For a second, he hesitates. Like he might turn back. But he doesn’t. And it stings. He calls out, “Let me know when you figure out whether you’re on my side or not.”
I don’t answer. I let him go, standing in the kitchen with the air knocked out of me.
After a brittle moment of silence, I turn and walk in the other direction. Into the office. Into the quiet. Into whatever version of my life this is now.
The house is so silent the click of the door as I close it startles me. Once, silence with Beau had been the safest place I knew. Now it feels like standing at the edge of a chasm, waiting to see if he’ll reach for me or let me fall.
And the fear climbing the back of my neck tells me it doesn’t matter what he’ll do. Because for the first time, I have to consider the possibility that he’s already done something that will destroy us both.
Fuck. I’m not getting my life back until I know what happened to Gemma.
Chapter 14
Seven Days Before the Hurricane
In the morning, Beau and I still aren’t speaking. But the Barnie’s on Park Avenue is alive with morning chatter and the sounds of fresh coffee being prepared. My thoughts are drowned out by the usual low, rumbling hums of coffee grinding and the whine of steam pulsing into steel mugs, frothing milk of every variety.
I didn’t sleep last night. I passed out a few times amidst fitful tossing and turning, but none of it was restful.
The fear won’t let go. Fear of what the investigation might turn up. Fear Beau is keeping another secret from me.
Because if Beau is keeping any other secrets about Gemma, I don’t know how either of us survives this.
Around 2:00a.m., I doomscrolled Gemma’s social media—searching the photos of her life in the years when she and I knew each other in California. I zoomed in on pictures and cross-referenced location tags to try to find some past connection to Beau. In the late hours, the snapshots on her Instagram grid took on a darker hue, a sinister shade I hadn’t seen before. I studied her eyes, watching how her smile shifted from carefree in the early posts to slightly more guarded as the years progressed. I scoured the edges of images for clues she was in trouble. Of course, I stared too long at the picture she posted of herself posing in a window.
“When he catches you in the perfect light.”
By 3:00a.m., I had revisited my memories of all the times Gemma was at my house for résumé prep. I tried to remember if Beau and Gemma were ever alone together. What was their dynamic? Did they fight then? Impossible. Beau would have told me. He tells me everything.
Except for the things he’s keeping to himself. Like whatever he and Gemma talked about the night she died.
His bloody pocket square is back in my purse, crowding my thoughts like some kind of tell-tale heart.
All my late-night scrolling has left me tired and bleary-eyed, so I keep my sunglasses on until the last possible second and make my way to the back of the shop, skirting the windows that overlook the brick-paved courtyard. Only pushing up my glasses when I realize my date is already here.
Big smile, Este. You can’t afford to look like you’re falling apart right now. Even if you are.
At the sight of me, Autumn sends an arm straight into the air, grinning widely and waving. “Morning, sunshine!” she calls.
I try to smile, but everything looks different after Beau’s confession. Every single piece of this fucked-up puzzle. Gemma. Beau. Even me.
She quit Lemon & Fig and never mentioned it. Emptied out her apartment like she was skipping town. Fought with my husband. How well did I really know Gemma?
The chirp of Autumn’s voice feels like the pitch of a rusty hinge—grating my ears—but I keep my smile welded in place. If there were things I didn’t know about Gemma, maybe Autumn can fill in the gaps.
“Morning,” I answer, hoping to match her trill. “Thanks for being available to meet.”
“Oh, a text at four in the morning is going to get a response, Este. Especially from me.”
It’s a strange thing to say. Most people leave their phone notifications off through the night. Not me, of course. And not Autumn either.
I wonder what Autumn knows about the razor’s edge.
She watches me expectantly as I take the bistro chair besideher. There’s a hopeful expression on her face when she says, “I’m so happy you texted. I had such a good time at your dinner party last night. And I was thinking we don’t hang out enough. And never only the two of us.”
I almost feel bad I didn’t come this morning to socialize, but I need Autumn’s help. So I ask her how her week’s been. When her shoulders briefly squeeze upward like she can barely tamp down the enthusiasm, it occurs to me I’ve never asked her a personal question like this before.
“Ohmygod, you’re so sweet to ask! I’m planning abigbat mitzvah for next weekend. And Jenny Rubenstein is one tough customer,” she says. “I’ve been working for weeks on the Make Your Own Mitzvah Mocktail station, but you can’tbelievethe politics of ice sculpting in this town.”
