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“So I’ll be searching for what exactly?” Tom asks, looking less than thrilled.
“Mainly you want to refamiliarize yourself with the time period. But you’ll also want to note anything that the police might stupidly misinterpret, so that you and your lawyer are prepared.”
Now his expression darkens. “You mean like a restaurant receipt indicating I was in SoHo that night in March,” he says grimly.
Emma can’t stop herself from wincing. “We know there’s nothing like that, Tom. But if Webster asks you where you were on a given day and you’ve already refreshed your memory, you’re less likely to give her an answer that you might have to correct later on. Like I said, Dunne had me do the same thing back then.”
He withdraws his hand from hers and, with elbows on the table, brings a fist to his mouth. Emma can see he’s struggling with the request, but she can’t read what aspect of it is bothering him the most. Is it all the work involved or the fact that the cops might view him as a suspect—or both?
“Okay, I guess I can handle that,” he says finally.
“But unfortunately there’s still a bit more for you to do.” She explains that when Webster finally speaks to him, as Dunne has predicted is in the cards, he needs to slip in the detail about the two of them being at the same Miami event, which will be better than having the police stumble upon the information themselves.
“Tom, I’m so sorry about this,” Emma adds at the end. Her stomach is knotted by now, and she feels that the pall she’s cast over the table must be visible to other diners. “This is not only a huge pain for you, but I know how crazy things are for you right now.”
He lowers his hands and to her surprise, he suddenly smiles, one of his irresistible life-couldn’t-be-better-could-it? Tom Halliday smiles.
“Don’t worry about it, Em,” he says. “Yeah, it’s a pain, but we’ve got nothing to hide, and who knows, maybe when I go through my records, I’ll finally find contact info for that fantastic massage therapist I went to once.”
Checking his watch, Tom says he has time for a quick coffee if she’s game and she tells him absolutely, eager to have the dinner end on a better note. He’s no sooner ordered when Emma sees Taylor Hunt entering the restaurant and making a beeline for their table.
“Everything okay?” Tom asks as soon as she reaches them. She’s still in office attire—navy pants, a crisp white cotton shirt, and a designer scarf knotted around her neck.
“I’m sure it is, but Dan’s eager to talk to you and couldn’t reach you on your cell. I told him that since I had to go by the restaurant on my way home, I’d stop in and let you know.”
“Um, okay, let me call and see if he needs me to leave immediately.”
Tom rises and steps away from the table, fishing his phone from his pocket as he goes.
Taylor’s gaze trails him for a couple of seconds and then finds its way back to Emma. “So sorry to disturb your dinner.”
“No problem—and we’re almost done anyway.”
“By the way, did you ever clear up the confusion about that dinner that you and I were talking about?”
Emma groans inwardly, alarmed and frustrated. What if Webster talks to people at Halliday and learns about Miami before Tom can tell her?
“I did, thanks. And you were right, Tom was there, but we never met. Sadly, he had to leave before it was my turn to speak.”
Taylor wrinkles her nose, looking perplexed. “Oh... really? Well, that’s a shame, but I know he loves to hear you give speeches. He says you’re brilliant in front of a crowd.”
Emma’s quarterly talks at Halliday don’t exactly qualify as speeches, and she would hardly tag them as brilliant, but she lets it go, and looks away, scanning the restaurant. Tom’s outside, just beyond the door and still on the phone, his expression pensive.
Taylor seems to take the hint. “Sorry again about interrupting. Can you tell Tom I’ll see him tomorrow?”
“Will do. Have a nice night.”
When Tom returns, he explains that Taylor misinterpreted Dan’s comment. The CFO isn’t quite ready for him, so there’s no reason to skip coffee. She and Tom squeeze in a few more minutes together, as Emma does her best to stay upbeat. As soon as they finish their drinks, she urges him to leave, saying she’ll pay the bill and see him later. He kisses her goodbye and hurries off.
Though Tom’s composure quelled some of her unease, Emma feels agitated again by the time she gets into her car. It doesn’t help that when she arrives home, eager to collapse in the den in front of anything with subtitles that will keep her mind occupied, she finds Brittany in there, stretched out on the sofa in sweats and watching one of theReal Housewivesshows.
“I’ll tell you how I’m doing,” one of the women on-screen sneers at the other. “Not well, bitch.”
“Hi, how was your evening?” Emma asks.
Brittany takes a second to shift her attention away from the screen, as if she can’t bear to miss a second of the riveting repartee.
“Oh, hi,” she says at last. “I didn’t hear you guys come in.”
