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NO, IT CAN’T BE, EMMA THINKS. THE NEWS NEARLY KNOCKSher off her feet.
“The police told you it was her?” she says.
“They actually had me identify her,” Tom replies, his voice cracking. He moves toward one of the bar chairs and sinks into it, resting his chin in his hands. “Apparently she had her work ID in her purse and once they were convinced I ran the company, they asked me to take a look.”
“Oh my god, how awful.” Her eyes brim with tears.
“I know. It was dreadful to see her like that,”
“I’m just sorry you had to be the one to do it.”
Tom shakes his head. “Thank you, Em. It’s still so hard to grasp.”
“Who’s going to tell her poor parents?”
“The police are taking care of that, and I’ll follow up with her family tomorrow.”
Emma breathes deeply, trying to force her brain into sync with what’s unfolding in real time. For the past week and ahalf, she’s been totally focused on the drama created by the reopening of the case—but now this horrifying news is coming at her out of nowhere, like an animal bolting across the highway in front of a car.
“Do they know what happened to her?”
Tom shakes his head again, with it still resting in his hand.
“The detective didn’t share anything with me, just asked a few questions, like what I knew about her schedule today. From the quick look I got, I didn’t notice any bruises on her face or head, but there was blood seeping through the sheet—from what seemed to be the torso area. So I guess it’s possible she was struck by a car in the parking lot.”
Emma trudges to the far end of the kitchen, and grabs the electric kettle. It’s always her instinct in a crisis to make tea, not that it actually helps.
After filling the kettle with water, she wanders back to the island but only leans against it.
“As I was leaving, I heard one of the men inside the tape say the words ‘paired wound.’ Is that really the kind of injury you’d sustain if you were hit by a car?”
Tom raises his head and finally meets her gaze. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, it sounds more like she was struck with some kind of object—or even stabbed.”
“Jeez.”
“If that’s the case, who could have done that to her?”
“She certainly didn’t seem to have an enemy in the world. Maybe someone tried to rob her—or, god, even rape her.”
Emma shudders. “But when? If she was attacked leavingwork, it would have been light out and surely someone would have seen what was going on—or at least noticed her body right afterward. You’ve got security cameras in the parking lot, right?”
He nods grimly. “We do, but there are a couple of blind spots. The cops are going to look at the footage.”
Only local police seem to be involved at the moment, but Emma suddenly realizes that Webster will eventually find out about Taylor’s death. Maybe she’s asked the Westport police to let her know if there’s any news related to her and Tom, or perhaps police databases are set up to offer convenient prompts, like Amazon alerts, to detectives across jurisdictions: “Because you expressed an interest in Emma Hawke and Tom Halliday, you might like to know...”
Either way, it’s not a good thing to have more drama swirling around them.
Tom rises from the island, grabs a glass from one of the cabinets, and adds a fistful of ice, followed by a couple of splashes of scotch from a bottle stored in the kitchen.
“Do you think Brittany’s aware of what’s going on?” he asks, turning back around.
Emma shakes her head. “She’s been quiet as a mouse upstairs, so I don’t think so.”
“We should call her down and let her know. I don’t want her finding out from someone else.”
