The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(49)

“What time does your flight get back into Logan tomorrow?” he asks.

“Why?”

“So that I can pick you up.”

Pick her up? Does he think . . . does he think this is—that they are . . . a thing?

“Oh—that’s okay. I’ll get a cab.”

“To Northmeadow? I don’t think so.”

“I meant a car service. I’ll get a car service.”

“That’ll cost a fortune. I’ll pick you up.”

“I don’t get back until late.” She’s trying to remember what time the flight is. Six? Seven? She can always pull the reservation out of her bag and check it, but . . .

It doesn’t matter. He’s not picking her up.

“I think . . . not until eleven, maybe midnight,” she tells Tony. “Too late.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“No, don’t pick me up. Really. Please.”

“Please?” he echoes. “I’m trying to do you a favor and you’re begging me not to? Okay. Whatever.”

Great. Now he’s hurt. Or pissed off. Both, apparently.

Do you really care how he feels?

“Listen,” he says after a long pause, “about this Cincinnati thing—”

“Did I tell you it was Cincinnati?” She could have sworn she’d just said Ohio earlier, when she was rushing around trying to get ready to leave.

“Yeah. You did. You don’t remember?”

She sighs inwardly.

“Anyway . . .” he goes on after realizing she’s chosen to ignore the question, “do you want me to come along?”

“Come along? To a funeral in Cincinnati?”

“Why not? I got nothing better to do this weekend.”

That, she believes.

He goes on, uncharacteristically earnest, “You might need a friend there to support you.”

You’re not my friend, Tony.

“No, thanks,” she says.

“Okay. Just thought I’d offer.”

“That’s very sweet, but I’ll be fine.”

“Is someone picking you up there when you land?”

“Yes. A friend.”

The word spills from her tongue with deliberate emphasis.

So what if it’s a lie?

“Who? Another ‘friend’ you’ve never met?”

She doesn’t bother to answer that.

“You know, you should be more careful, Elena,” Tony tells her. “All these strangers . . . it’s not a good idea to be so trusting. I mean . . . you said your friend was murdered . . .”

Oh, crap. Did I tell him that, too?

“How do you know that whoever killed Meredith isn’t going to come after you next?”

Meredith. She apparently even told him the name. What else did she tell him? Next thing she knows, he’ll be rattling off her e-mail password and bank account PIN number.

“Hey, look—“ Tony flips on the turn signal. “We made it.”

She looks up. They’ve reached the airport exit at last.

This has been the most horrific week of Beck’s entire life. But as she stands in front of the mirror in her cheerful blue and yellow childhood bedroom wearing a somber black dress, she knows the worst is yet to come.

She hasn’t been to many funerals—she barely remembers her paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother’s. Her maternal grandfather died just a few years ago, though that was hardly a heart-wrenching tragedy, as he was in his nineties.

But this . . . today . . . Mom . . .

This is going to be brutal.

How is she going to make it through the next several hours? How is she going to stand up and read a poem at the service?

One thing is for damned certain: it won’t be by leaning on Keith.

Yes, he’s been dutifully at her side these past few days. Physically, anyway.

But emotionally? He’s completely checked out. Not just checked out of the situation, but out of their marriage. If she wasn’t a hundred percent sure of it last week at this time, it’s since become abundantly clear.

And not just to her.

Her brother Neal pulled her aside last night to ask if everything is okay between her and Keith.

“What do you mean?”

He looked her in the eye. “You know what I mean, Beck.”

She shrugged. It was no wonder Neal had noticed.

Ever since Keith drove back here to talk to the cops the other day, he’s been quieter than usual, almost standoffish with visitors—and there have been many. Everyone loved Mom. The house has been full of people.

For Beck, that’s meant an endless round of hostess duties. That, in and of itself, has been a challenge.

This is her mother’s house, not hers. Mom’s kitchen, Mom’s friends. Mom was always the one who decided what to serve, which platters to use, whether to make coffee or serve cold drinks, which glassware went into the dishwasher and which had to be washed by hand . . .

Beck and her sisters-in-law always helped, of course. But Mom called the shots.

Now it’s just her. Her brothers’ wives have had their hands full looking after their little ones, who are overwhelmed just being in the house with all these people—and without Grandma.