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“Um, here and there,” Emma says, not eager to share anything more yet. “But tell me aboutyou, Addison. You mentioned you’re divorced. Are you seeing anyone these days?”
“Just a boy toy now and then when I’m in the mood.” She chuckles and takes a sip of wine. “I’m forty-four, he’s thirty-three, and though he can be fun, there are times when he works my last nerve.”
“Ahh, a millennial. I bet he’s always staring at his smartphone.”
“Yes,constantly. Texting, checking Instagram, whatever. I tried telling him one day that Wi-Fi signals lower sperm count, but he seemed unfazed. I don’t take it personally, though.”
“Ha! That’s the right attitude. It’s totally generational.”
Addison nodded. “You must be a millennial, too, but you certainly don’t seem obsessed with social media. I noticed your Instagram feed has some work-related posts, but never anything personal.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m an odd duck that way,” Emma says.
Or, unlike so many of her contemporaries, she doesn’t want the world keeping tabs on her personal life.
“Well, it might be for the best,” Addison says, letting her eyes wander the property. “If youdidpost all this, people might be insanely jealous and start to hate you.”
The doorbell rings suddenly, the tinny ding-dong carrying all the way from the front of the house.
“Hmm,” Emma says, surprised. “Excuse me for a sec, will you?”
Addison nods. “Of course.”
It’s probably FedEx, Emma thinks as she strides through the house, but she still feels a pinch of concern. In their neighborhood, the houses are fairly far apart and set back from the road, and it can feel deserted at this time of day.
As soon as she’s in the front hall, she gazes through the peephole in the door. The caller is a woman, probably in her late forties, Black, with hair cropped very close to her head and wearing a maroon-colored suit jacket. The look on her face triggers a swell of unease in Emma, almost like a muscle memory. She’s seen that type of sober, unsmiling look before—on the faces of law enforcement.
“Yes?” she asks after opening the door a crack with the chain on.
“Emma Hawke?”
“Who is it, please?”
“I’m Detective Lisa Webster from the New York City police.”
Emma’s breath catches, and she watches motionless as Webster slips a photo ID from her purse, flips it open, and raises it to eye level. “Could you tell me what this is about?”
“May I come in?”
No, you can’t, Emma thinks, but says, “Um, all right.”
She unhooks the chain and eases open the door, allowing Webster to step into the front hall. The detective is a couple of inches taller than she is, about five foot eight or nine, slimbut muscular beneath the jacket. Somewhere behind her, Emma detects footsteps, probably Addison checking to be sure things are okay, but she doesn’t look back.
“What can I do for you?” she says, trying her best to keep her voice even.
“Do you have some time to talk right now, Ms. Hawke?” Webster asks. “I’m here about your husband’s murder.”
