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She trudges south along Park Avenue, unsure where she’s going next. When she’d agreed on a six o’clock get-together with Bekah, she’d vaguely assumed she’d roam the East Side beforehand and have a late lunch alone in a little bistro. And yet she finds herself slightly overwhelmed by the city today—the blaring horns, the cloying smell of toasted pretzels from a sidewalk vendor, the constant feeling of people hurrying by her. If only there was someone she could invite for coffee or a quick lunch, but her old friends from the city must be at work, and it’s not likely any one of them could duck out on such short notice.
Lilly Shelbourne’s name suddenly springs to mind. She’d wanted to meet in person, and since Lilly had said she was taking a break from her work, she might be available.
Emma veers off the sidewalk, and after stepping onto the gray granite plaza of the Seagram’s Building, she sends a text to Lilly.
Ended up in NY today on spur of moment. Any chance you’re free for coffee in the next hour or two?
It takes Lilly only a couple of seconds to respond.
Would love that. Where are you?
Nr Grand Central—but let me go to your area. u have so much going on.
How about my apt? Come now if you want.
After Emma texts a thumbs-up, Lilly gives her an address on Lispenard Street in Tribeca. She’s just stepping off the escalator into Grand Central to hop on the subway downtown when her phone rings and she sees Taylor’s name on the screen. Before answering, she darts out of the crowd and sidles up to one of the terminal’s walls.
“Emma, hi,” Taylor says briskly. “Have you got a minute?”
“Yes, of course.” Emma’s pulse quickens, realizing that Taylor must be calling with information.
“As promised, I did a little digging about the Stowe weekend, but unfortunately I don’t think I have the answer you’re looking for.”
“Well, I’d love to hear whatever you have,” Emma says, doing her best to keep her tone breezy.
“According to the itinerary I found, Halliday hosted three dinners in Stowe. The first, on Friday night, was at a little tavern across from the inn. I checked it out online and it’s cute, but it’s hard to believe that’s the place Tom raved about.”
“What about the restaurant Saturday night? I think that must be the one Tom liked so much.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks like the dinners on Saturday and Sunday were held at a private dining room at the inn, which doesn’t really qualify as a restaurant.”
Damn, Emma thinks.It’s going to be tough to track down any additional information unless she speaks with Justine.
“Hmm... I guess I assumed it was at a restaurant in town. Oh well. But thanks so much for looking into it for me.”
“Of course, and just FYI, it couldn’t have been Saturday anyway.”
“Pardon me?”
“I found out Tom wasn’t at the dinner Saturday night. He had some kind of emergency.”
Emma’s knees go weak. Tom was never at the dinner. So where was he?
“Uh, okay. Thanks.”
“Maybe he ended up eating someplace else later and that’s the place he raved about. Would you like me to double-check with the event planner Justine used? Or try to sneak the information out of Tom?”
“No, no, don’t bother because I must have had it all wrong. Look, I have to run, but thanks for your help, Taylor.”
Shaken, but not wanting to be late, Emma hurries to the nearest staircase, descends to the lower level, and wedges herself into a crowded car of the number 6 train moments before it departs. She’s never been a big crier in a crisis, but right now she feels an urge to sob, to curse fate right here in the subway car. Her whole goal in talking to Taylor had been to confirm Tom’s alibi, but he doesn’t fucking have one.How can this be happening?How can her life have unspooled so badly for a second time?
There’s nothing she can do right now, but once she’s back in Westport, she has to come up with a discreet way to pump Justine about that Saturday night and find out if Tom was at least somewhere in the vicinity of Stowe.
When Emma ascends out onto Canal Street fifteen minutes later, it resembles an overturned beehive with countless vendors swarming the sidewalk and pedestrians darting by. She hurries west, eyes straight ahead, past grungy storefronts and sidewalk racks displaying endless stuffed animals, cheap toys, fake Gucci and Louis Vuitton purses, straw hats, and tacky NYC souvenirs.
A half block later, she pauses to get her bearings. According to Google Maps, Lispenard is one block farther south, running parallel to Canal, and she needs to take a left a little farther ahead on Church. She starts walking again, forcing herself to think of nothing but reaching her destination.
She’s only gone a short distance, however, when her eyes are drawn to a street sign on her right, and she freezes in her tracks.Greene Street. It dead-ends here at Canal, she realizes.
She swivels slowly in place and with her heart clenching, glances at the buildings to the north. She can’t see theparking garage from where she’s standing, but she knows it’s there, a block or so away with its ugly red-and-black lettering and oil-stained entranceway.
And next to it is the alley where Derrick was shot and left for dead.
