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5
WHEN TOM CALLS FROM THE AIRPORT AT A QUARTER TOeight, Emma’s in the den, staring at the screen of her Kindle and trying to quell her blistering unease.
She hasn’t been able to get Webster out of her mind—the woman’s self-confident aura, her unsettling pet theory about why Derrick was headed to the parking garage, the way she lingered in her car for a while before taking off. Maybe she was calling her partner to report back.You won’t believe the damn house, Emma imagines her saying.She’s done well for herself. Very,verywell.
It would have helped so much to talk to her brother this evening, but he’s off the grid right now, doing research in Greenland for a book he’s writing on climate change.
“What’s trending, beautiful?” Tom asks after she answers, a catchphrase she’s heard many times from him.
“Me missing you.”
“Good to know. I’m not interrupting your get-together with your new pal, am I?”
“No, Addison and I ended up having to reschedule.” She’ll wait to fill Tom in until he’s home. Emma is still feeling guilty about Addison, whom she called a few minutes after Webster departed but didn’t reach. “How was your meeting?”
“Excellent. I’ll tell you more when I see you, which should be right after nine if the stars align in my favor.”
“Great. Brittany’s spending the night with a new friend, by the way.”
“Yes, she texted me to tell me, hence the spring you hear in my step. I hope she’s not driving you nuts.”
“No, not at all. And besides, it’s only five more weeks and three days.”
Tom chuckles. “I hear you, Em, and I appreciate you being such a good sport.... Should I wolf down the pretzels I grabbed on the plane or is there anything in the fridge?”
“Why don’t I put out a few things and we can eat together?”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t feel you have to wait.”
“No, I’d love to. Though I might be naughty and graze a little beforehand.”
“Well, if you have any naughty instincts, save a few of them for later.”
“Of course. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Though it was comforting to hear Tom’s voice, Emma’s heart is racing again as soon as she hangs up. The second she sets the phone down, it pings with a voice-mail notification from Addison, which must have come in while she was on the other line.
“Emma, I’m so sorry I missed your call and I hope you’re okay,” Addison says in the message. “But somehow I overlooked the warning signs of a migraine, and it’s nearly leveled me now. I’ve taken medication and I’m crawling into bed so I should be fine by morning. I’ll call you then.”
Oof, Emma thinks,maybe today’s visit is what triggered the migraine. The woman was invited to a new friend’s home for wine and cheese and sent packing almost immediately when a homicide detective arrived on the scene. Addison strikes Emma as more than capable of rolling with the punches, but it must have been incredibly awkward for her.
Before getting to work on dinner, Emma heads upstairs to freshen up. As she’s brushing out her hair, she realizes that both temples are throbbing in pain. Unlike Addison, she’s not subject to migraines, but now she has a splitting headache herself.
Tom arrives home about ninety minutes later, as Emma’s putting the finishing touches on their late supper. There’s a total confidence to the sound of his car pulling into the garage—not what you’d call aggressive but at the same time lacking any hesitation.
That’s Tom, of course, Emma thinks. Assured, superbly capable. She suspected that about him from the moment she’d been hired to consult for Halliday Advertising the June after Derrick had died. She’d unloaded the New Jersey house by then—it had happened as quickly as she’d prayed—and had rented a one-bedroom in Manhattan. When Scott Munroe,an account executive at Halliday, had reached out about the gig, he’d told her she could consult remotely, but she sometimes took the train to Westport and worked out of a vacant office at the firm. She found that being on-site not only provided her easy access to the data and material she needed, but also that she loved spending time in such a vibrant space.
Though it would be several weeks before she was introduced to Tom, she’d caught glimpses of the stylishly dressed founder and CEO through the glass-walled meeting rooms. He wasn’t supertall—only five ten, she later learned—but he brimmed with energy, and his personality seemed infectious, clearly dazzling whoever he was talking to at the time.
And she heard buzz about him as well: staffers referencing his comments or ideas, mentioning his rise from junior advertising copywriter at a big Manhattan firm to owner of his own highly respected, award-winning agency. By all accounts, he gave his direct reports plenty of autonomy, but they also seemed to like channeling his wisdom. A phrase she heard on more than one occasion was “WWTD”—short for “What would Tom do?”
It soon became clear that Tom had a reputation not only for having impressive leadership skills but also personal ones: even-keeled and considerate of others. Emma reserved judgment on that front, however. She knew all about men whose initial charm hid an oversize ego, a short temper, or an out-and-out mean streak.
One day in mid-July, Scott mentioned that Tom had been hearing good things about her work and wanted to meet her. Tom’s assistant followed up on email and set up a time, and less than a week later she was seated at the round table in hisoffice. Yes, a round table, because Tom never wanted anyone to have to sit across from him at an imposing desk.
“So,” he’d said, smiling. “I’m finally meeting the Oracle of Delphi.”
