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“You alright, Emberly?” Gil asks.
I raise my head. “Still grossed out.”
“Who was that old bastard, and why did you push him into the casket?”
“My ex’s father,” I mutter. “He’s a former detective. He wouldn’t let go of my arm, so I shoved him.”
The two men erupt into snickers, presumably at the same subject they found so funny: how I wrecked the funeral of a cop. As they fade, Gil turns around, his features grave. “What was he saying?”
“Just the usual bullshit about me being an ungrateful bitch.” I shake my head, trying to forget that entire incident. “Then some tirade about money.”
Gil stares at me for several heartbeats too long, making me squirm in my seat.
“He was just a crazy drunk,” Gil says with a nod. “You got that?”
My eyes narrow at his inflection. Why is he trying to convince me of what I already know? More importantly, what does he want me to forget?
“Right,” I say, my mind running through Mr. Callahan’s rant.
What the hell did he ramble about? A bunch of made-up nonsense, conflating me with his ex-wife. I can’t even focus properly because my blood sugar is six feet in the grave and all I can see is the face of Jim’s broken corpse. But Mr. Callahan also spewed a lot of bullshit that needs sifting.
I dressed like a whore.
I’m an ungrateful whore.
I left his precious son for a richer man?
No, that’s his ex-wife. I squeeze my eyes shut, dig my fingers into my scalp, and force myself to remember.
Mr. Callahan said I was rich. That I walked out on Jim the moment I came into money.
That can’t be right.
The car pulls off the highway and heads up the slope that winds around Alderney Hill. I press on the button to lower the window and let in the fresh scent of juniper.
Filling my lungs with cool air helps to clear my head.
Mr. Callahan mentioned an inheritance. And a law firm, but which one? I try to remember what else the old man spewed, but my mind dredges up the image of Jim’s face breaking against the marble altar in an explosion of cosmetic wax, revealing a decomposed corpse.
My stomach roils, and I clap a hand over my mouth, trying not to dry heave. I know a lawyer. Sort of. We’ve only spoken twice.
That night I met Mr. Lubelli, his date asked me for a portrait. I don’t remember her name, but she handed me a business card that said she was an attorney. She also tried to speak to me at the auction, but Roman chased her away.
It’s a long shot, but maybe I can give her a call and see if she can reach out to one of her contacts?
FIFTY-EIGHT
EMBERLY
Several minutes later, I return to the mansion, desperate to find that attorney’s business card. I remember slipping it down the bodice of my dress before bullets rang through the ballroom. After that, Jim’s colleague tricked me into leaving the building with him.
There’s no sign of the cards in Roman’s bedroom, so I return to the pool house to see if I left them there. When I don’t find them, I try calling Mr. Lubelli, but my phone doesn’t have any credit.
After wasting precious time working out how to add money to my prepaid SIM card. Once it’s charged, I call the MoCa art gallery. The receptionist takes her time putting me through to Mr. Lubelli, who greets me with his usual warm enthusiasm.
“Emberly, my dear,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’ve created another masterpiece already?”
“Actually…” I clear my throat. “The night we met, the blonde woman you were with asked if I could paint her portrait?—”
