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THE WORDS ARE BARELY OUT OF THE DETECTIVE’S MOUTHwhen Emma hears the sound of glass shattering behind her. She spins around to see Addison at the far end of the hall, her mouth open in shock and splinters of glass scattered on the tile around her feet.
“She doesn’t mean Tom,” Emma calls out, realizing what Addison must be thinking. “He’s in Chicago. This—It’s about the man I was married to before.”
Addison nods slowly, clearly trying to process:former husband dead;murdered;police investigating. “I’m so sorry about the glass,” she says. “I—”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it was a shock.” Emma’s doing her best to sound calm, but her heart’s drumming inside her chest. She glances back at Webster, who’s studying the scene, and then once more at her guest. “But I need to speak to Detective, um, Webster. Can we take a rain check on our visit?”
“Of course, as soon as I clean this up.”
“No, no, please leave it, Addison, seriously,” Emma says. “I’m sorry to ask this, but do you mind seeing yourself out through the back?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call you tomorrow to check in.”
Emma trains all her attention on the detective now, certain she wouldn’t have come calling without a good reason. “I apologize for the chaos. Is there a new development?”
The detective shakes her head. “Not a break in the case, but I do have an update for you.”
An update, Emma thinks.What the hell doesthatmean?
“Why don’t we sit in the den,” she says, gesturing to a doorway at the far end of the living room.
“Wherever’s most comfortable for you,” Webster says. She’s courteous, friendly even. Or at least that’s what she wants Emma to think.
As soon as they step into the cozy room, Emma motions for Webster to have a seat on the butterscotch leather couch, an attractive leftover from the single-guy town house where Tom was living when they met. Emma perches on an armchair across from her.
“First, let me apologize for alarming your friend,” Webster says, crossing one of her long legs over the other. Her face is striking, with strong, well-defined features, including distinctive cheekbones.
Emma shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’m sure she understands now.”
“I hope I didn’t alarm you as well.”
“No, I knew what you meant,” Emma says, which isn’t true. For a split second shedidthink the detective meant Tom, and it felt like a tsunami was crashing over her headand about to suck her into the depths of the sea. But she figured it out quickly.
“As I said, I’m looking into Mr. Rand’s murder and wanted to touch base with you about it.” Her voice is smooth and deep like a late-night radio deejay’s, and Emma warns herself not to be lulled into complacency.
“Thank you. So there’s some kind of news?” she asks as evenly as she can.
“Not about the crime per se. But I wanted to let you know we’re going to be reopening the case. Sometimes we do this because of new evidence—like a DNA match—but at other times, we’re simply taking advantage of a temporary ease in workload to reexamine an investigation that hit a wall along the way. This is one of those times.”
“So is it almost like you’re starting from scratch?” Emma asks, then immediately regrets it. If there’s one thing she learned from Peter Dunne, the lawyer she hired after Derrick’s murder, it’s that when you talk to the police, you should speak only when spoken to.
“Somewhat, yes. We’re retracing our steps, reviewing the evidence. A fresh pair of eyes can sometimes make a difference.”
Emma nods. “Well, that’s very good to hear.”
Webster withdraws a notebook and pen from her purse. “Ms. Hawke—”
“Please call me Emma.”
“Thank you. Emma, I’d like to start by having you tell me a little about your late husband.”
The question strikes Emma as odd—wouldn’t the detective have read the file before driving out here from thecity?—but she nods and begins. “Okay. Well, he was head of financial planning for a fintech start-up called Alta.”
“Fintech?”
“Sorry, it’s short for financial technology. He’d been there a little over two years, after getting his MBA at Columbia. And before that he’d worked in the packaged food industry.”
