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Emma lets the comment hang and tastes the corn muffin, even though she’s not hungry. “Delicious,” she says, her mouth half full.
“So glad you like them. I might not be much of a cook, but I’m an excellent shopper.” Addison tosses her hair back, takes a sip from her coffee, and sets down the mug down with a clunk, then leans back and levels her gaze at Emma with a smile. “I’m really glad we were able to reschedule again so quickly. I just have to say how much I admire you, Emma.”
“Thank you for that. The feeling is totally mutual. I guess we’ve both worked hard and have good careers to show for it.”
“True, but what I mean is how well you’ve handled whatyou’ve been through. That kind of trauma would level someone else.”
God, Emma thinks,will she please let go of this?
She shakes her head. “Thank you, but there’s really nothing to admire. People go through all sorts of awful things,” she says, still unsure how to disengage. There are only so many muffins she can stuff in her mouth as a diversion.
“But losing a loved one to murder has got to be brutal.”
“Well, it all depends on your circumstances at the time. What’s going on in your life. In my case...” She hesitates, not certain where the hell she’s headed with this, and when she glances up again, she sees that Addison’s eyes have widened.
“Wait,” Addison says, even more animated, “are you trying to tell me that the loss wasn’t really all that hard for you?”
Emma jerks in her seat, taken aback. “Oh my god, no—um, that wasn’t my point,” she says, practically sputtering. “It wasveryhard. What I meant about these things being different for different people is that the way you cope depends a lot on the support system you have. I was very lucky in that department. I mean, my friends and family rallied around.”
She tells herself to shut up and move on, that someone could have explained quantum physics in less time.
Addison straightens her back and clasps a French manicured hand to her chest. “Emma, I’m terribly sorry. That was stupid of me—to put words in your mouth. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, waving her hand for emphasis. But inside, she’s horrified. Regardless of what Addisonis admitting to, the woman has somehow managed to suss out the truth and wrench it out into the open.
And it’s the last thing Emma needs bouncing around the universe right now, not with the case reopening.
“No, it’s completely my fault,” Addison says. “I have this terrible habit of filling in the blanks when other people are talking, trying to show I’m really listening.”
“Really, it’s not a problem,” Emma says, stealing a look at her watch. “But, um, you know what? You’ve made me see I reallyamstill reeling from Friday. I should probably head home.” She rises from the couch and picks up her purse from the floor, even though she’s been there less than twenty minutes.
Now Addison is the one who seems flustered, scrunching her mouth in embarrassment. A few awkward moments ensue as her host attempts to apologize again, and Emma forces a smile, saying she’ll call to reschedule.
After hurrying to her car, Emma flings herself into the front seat and then sits there catching her breath. She wonders if she made things worse by taking off, but at the same time she couldn’t have stayed. Addison seemed unable to leave the subject alone. Maybe she’s a gossip, Emma thinks, or one of those women who likes hoarding sad or salacious details about others, guaranteeing themselves a sense of smug satisfaction over not fucking up their own lives as badly.
Could I be partly to blame?Emma asks herself. Maybe she’s more transparent than she realizes, letting her true feelings about Derrick leak into the air like a toxic gas, noticeable to someone with a nose for that sort of thing. If that’s true, Webster might have picked up on those feelings, too.
What she needs, Emma decides, is a little time in nature to clear her head. She’ll take a walk by the water, one of the things she loves to do most in Westport. After driving the short distance to Compo Beach, she exchanges her flats for a pair of sandals she stores in the trunk and joins the dozen or so people walking along the shoreline, some with their dogs. Though it’s overcast today, the sun has begun to seep through the clouds in places, making the sky look like a piece of parchment paper lit from behind.
As Emma walks the beach, seagulls mew and swoop above her. There’s a faint fishy smell to the air that she doesn’t mind. This is the Long Island Sound, not the ocean, so the waves tend to be on the small side, and she lets the water fizz over her sandals a little.
I should never have bolted, Emma decides. Yes, Addison’s probing had been distressing, but it would have been far better to change the subject firmly and hang for a while longer. Her hasty departure might have only confirmed to Addison that she has something to hide.
Get a grip, she tells herself. She’s going to make matters worse if she allows any uncomfortable conversations to throw her into a tailspin.
Emma’s phone rings just as she’s turned around to head back to the car. She digs it from the back pocket of her jeans, expecting Tom will be on the other end, calling to let her know his ETA, but to her surprise the screen says Jessica Hawke—her mother’s name.
“Hi, Mom, is everything okay?” Emma says in lieu ofhello. Because of their busy work schedules and the five-hour time difference, they usually plan their calls in advance, and there’s rarely a random one.
“Yes, fine, Em, and sorry to phone out of the blue like this.”
“Well, it’s a lovely surprise. I hope the weather is as mild in London today as it is in Connecticut.”
“I’m actually in DC at the moment—on a consulting job.”
“DC?” Emma says, feeling a twinge of something that she can’t identify. “As in Washington?”
“Yes, I had an emergency weekend meeting with a client who’s based here.”
