Who would strangle her?
“Kyle Jlovesbeing sanctimonious,” I say. “And next week, he’ll get to lecture us about discipline and keeping the promises we make to ourselves. Think of it as a gift to him.”
Nora looks down at the leggings in her hands, considering my case. “He does love lectures.”
I nod solemnly. “Honestly, denying him this moment of self-righteousness would be selfish on our part.”
Nora sighs, finally getting to her feet. “Fine. But if he makes us do extra burpees next time, I’m blaming you.”
“Good luck to him.” I stand. “I’ll be too busy pretending to faint.”
“I’ll go change,” Nora says. “Two minutes.”
As she heads to her bedroom, I wander back toward her living room, brushing my hand across her white sectional. Everything in Nora’s new house is white. The couch, the drapes, the ceramic chandelier. Like she’s trying to bleach out the grief.
Maybe one day she’ll be ready to add the color back in.
A pile of postcards from Mia is stacking up on the counter—Istanbul, Paris, Kyoto. Will’s first wife, Constance, thought itbest to escape the confines of Winter Park for the summer, taking Will’s daughter, Mia, on a monthslong excursion to anywhere but here. They’ll be back in time for school to start, and in the meantime, Mia sends messages from all corners of the world.
I look past the postcards to my purse. Inside, there’s a plastic sandwich bag that holds Beau’s bloodied pocket square. I’ve taken to carrying it everywhere. It feels safer to have it close, even if I don’t know what “safe” means anymore.
I pull out my phone to search for the news article Nora mentioned, and I quickly find the headline:Park Avenue Death Ruled a Homicide. The words hook into me.
Someone strangled Gemma. California is trying to reach me.
It feels connected, and something like a current is surging beneath my feet, like the past is coming to suck me back in. To finish the job it started years ago.
I catch a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.
“Fuck!” I jump, putting a hand to my chest.
Nora rounds the corner, dressed and ready. “What’s wrong?”
“You can’t sneak up on people like that!”
“Okay, testy.” She rolls her eyes. “Let’s go get you a drink.”
Nora’s quiet on the short drive over, and when I turn on to Park Avenue, the air in the car thins.
I know from news reports that behind Marcus’s restaurant—inthe narrow alley reserved for food delivery and staff parking—Gemma was found on the cracked pavement.
Razor’s edge.
The storefronts of Park Ave are all charm, though. Even the Lemon & Fig dining room is bright and ordinary when we walk in. Like this whole place refuses to accept someone was murdered just a few yards away only days ago. Marcus clocks us the second we walk into the club dining room. He’s cleaning glasses at the bar with a distant look in his eyes. The TV behind him is tuned to a golf tournament, and from across the room, the way the TV backlights him makes the grief in his face more pronounced. He’s got his work smile on, but it’s tenuous.
He meets us at the bar with two flutes of champagne before we can ask.
“Hey, Marcus,” I say. “You doing okay?”
He nods, but something about it feels false. “The vibes of this place are eerie. Everyone’s pretending like nothing happened, but I had to clean up a bunch of police tape to open the restaurant yesterday.”
Nora shivers.
“Gemma liked Lemon & Fig,” I offer, but it feels so futile. “She always said you were one of the best chefs she’s ever worked with.”
Sadness tightens his eyes. “I’ll go grab you guys some menus,” he says softly, rapping a hand on the bar.
He doesn’t need to bother. Nora and I could recite the menu with our eyes closed, but I get the impression he needs a minute. Maybe a minute to himself or a minute away from the shaken look on Nora’s face.
