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Kyle crosses his arms over his chest, and a citrusy cologne wafts off his body, too intense to be pleasant. “Hmmm,” he says, and he lets the response hang there for a few ominous beats. “I don’t think she was being a hundred percent straight with you.”
Emma’s heart skitters a little. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah. As we were talking, she kind of let slip that she was working from a recent tip.”
This time her heart lurches, as if it’s been rammed from behind. Where could a tip have come from? And why hadn’t Webster disclosed it toher?
“Interesting. I mean, after all these months.” She’s trying to keep her tone casual, but she can hear the hint of alarm in her voice. “What do you think it could be?”
Kyle shrugs, but his eyes are leveled at hers. “No clue. She clammed up after that.”
Emma wonders if he knows more than he’s letting on, but she’d be a fool to reveal how desperate she is to hear. She shrugs, too. “Well, at least they seem invested.”
“I just wish I’d had more to tell her. I passed along what I’d told the cops two years ago—that Derrick seemed edgy to me when we talked that Friday morning, like something was bugging him. But it wasn’t somethingyounoticed, right?”
Emma shakes her head. “Derrick seemed fine then, though we only had a quick coffee. The conference didn’t start until noon that day, but he wanted to be on-site early.”
“Well, let’s hope this tip pays off and they nail someone this time.” Kyle locks eyes with her again and grabs his chin between his thumb and forefinger, stroking it a few times. “Are you still in touch with that lawyer friend you used? What was his name—Peter Dunne?”
“He wasn’t actually a friend, so there wouldn’t be any reason for me to stay in touch with him.” She’s hardly going to confess to Kyle that she’s been practically stalking Dunne since the detective left.
“Huh. Since this is heating up again, it might be good to circle back to him.”
It feels like he’s toying with her now,implyingsomething. She can’t take another minute of it.
“I’m afraid I really have to get moving, Kyle. Thanks for stopping by, and please give my best to Jackie.”
“And you give my best to Tom, okay?”
She practically herds him from the room and out onto the stoop. “Will do. Bye” is all she says as she shoves the door closed after him.
Turning the lock, she exhales loudly. And then, behind her, she hears the faint, receding sound of footsteps. She spins around, but there’s no one there. Surely it’s not Tom, because he would have announced his presence.
Cautiously, Emma moves down the hall, past the stairs and the dining room, but the house appears empty. She also checks the screened room that opens onto the patio and finds no one there, either. Is she so on edge that her imagination is playing tricks on her?
Finally, she makes her way into the kitchen and jerks back in surprise when she finds Brittany standing by the island and holding a plum from the bowl on top of it. She looks as though she’s been in the room for a while, but Emma realizes it must have been her footsteps in the hall, which means Brittany probably overheard at least part of the conversation with Kyle. Though she’s never spoken to Brittany about the murder, she’s aware that Tom has shared the broad strokes of the story with her, and Emma assumes the girl has done a Google search, reading through the three days’ worth of news coverage. What she doesn’t want is Brittany knowing anything beyond that and certainly not that the police have dropped by the house.
“Oh, hi,” Brittany says in what Emma is sure must be feigned surprise.
“When did you get back?” she asks, a little more sharply than she intends.
“Around one. I ended up coming home earlier than planned, and I’ve been upstairs in my room.”
So she must have been here when Emma and Tom returned from the bike ride but never made her presence known.
“My former brother-in-law stopped by a minute ago,” Emma says. “If I’d known you were here, I would have introduced you.”
“I heard a car leave, but I came down the back stairs, so I didn’t see who was here.”
Brittany’s expression gives nothing away, but Emma’s almost sure she’s lying.
“No worries. How was the evening with your friend?” Emma asks, strolling toward the island and sliding onto one of the bar chairs. Brittany’s wearing a vintagey short-sleeved white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, and though not the sameperiod as her 1920s bob, they somehow work together, giving her a kind of old-fashioned but cool aspiring career-girl look.
“Good. She made a big chef’s salad for us.”
“She lives right in town?”
“Uh-huh. Her parents got her an apartment here.”
