Isabel was meeting her friends at a fondue restaurant called the Matterhorn Swiss. She hated fondue. Thought the whole premise of it was ridiculous. Who actually ate like that in real life anyway? What family had time to spend five hours at the dinner table, cooking their food one tiny bite at a time? None she knew of.
Just thinking about it made her want to rip someone’s head off. She was tired and it had been a rotten day. Maybe she should reconsider. Turn around and go home. But before she had time to contemplate the thought any further, she arrived at the restaurant.
She handed over her keys to the valet attendant and went inside. Her friends sat in a corner booth. She apologized for being late, and Sam poured her a glass of champagne. Samantha, Andie, and Katrina were her three best friends. They’d met in college, at the University of California, Berkeley. Sam was Michael’s sister. Isabel’s sister-in-law.
Isabel accepted the glass of champagne, clinked glasses with her friends, and guzzled down the sparkling wine. When she finished, she set the glass on the table and grinned at the three stunned faces that stared back at her.
“Rough day?” Sam asked.
“Yep.” She slid her glass to the center of the table. “Refill, please.”
Sam poured her another glass and pushed it toward her.
“How’s that brother of mine doing?” Sam asked.
“Taking a lot of cold showers these days,” Isabel said. “He hasn’t been getting much lately.”
All the girls laughed, especially Sam. “What? Mr. Romance himself? Really?”
“Yeah, Mr. Romance has turned into Mr. No Romance Required,” Isabel said.
The girls erupted in laughter.
“Oh yeah, and he’s fucking someone named Deby. Asked me for a divorce today, too.”
The table fell silent. Her friends’ expressions had changed from gleeful to forlorn.
Shit. She shouldn’t have come.
Sam pushed the bottle of champagne closer to her friend. “I’m sorry, Is. Do you want me to kick the crap out of him?”
The rest of the evening was subdued and Isabel left feeling worse than when she’d arrived, not sure how that was even possible. She only saw her friends a couple times a year, and it should’ve been a celebration of their friendship. Instead, the evening had become a pity party, and she was the guest of honor.
She looked at her watch just as the valet arrived with her Prius. It was 10:07 p.m. She climbed in and turned right onto Van Ness Avenue, heading toward the onramp to the 101 South. As she drove southbound toward home, she thought about what would happen when she got there. Whether she and Michael would get into it again, or whether he would already be asleep. Preferably on the couch. Or maybe he would be at Deby’s.
As she passed the Whipple Avenue onramp, she didn’t see the white Chevy Astro van careen out of control.
Until it was too late.
The van shot into her lane, pushing her into the next lane over. A semi-truck in the next lane struck her with such force that it flipped the Prius end over end, until it came to rest on the shoulder of the freeway.
Isabel Stevens died instantly.