropped her gaze too quickly, like she hadn't just witnessed Jed carve her down to nothing. Fair enough, Margo thought — she knew Sophie's secret, and now the blonde knew hers.
Still, her throat went tight at that thought. She forced a smile, brittle at the edges, and strolled toward her as though nothing at all had happened.
"Well, Boston," she drawled, "looks like peaches aren't the only sweet thing here today." Then she turned to Jack, bending slightly towards him, softening her posture "Hello, Jack. Watcha got there?"
Jack's face broke into a grin, "Hi Miss Margo. Mommy bought me strawberries! They're so sweet, I love strawberries, I think they're my third favourite fruit. Second are bananas, and first are peaches!" His words tumbled out at lightning speed. "Would you like a strawberry, Miss Margo?" He held up a swollen red berry, proud and sticky-fingered. Her chest tightened at the gesture, at the boy's sweetness, and at the pride shining in his mother's eyes.
"Why, Jack, I think we have the same favorites. I'll take your strawberry if you'll take one of my peaches." She plucked a fruit from her basket and handed it over.
The blonde boy bounced with enthusiasm, "Thank you!" he exclaimed, biting in with gusto, as juice ran down his chin.
Margo turned to Sophie, their eyes locking over Jack's head. She bit into the strawberry, making a slow show of licking the juice from her lips. Sophie's eyes widened, her blue irises darkening. Margo's pulse jumped at the sight, hungry to see that look again under different circumstances. She finished the berry in one bite, holding the calyx lightly between her fingers.
Sophie's gaze lingered longer than it should have. At last she dropped her eyes to Jack, still happily chewing.
"Thank you." A beat, then softer: "You... you look nice."
Margo's mouth curved. "Don't I always?"
Colour bloomed in Sophie's cheeks. Margo loved how easily she flustered. The blonde's eyes flicked past her shoulder, toward Jed, who was deep in conversation with one of the vendors, and the back at her, this time with something heavier in her expression.
"You okay?" She asked quietly, her chin tilting ever so slightly toward Jed.
Margo's laugh came smooth and practiced. "Of course, darlin'."
But Sophie didn't buy it. Margo saw it in the way her brows pinched, the way her mouth opened like she wanted to say more, then snapped shut. That look — concern, and recognition — made Margo's chest ache in a way she wasn't used to letting herself feel.
Before either of them could say another word, Jack shoved the peach pit into Sophie's hand, sticky with juice, demanding a napkin. The moment broke.
Margo straightened, slipping her sunglasses back down over her eyes, her armor back in place. "Enjoy your strawberries, Boston. I'll see you soon."
Sophie nodded, clutching Jack's hand too tightly, her gaze lingering as Margo drifted back into the crowd.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
It took Margo three days to decide how to do it. She couldn't text — Sophie had made that clear. Couldn't show up at her door, either, not with Graham lurking like a storm cloud.
So she sent a message the only way she could think of: Monae's phone. The lie came out easy enough — she'd left hers in the car, she needed to call Jed, just a quick moment. Monae had handed it over with that gracious smile of hers, drifting off to powder her nose.
Margo stepped onto the porch, glass of rosé in hand, and dialed the number that still lived in her head like a brand.
Sophie answered on the third ring.
"Hello?"
Margo smiled, the sound of her voice alone enough to warm her. "Hello, darlin'."
The line went quiet, except for the soft sound of Sophie's breathing. It hit Margo like déjà vu — that night she'd called her brother, only to hear Sophie's ragged breaths instead, spilling through the static like confession.
"What are you doing?" Sophie asked at last, her voice steadier now, but edged with nerves.
"I figured Monae was a safe bet."
"Right." A pause. "Okay. What do you want?"
Margo leaned against the porch rail, savoring the taste of wine on her tongue. "I like it when you're impatient. It's hot."
She heard it — that sharp inhale, the way Sophie tried to smother her reaction. Margo closed her eyes, picturing it: Sophie's cheeks flushed pink, the blush climbing up her throat, that raw beauty she wore without trying.
"Don't," Sophie whispered, but the plea lacked conviction.
Margo's smile curved slow and dangerous. "Don't what? Tell you the truth?"
A silence stretched between them, thick with all the words they hadn't spoken in three months.
Finally, Sophie exhaled. "You shouldn't be calling me. If Graham—"
"Then let's keep it short." Margo cut in gently, her tone dropping to something softer, more earnest. "Meet me for lunch. Out of town. Somewhere nobody's watchin'."
Sophie didn't answer right away. Margo could practically hear her mind racing, the fear and the longing at war.
When she finally spoke, her voice was small. "Where?"
Margo's pulse quickened. "I'll sen' you the name. Little place with checkered tablecloths and bad wine. Just you and me, sugar. That's all."
Another silence, then the faintest sigh of surrender. "Fine."
Margo grinned into her glass. "Good girl."
She hung up before Sophie could change her mind.
Now Margo sat at a corner table in the dimly lit restaurant, two glasses of club soda on the table, her pulse thrumming with anticipation. The place smelled of garlic and wood smoke, all dark wood and checkered tablecloths — a place nobody from Maple Brook's high society would be caught dead in.
When Sophie walked in, Margo nearly forgot how to breathe. Jeans, a simple blouse, hair pulled back, barely any makeup but still luminous. She scanned the room nervously, shoulders tight, until her eyes landed on Margo.
For a moment she didn't move. Then, with a visible swallow, she crossed the floor and slid into the seat opposite her.
Margo smiled slowly, pouring the soda into her glass. "Told ya I'd get you alone eventually."
Sophie shot her a look, half exasperation, half something softer. "You're reckless, you know that?"
Margo leaned forward, her gaze fixed on her. "Only when it comes to you."
The waiter arrived, and Margo ordered without asking. Sophie didn't argue, just curled her hands around the cold glass, sipping quietly, the fizz popping against her lips.
When they were alone again, Margo set her glass down with purpose. "I asked you here for a reason."
Sophie's eyes flicked up warily. "Yeah. I kinda figured. What is it?"
"Before I tell you, I need to ask you something first. And I need the truth."
Sophie stiffened, but after a long pause, gave a small nod. "Okay."
Margo's voice softened, though her chest burned with fury. "How long has Graham been hurting you?"
Sophie flinched, her lips parting. "Margo—"
"Sophie."
A beat of silence. Then: "It started shortly after that night."
Margo closed her eyes briefly. All this time. If only she'd pressed harder, if only she'd forced Sophie to trust her sooner. But there was no use in blaming herself. There was only Graham.
Their food arrived. Salads and fries. The waiter lingered for a moment, then left.
Margo picked up again, her voice low. "Why?"
Sophie looked away, lashes shielding the pain. For a long moment, she said nothing. Just when Margo thought she'd lost her, Sophie whispered, barely audible, "There were... a couple of things." She swallowed. "You. A lot of the time. The drinking, too. But mostly—"
Her hand made a vague, helpless gesture.
"Mostly me," Margo finished for her, the guilt pressing heavy against her ribs. "I'm sorry."
Sophie's eyes snapped back to hers, fierce despite the shimmer of tears. "Not your fault. You didn't do anything."
"Does he know about us? About... you and me?"
Sophie nodded.
Margo reached across the table, slow enough to give her the chance to pull away, and covered Sophie's hand with her own. Their hands fit like they always had, like no time had passed.
"Can I ask you something now?" Sophie said softly.
"Go ahead."
"At the farmer's market, I didn't hear everything that Jed said, but you know—" She bit her lip. "The way he spoke to you... does he do that often?"
Margo was caught off guard — not by the question, but by the way Sophie, bruised and hurting, still found the space to care about her. The tenderness of it nearly undid her.
"Sometimes. When he's stressed about the campaign." Which was almost always, though she didn't add that part out loud.
Sophie's brows knit. "Why do you let him? You didn't before."
Margo's mouth twisted. "At first it was easier. To just let it happen. I didn't want him to kick me out again — I thought if I stayed, I coul' protect you better. But then it kept goin'. And now... it's like he likes it."
"I'm sorry," Sophie whispered, squeezing her hand. "You shouldn't have done that for me."
"Oh, Sophie." Margo's throat tightened. She leaned closer, her voice a vow. "I woul' do so much more for you."
Sophie's eyes widened, lips parting, but before she could respond, Margo pressed on.
"In fact," she said, her tone cool, deliberate, "this is where I tell you my plan. But you have to stay with me, sugar. Don't interrupt, just let me finish. Promise?"
Sophie gave the smallest nod.
Margo smiled, sharp and certain.
"Okay. This is how we're goin' to kill our husbands."