Free Final Sentence by Daryl Wood Gerber

a fist into her mouth. Was she only now getting the news about Desiree? No, Chief Pritchett must have contacted her.
    J.P. continued to flap his arms and move his mouth. I wished I could listen in on the conversation. Did J.P. know who killed Desiree? Did he murder her and turn her into a sand sculpture? He reached for Sabrina’s purse.
    Sabrina screamed and wrenched from his grasp.
    People on the sidewalk in front of the store watched in horror.
    J.P. lunged for Sabrina and snatched the tote. He dove his hand inside and pulled out something thin and flimsy. A photograph?
    At the same time, the door to the Winnebago opened and Mackenzie, the masseur, emerged. He didn’t look anything like he had when I had knocked on the door yesterday. Granted, his karate shirt was open and his bronzed chest gleamed, but his face smoldered with anger, not indifference.
    Sabrina slapped J.P. As he reeled backward, she snatched what I assumed was a photograph and stomped away. Her shoulders heaved. Was she crying?
    Mackenzie and J.P. exchanged hard glances before J.P. stomped off in the opposite direction.
    Desperate to know what the drama was about, I told Aunt Vera I would be right back and hurried after J.P.
    Halfway down the block, he barged inside Latte Luck Café. I forged in after him.
    • • •
    THE CAFÉ WAS an easygoing place with simple wooden tables and chairs and a few brown leather booths. Sepia pictures of what Crystal Cove looked like in the early twenties hung on the walls. The sweet aromas flooding the restaurant would make even the most devout sugar-hater dive into a sweet. I eyeballed the glass case filled with homemade goodies, and my stomach grumbled. When was the last time I had eaten? My version of Bobby Flay’s guacamole the night before? I had skipped breakfast. The trail mix my aunt gave me sat unopened in the pocket of my shorts. I ordered a glass of milk and a chocolate scone drizzled with orange icing, and I headed to J.P.
    Families with beach gear crowded the booths. J.P. sat at a table by himself, his bare arms and face gleaming with perspiration.
    “Join you?” I said.
    He took a long swig from a bottle of water. “It’s cool.”
    I took that as a yes and settled into the chair opposite him. The noise in the café was much more subdued than at The Cookbook Nook. Only the folks behind the counter spoke above a whisper. I sipped my milk. “I’m sorry about Desiree.”
    J.P. gawked at me, his eyes red-rimmed and moist. Had he come to a popular place to flaunt how distraught he was? I scolded myself for being a cynic. Premature death of a spouse will change a person.
    “You look upset,” I said, stating the obvious.
    “Oh, man, I adored her. She’s dead. I’ll”—he pushed the bottle of water to the center of the table—“never see her again.” His response, even the pause, sounded rehearsed. Had he been an actor before becoming a director? A number of our commercial directors at Taylor & Squibb had acted. The director on the Daily Dose of D campaign confided that learning the craft gave him an edge up when dealing with actors’ quixotic natures.
    “I saw you outside my store,” I said. “You manhandled Sabrina.”
    “No way.”
    “You wrestled her purse from her. You snatched something from it.”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    Okay, that response established that he was a liar. At least I knew the kind of person with whom I was dealing.
    We sat in silence for a moment, J.P. sucking down water, me sipping milk and nibbling on my scrumptious scone, until he slammed the empty bottle of water on the table.
    I snapped to attention.
    “You were always jealous of her,” he said.
    “What? No.”
    “Sure you were. She told me. You said she was the pretty one, and you were the stable one. The guys always liked her best.”
    “Stop it. You’re twisting things. Yes, I was jealous of her, but not in a bad way. I wanted to emulate her.” People in the café were staring. “I loved Desiree. She was a