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4
Then
THE TRIP TO THE MORGUE WAS AS TERRIBLE AS EMMA HADimagined, but at the same time surreal. Not wanting to drive, she’d taken an Uber and found herself trembling as she entered the stark, white brick building on First Avenue and Twenty-Sixth Street. Perhaps from watching endless reruns ofLaw and Orderand other crime shows, she’d imagined standing in the morgue while a weary-looking, middle-aged pathologist folded back a blue cloth to reveal Derrick’s corpse, only inches away from her face. Instead, when she arrived, she was led to what Detective Lennox called thefamilyroom, a space as bland and lifeless as a dentist’s reception area, lined with a gray sofa and chairs framed in cheap, blond wood. Unlike with a waiting room, though, Emma and the detective were the only people in it.
There was also a desk with a computer along a far wall, and after a few moments a young woman who said she wasfrom the identification unit arrived and took a seat at it. She tapped a couple of keys and turned the computer screen so that Emma could have a full view.
She’d gasped at the sight: a picture of Derrick’s face, a blue cloth tucked under his chin and a slight pinch between his closed eyes, as if he was only sleeping and having an irritating dream. Bile rose in her throat, and she pressed a hand tightly to her mouth.
“Yes, that’s him,” she said, her words nearly strangled. She’d sensed Lennox on alert in the seat next to her, watching her but trying not to be obvious.
“We’re going to find who did this,” he told her a few minutes later, when he’d walked her out of the building and onto the street.
Emma shivered in the cold. “Thank you.”
“I know how hard this must be, but it would be beneficial for the investigation if we could spend more time with you, ask you more about Derrick.”
“Now?”
“If you’re able.”
“I’m sorry, but it will have to be tomorrow. I didn’t sleep at all after you left and I can barely stand up.”
“All right, let’s speak later today and confirm a time to meet.”
Back home, Emma nearly threw herself into the shower, her second of the day. Though she’d never stepped into the actual morgue, she swore she could smell the stench of formaldehyde on her skin as she scrubbed away at it.
So far, she’d only spoken to one person she knew about Derrick’s death, her brother, Griffin, who promised to snag a flight from the UK that day. He also said he’d keep trying her parents, whose phones had been going straight to voice mail. She’d seen an incoming call from Derrick’s brother, Kyle, a few hours earlier, but she hadn’t picked up, instead sending a text saying she would talk to him as soon as she could.
After stepping out of the shower and toweling off, Emma forced herself to consume a piece of toast, eating it listlessly as snow began to fall outside her window. Then she found herself wandering the house, a mug of tea in hand, covering the same ground again and again. As she passed through the rooms, they now felt only vaguely familiar to her, as if she’d dropped by to house-sit for friends and would never be able to find where they kept things like light bulbs or salad tongs.
She hadn’t liked the idea of fleeing Manhattan for New Jersey, but Derrick had grown up in the suburbs and saw himself in this kind of environment. They’d narrowed their search to Madison because it was both charming and also had a direct train line to Penn Station, which was near enough to his office in the Twenties. Emma talked herself into the change, willing to try something new. But she’d liked it even less once they were settled in.
They’d pooled their savings for a down payment on a nice house—a three-bedroom with four well-proportioned rooms downstairs—and thanks to Derrick’s generous salary, they qualified for a mortgage to cover the rest. What made things a little better for her: there was a small apartmentabove the garage that she’d begun using immediately as office space.
As she drifted through the rooms, she let her gaze roam. Derrick had insisted that they hire a decorator, and every piece of furniture they ended up with seemed to have flared, doweled legs. She often wondered if visitors found the effect as cold as she did. The two things she really cared about were the stunning pieces of modern art Derrick had inherited—the Rothko and Frankenthaler—and she took a minute to study each of them right now. He could have sold them for a fortune, but he liked the status they conferred on him, and besides, he knew he’d have plenty of money from the trust he’d be entitled to when he turned forty.
Finally, Emma stopped. She was in the family room, which was really an extension of the kitchen, standing in front of the built-in bookcase. Interspersed with the books were several small objects, including a wooden box they’d bought on their honeymoon in Thailand and a photograph from those two weeks, the two of them standing in front of a red-and-gold temple with a spire that gleamed in the sun.
That had been their second day there. Later, over dinner, she’d made a comment that, for some reason, had annoyed Derrick to death, and he hadn’t spoken to her for the next three days, despite her apologies, despite how much she’d implored him not to let their trip be spoiled.
Emma forced her gaze away from the bookcase. It hurt to even look at that photo. But then almost every spot in the house was a reminder of moments she longed to forget.
I’m going to sell this place as soon as possible, she told herself.From what she knew of the market, the timing wasn’t great, but she didn’t care about taking a loss, she just wanted to be out of here, back in the city and far away from this house.
Of course, that was the least of her problems at the moment. Within the next twenty-four hours, she needed to plan a funeral, assembling Derrick’s friends and relatives, and, she’d have to show up there, presenting herself to everyone her husband knew as the grieving widow.
And it would all be a lie.
