Wish You Were Gone(78)
Emma dug her laptop out of her bag and had Zoe’s email open within seconds. She’d sent a zip file of all the email chains that had been deleted from James’s computer during his last week at work. Emma whooped with glee and made a mental note to send the girl flowers.
Heart pounding, she started to click through. At first, she could hardly absorb what she was seeing, she was clicking so fast. Then she took a breath and told herself to slow down. There were addresses at ESPN, Sports Illustrated, MLB, USTA, NFL, MLS, a bunch of agencies and advertising firms, and a ton of random Gmails. But then she saw something that was completely out of place. Which was exactly what she was looking for.
[email protected]
Willow? What?
The title of the email chain: I NEED TO TALK TO YOU
Emma’s vision grayed at the edges. Why would Willow Larkin, daughter of her friend, friend of her son’s, be emailing her husband?
Fingers trembling, Emma clicked open the chain.
The first email, the newest in the chain, was from James.
Fine. 4 pm. Coffee shop at 2nd Ave and 54th. If you can’t come into the city it’s not my problem.
Emma cupped one hand over her mouth and scrolled to the top of the email chain. She took a breath, said a prayer that this was not what she suspected it was, and began to read.
From Willow:
I NEED TO TALK TO YOU
You can’t ignore me forever. Do you want me to call your precious Emma?
From James:
RE: I NEED TO TALK TO YOU
Stop calling me. Stop texting me. Stop trying to get in touch with me. There’s no relationship here. Do you understand that? There is nothing between us.
From Willow:
RE: RE: I NEED TO TALK TO YOU
Please. I just need to see you. This one time. I need you to explain it to my face. I’ll skip out early today. I’ll come anywhere.
From James:
Fine. 4 pm. Coffee shop at 2nd Ave and 54th. If you can’t come into the city it’s not my problem.
4 p.m. the day he died. He’d met Willow Larkin at a coffee shop in the city at 4 p.m., then stopped texting Emma back. Had he taken the girl somewhere? Was that why he hadn’t shown up to meet her before the Garrison & Walsh party? Because he was off somewhere fucking her best friend’s daughter?
No.
Emma closed the laptop. She was going to throw up. When she opened the door she almost fell out onto the busted-up, cigarette-strewn asphalt, but she managed to steady herself and stood. She pressed her hands against the side of her car and breathed and breathed and breathed. There was a viscous puddle of something at her feet, oil or brake fluid, a twisted rainbow forming at its slick center.
“Mother fucker!” she shouted, and kicked the tire. Which, of course, didn’t give. Pain shot through her foot and up her leg and she bit down on her lip while clutching her sneaker in one hand. She turned and leaned back against her SUV, tears welling in her eyes.
Willow? Willow? She was a child. Only turned eighteen a couple of months ago. She knew from Jenny Mahone that her husband had liked his mistresses young, but this was over the line. How long had it been going on? She couldn’t… wouldn’t consider it. She pressed her eyes closed in an attempt to keep her imagination from going anywhere near it. Poor Lizzie. She was going to hate Emma.
A baby wailed nearby and Emma’s eyes popped open.
Lizzie.
How was she ever going to face Lizzie again?
Emma let her foot go and straightened her leg, her toes still throbbing. Across the street, Debra Klauss, the owner of the independent bookstore, held the door open for a series of happy families, all plaids and suedes and cozy sweaters and expensive strollers, welcoming them for toddler story time. The wind chimes hanging from the colorful awning above her head sang in the breeze.
Emma closed her eyes again. She had to think.
Had it been Willow who answered James’s phone? Had she been there the night James died? Maybe she hadn’t gotten into the city. Maybe they’d met up later. Maybe he’d had her in the car when…
Bending at the waist, Emma braced her hands on her thighs.
“Emma? Are you okay?” It was Ben. He wore a waist apron and was approaching her with a bottle of cold water. Ben, who Lizzie was dating. Sweet, café owner Ben. Lizzie was just starting a new chapter in her life. Selling her house, dating a new guy, being hopeful. She could never find out about this. Emma could never tell a soul.
“I’m fine. Thanks, Ben. Just felt dizzy for a second there.”
“Here. Sip this.” He opened the water and handed it to her. She took a gulp and attempted a smile.
“Thanks. I should go.”
“You sure you should be driving?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine, really. Thanks for the water.”
She saluted him with the bottle and, somehow, managed to drive away.
BEN
8:45 p.m.
4 ? hours before the accident
He stood outside on the corner while Jackson Regal, the man from the security company, finished installing the new cameras on the side of the building. This whole thing had been a bit of a chore, but now that Ben saw the new equipment, it seemed like it was worth it. These cameras were a lot sleeker and less of an eyesore than the old ones.
“All right, that was the easy part,” Jackson said, coming back down the ladder and tugging off his work gloves. “The problem is, you’re gonna need all new wiring on the other end. That wasn’t on the work order the town council sent, so I didn’t bring the kit.”