The Husband Hour(7)

If Matt had known all those years ago what he knew now, maybe he could have saved his brother. Maybe, if this film got made, others would have the chance to save their own brothers, or sons, or daughters.

Craig sighed. He glanced up at the storyboard, then around the room.

“I know you had doubts about this film,” Matt said. “Maybe it wasn’t saying anything big enough. But I hope this new angle changes that.”

“Where can we talk privately?”

“Let me check the conference room.”

Mercifully, it was empty. Matt closed the door while Craig paced in the tight space.

“My doubts aren’t just about the film, Matt. You really blew things up with that project you walked away from four years ago.”

Matt crossed his arms, nodding. “I know. That was…unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate? You cost Andrew Dobson a lot of money.”

Matt should never have agreed to do the documentary about the rock star. It had been producer Andrew Dobson’s idea; Matt had been between projects and he agreed. And then Rory Kincaid was killed, and Matt was reminded of why he’d gotten into the business in the first place. After a few months of trying to finish the musician project, he realized his heart wasn’t in it. He had to follow his passion, his instincts. “You can find another director to get it to the finish line,” he’d told his producer.

Bridge officially burned.

“I also made Andrew Dobson a lot of money,” Matt said. “I got Andrew an Academy Award nomination for the last film we did together!”

Craig nodded, rubbing his jaw. “Okay, this is the situation: You have a theory. It’s an interesting one. But there’s no smoking gun.”

“I’ll find it.”

“What does his widow have to say about all of this? His mother?”

“His mother died last year, before I was onto this. And the widow is completely off the grid.”

His failure to locate Lauren Adelman Kincaid was the greatest frustration of his career. The amount of time and money he’d spent trying to track her down had almost sunk the project. The woman had no social-media footprint, no driver’s license, and no real estate rental or purchase records. Her old friends either wouldn’t talk to him or swore they were no longer in touch with her. Her former brother-in-law threatened him with a lawsuit. And her family in Philadelphia refused to speak with him. Well, her sister agreed to a meeting, then backed out at the last minute and never responded to his follow-up calls or e-mails. He’d hired a private investigator. He’d considered illegally obtaining her tax filings, but he hit a wall without her Social Security number.

Craig walked back to Matt’s desk, stared pensively at the storyboard on the wall. After a long silence, he said, “Without interviews with the widow, someone to corroborate what you’re saying, this film is too speculative. I’m sorry, Matt. I can’t invest in it. But I wish you luck.”





Chapter Five



Lauren locked the door to the café behind her and felt the heat of the midday sun on her back. For as long as she’d known Nora, her boss had been mumbling about starting a dinner service, but so far it hadn’t happened. Every day, Nora’s Café closed at three and didn’t open until seven the following morning. Lauren hoped the dinner shift would actually materialize this summer. She relished the idea of working a double—or even a triple. To clock in at six in the morning and not leave until eleven or so at night? She wouldn’t have a moment to think. Just the way she liked it.

She adjusted the belt pack around her waist, making sure her tips were zipped up, then bent down to tie the laces on her Sauconys for the run back to the house.

“Lauren Kincaid!” A man’s voice.

Lauren stood up so quickly she felt dizzy. You’re not eating enough. You’re too skinny.

He looked vaguely familiar, but it took her a few seconds to place him. Had they gone to school together?

“Neil Hanes,” he said. “From Green Valley?”

An old acquaintance from her parents’ country club. She must have been in college the last time she’d seen him. The summers were like that; half of her hometown descended on the island.

“Oh, hi. Sorry, it’s just been a long time.”

“It really has! Probably since that party for your dad’s fiftieth.”

She nodded, her mind flooding with images of the live band, her cocktail dress, and the way Rory had looked in his suit. It’s like a wedding, he’d said. Someday we’ll dance like this and you’ll be my wife.

Neil said something but she’d completely tuned out.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Oh, I was just saying that I see your parents sometimes in Philly. They mentioned that you live here now.”

She nodded, hoping he wouldn’t bring up Rory, wouldn’t say he was sorry, wouldn’t say he’d heard…

“Are you writing these days?” he said.

“Writing?”

“Journalism. The last time we spoke, you were really into it.”

Vague recollections of a long-ago conversation. “Oh. Right. No, not anymore.” She hated talking about herself. Deflect, deflect. “Weren’t you into journalism too?”

He nodded. “I love reporting. But no money in it. Screenwriting—that’s where it’s at.”