Wish You Were Gone(55)

“Maybe I should retire,” Darnell said, and shook his head. “Sonofabitch. If only James hadn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Gray interrupted. She refused to let him go down that road. He was better off without James Walsh. Emma was better off without James Walsh. If that man were here, he would still be another problem to solve, not part of the solution. “We don’t need James. I’ll handle this. We’ll handle this.”

Gray was in control. Gray was always in control.





EMMA


One thing Emma had always loved about living all the way down at the end of the cul-de-sac, at the bottom of the valley, was the trees in the fall. There was always one week when they seemed to suddenly burst into their natural splendor, the reds and oranges so vibrant it was like driving through a tunnel of fire. As she drove home from Whole Foods that Thursday morning, the trees were having their moment. She slowed to a crawl and stared through the windows, owning her sense of awe.

She could still enjoy these things. Even with what she’d been through, going through what she was going through. There was still beauty in the world, James and his divorce papers and JM be damned. Part of her did wonder, though, whether JM had ever seen James’s sprawling home. Whether she’d coveted it. Was James really divorcing her to be with this other woman? If so, she was out there somewhere, too, in mourning, all her dreams for the future dashed.

Emma didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to see JM as a villain. That was about all she could handle.

As she slowly coasted past the top of the driveway that led downhill to the garage, a flash of light caught her eye. She hit the brakes and they squealed. There was a van down there. And some sort of construction vehicle—bright yellow and pristine looking, like it had just rolled off the lot. But something else was off. With a gasp, she realized what it was. The garage was completely gone.

Emma executed a sharp turn and bumped over the top of the driveway. Her throat closed over as she took the steep hill. Never would she understand why the builders didn’t find a way to grade this damn driveway better. If they had, there was a good chance her husband would still be alive, and she wouldn’t even know about JM. She’d still be miserable, yes, but blissfully, ignorantly miserable.

Emma pulled her SUV up behind the—back-hoe, was it?—and killed the engine. Three men were tossing boards and siding into a dumpster that already sat on a flatbed. They were almost done cleaning up. All that was left of the garage was the flat, concrete surface of the floor. In its place was a POD, white and red and shimmering in the sunlight.

“Um… who’s in charge here?”

“That would be me.”

A tall, gangly man with a white mustache and shaggy hair sticking out from under a panama hat walked over to her, tugging off his leather gloves. “You the owner?” He checked his phone. “Emma Walsh?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Zack,” he said. “Gray told me you’d be out.”

“I was out. For all of two hours. How did you do all this in less than two hours?”

“I promise my guys a steak dinner and they get after it,” he said, and two of the men by the dumpster hooted.

“Anyway, we’re all set here. All your stuff’s in the POD over there.” He tilted his head. “We’ll haul the rest of this junk away by the end of the night.”

“Okay.” Emma blinked in the sun, confused. “I don’t… What do I owe you?”

Zack was already climbing behind the wheel of the van. “Gray took care of it,” he said, and slammed the door before she could ask anything more. He reached out and handed her a card. “Gimme a call when you’re ready to rebuild.”

Within seconds, all the men were gone, leaving her with a dumpster, a POD, and a—front loader? She had no idea. She was about to call Gray and tell her she’d pay for her own damn demolition, when her phone vibrated in her pocket. Oakmont Day School.

Her heart skipped a beat, as it had whenever one of the kids’ schools called midday. What was it? Fever? Throw-up? Bullying? School shooting?

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Walsh, it’s Mr. Fletcher at Oakmont Day.”

Mr. Fletcher. Kelsey’s guidance counselor.

“Yes?”

“Everything’s fine, but Kelsey’s had another panic attack. We think you should come pick her up.”



* * *



ANOTHER PANIC ATTACK. That was what he had said. Another. As if this had been one of many. As if the school was at its wits’ end with her daughter. If this was another panic attack, shouldn’t Emma have been informed of them before now? When had this started? After James’s death? Before?

She speed-walked into the school, groceries still jammed into the trunk of her car, ice cream undoubtedly melting, meat going bad, and signed in at the office. Kelsey was sitting on one of the cots in the nurse’s office, one arm gripped over her stomach, looking wan.

Had she thrown up? Maybe the counselor had been mistaken.

“Honey! Are you okay?” Emma put the back of her hand to Kelsey’s forehead. Cold. Clammy.

“I’m fine, Mom. Can we just go?”

Kelsey slid from the cot, pulling her backpack with her, and headed for the door. Emma was torn between wanting to do whatever her daughter needed and getting some answers. Mr. Fletcher was nowhere to be seen, but the nurse, Ms. Fraimen, was at her desk. Emma let the door swing closed behind Kelsey and leaned in over the computer.