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“Everything okay?”
“Yes, I was just upstairs changing clothes. How did the meeting go?” she asks, deflecting attention away from herself.
“A home run. They’re definitely bringing us on board.”
“That’s great, congratulations.... Oh, Justine called a little while ago, trying to reach you. I take it you didn’t invite her along.”
“No, she seemed so unfocused last time that I thought it would be better without her.”
“Any idea what’s going on with her?”
“Not yet.... Oh, one other piece of good news. Since we got the deal done today, they canceled the follow-up meeting that had been planned for tomorrow afternoon. I have a breakfast meeting with another other potential client, but I can fly home right afterward.”
“Great, but, um, I won’t be here till later, probably around nine or ten. I’m going to be visiting Bekah in the city.”
“Bekah? I haven’t heard her name in a while. You’re going in just to see her and the baby?”
“Well, not exactly. Peter Dunne asked me to come in for a catchup, so that’s the main reason for my trip.”
“A catchup? Has there been a new development?”
She’s already decided not to tell him about Webster’s visit until he returns. It was about the Miami dinner, after all, and if she brings that up to Tom, she’ll have a hard time camouflaging the distress related to him in her voice.
“He thinks it would be good to do a face-to-face and review where we stand.”
She’s aware there’s a slight shakiness to her voice.
“Is everything all right, Em?”
“Yes, fine.”
“You sure? If there are kidnappers in the room with you, say something like, uh, ‘How about salmon for Wednesday night?’ and I’ll call 911.”
Emma chuckles in spite of herself. This isTomafter all. The man who can make her laugh no matter what. She hates engaging in this awful charade, but what choice does she have? Until she has more information, she has to proceed as if everything is normal.
“I’m a little tired, that’s all. I might even crash early.”
“Well, sleep tight, sweetheart. And have a nice visit with Bekah and Hadley.”
“Will do.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Setting the phone down, her attention is drawn to the sudden rustle of tree leaves outside the kitchen window, and moments later, drops of rain start to spatter on the flagstone patio out back. Usually, she finds the sound of rain relaxing, but tonight the fast tattoo of the drops echoes her jittery nerves. She decides to retreat to the cocoon of the bedroom.
After doing a sweep through the house, making sure windows and doors are locked, Emma leaves a couple of lamps burning, sets the alarm, and wearily mounts the stairs. Her attempt to read in bed proves futile, so she turns on the TV, but all the shows she comes across—thrillers, true crime documentaries, dystopian dramas—seem guaranteed to agitate her even more. Sleep seems to be the best option.
Knowing it won’t come easily, Emma fishes through themedicine cabinet for the Ativan prescribed for her after Derrick’s murder, by a doctor, who, like everyone else, mistook her anxiety for grief. The three remaining pills have expired, but she pops one anyway, praying it’s still potent enough to work.
From experience she knows she has to give it twenty to thirty minutes to take effect, so after crawling into bed, she lies on her back, waiting for the pill to make her eyelids heavy and dissolve her muddled thoughts. Finally, she drifts off.
A noise wakes her, though, and as her eyes flutter open, Emma senses she hasn’t been asleep for long. She groans and pushes the pillow away. What she’s hearing, she realizes groggily, is a chirping sound coming from the ground floor.
She struggles to sit up in bed, trying to interpret the noise. Could it be the smoke detector warning that the battery is low? No, not that. With a start she realizes it’s the sound the security system makes when one of the doors is first opened.
There’s someone else in the house.
