Текст книги "The Perfect Stranger"

Автор книги: Wendy Corsi Staub

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Jenna Coeur’s dark hair might be dyed blond or concealed beneath a wig now, but her natural beauty and famously distinct resemblance to the actress Ingrid Bergman was immediately recognizable. She looked like Bergman in Casablanca at the height of her career: the large eyes beneath arched brows, the strong nose, the high cheekbones.

What, Crystal wondered with interest—and yes, with suspicion—was she doing here?

After that fleeting eye contact, Jenna never lifted her head again, just stood staring at her clasped hands for the remainder of the service, as if praying.

Praying, no doubt, that she hadn’t been recognized.

But she had.

And now she’s made her escape, getting a head start before the mass exodus begins.

Crystal reminds herself that it may mean absolutely nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

Coeur was, after all, acquitted.

That may very well mean she didn’t commit murder.

It may also mean that she did—and got away with it.

Once, anyway.

Crystal weaves through the crowd as quickly as she can without disrupting the service.

At last she reaches the door and steps outside—just in time to hear a car spitting gravel as it pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway, just beyond her range of view.

Jenna Coeur, driving away.

But I won’t forget that you were here, Crystal promises silently. And believe me, I’m going to find out why.

A Cause Worth Fighting For

Last weekend, while I was tied up with a prior commitment, many of my fellow bloggers gathered for the National Breast Cancer Coalition Advocacy Training Conference. Here were women I’ve never met, but spend time with everyday. Whose words and work I admire. Whose thoughts I connect with. They gathered in Washington to fight for NBCC’s goal to end breast cancer by 2020.

At last, an exciting mission, empowering when embraced. For too long it seems we were stuck in a sea of pink, hearing of changes, wanting to believe advancements were being made. Needing to believe optimistic statistics when in actuality approximately 40,000 people still die from this disease every year.

About as many as two decades ago.

That’s not advancement. That’s not change. That’s a number hidden so far down in a sea of pink we barely see it, but deep within ourselves, where the scary thoughts thrive, we know it’s the truth. Pink awareness is not enough.

The people attending this event heard the conversation shift. They refocused on facts, and with a concrete goal in sight discussed how research, combined with action and dedication, could have the 2020 eradication deadline within our grasps.

Social media was at its finest as bloggers tweeted from their workshops. I couldn’t absorb the information fast enough and want to thank them for taking time to spread the inspiration around.

If I had to choose a place to be that weekend, it would have been there in Washington, beside this group of incredibly motivated women. Dragging cancer to the center of the room for all to see. Believing it was now possible to kick out the unwanted guest . . . never to be seen again.

—Excerpt from Jaycee’s blog, PC BC

Chapter 10

Jaycee had spotted a Starbucks along the mile of suburban highway between the interstate exit and the funeral home. Now, making her way back, she keeps an eye out for it, desperate to grab a cup of coffee for the road. Good, strong, familiar coffee, as opposed to the watered-down stuff they served her on the flight.

Cory might tease her about her affinity for Starbucks, but there’s something to be said for consistency and availability. Especially when you’ve traveled all over the world, or been trapped in a prison cell—neither of which guarantee you a decent cup of coffee on a daily basis.

She should know, unlike Cory, who spent his life luxuriating in the concrete canyons of Manhattan and the rugged canyons of L.A., taking creature comforts for granted.

Zeroing in on the familiar green and white logo on a signpost up ahead, Jaycee checks the rearview mirror out of habit, to make sure she isn’t being followed. She half expects to spot the Crown Victoria from the funeral home parking lot on her tail.

But all she sees is a red pickup truck, a couple of SUVs, and a little white car, and they all fly right on past as she turns into the parking lot.

Good.

She’s pretty sure that the woman back at the funeral home recognized her—and that she happened to be law enforcement. But even if that was the case, the woman would have no reason to come chasing after her, right? Attending a funeral isn’t a crime.

Hell, some crimes aren’t even a crime.

No one knows that better than you do.

Not that she wants to think about all that now. She came here to escape.

Right. Brilliant move.

Most people needing a reprieve would hop a plane to some remote Caribbean island. But not you. Nope. You fly away to a funeral.

Yes, but a friend’s funeral—a friend who meant a lot to her. A friend she hasn’t fully allowed herself to grieve, even now.

But when you get right down to it, is she really here in Ohio solely because of Meredith? Ever since the others began making plans to come for the service this weekend, there was a part of her that wistfully longed to join them even though she knew it was impossible.

She isn’t one of them. Not really.

As usual, she tried to push the uncomfortable truth to the back of her mind. But it’s pretty telling that the moment trouble popped up and she needed to flee, this is where she wound up.

I guess I was meant to be here all along, watching from the sidelines.

So what else is new?

Jaycee parks the car, grabs her wallet from the oversized bag on the seat, and goes into Starbucks wearing just the sunglasses and of course her blond wig, but not the hat. Aside from baseball caps, no one around here wears hats, not even to a funeral. She should have known better than to choose a disguise that would make her even more conspicuous. She won’t make that mistake again.

Stepping across the threshold, she takes a deep breath of java-laced air and is instantly soothed by the familiar, manufactured-to-be-inviting setting: mood lighting, intimate tables and chairs suitable for one, hipster baristas, vintage crooners on the audio system. The people sitting and sipping are either caught up in quiet conversations, absorbed in their laptops, or plugged into headphones. No one gives her a second glance as she joins the line of people waiting to order.

When it’s her turn, she steps forward and asks for the usual: a venti latte with a triple shot of espresso.

“Name?” asks the girl behind the register.

“Annie,” Jaycee tells her, and watches her write it in marker on a venti-sized cup.

Annie was her first cellmate, a crackhead prostitute with three little kids and the proverbial heart of gold. She’d killed her dealer—or was it her pimp? Jaycee doesn’t remember the exact details of the case now; it was a long time ago and they weren’t cellmates for very long. She only knows that while Annie might have been a murderer—though she said she’d done it in self-defense—her odd blend of streetwise sass and protective maternal attitude helped Jaycee survive some rough days, and rougher nights.

“Don’chu forget me now,” Annie said before she was transferred to another jail, closer to where her kids were. “When I get out, I’m go’an come look you up.”

“I’ll probably still be here.”

Annie was already shaking her head. “You go’an get off, girlfriend. You mark my words.”

She was right.

Annie never did come find her. Chances are she’s probably serving a long prison sentence, or back on the streets, or dead.

But Annie didn’t want to be forgotten, and she hasn’t been. Jaycee uses the name now as her random default identity for Starbucks and anywhere else she has to place an order with a name attached. She used to choose something different every time, but that became confusing. She’d forget who she was supposed to be.

Even now, there are days when she forgets: Jaycee, or Jenna Coeur, or her real name . . . or any number of identities she’s used and discarded over the years.

She pays for her beverage and pockets the change. Back home in New York she’d have left it in the tips cup on the counter. Here, hardly anyone does that. She’s been watching.

When in Rome . . .

That’s the key to keeping a low profile. You fit in with the locals. Don’t provide reason for them to give you a second glance. Throwing tip money into the cup would necessitate an extra thank you from the cashier or might arouse resentment in the customers behind her; not tipping makes her just like everybody else.

Less than a minute later the barista is calling, “Ann?”

Jaycee thanks her and takes a sip. The hot, pleasantly strong liquid slides down her throat.

Ah. Finally, a moment of peace.

She eyes the seating area, spotting an empty table for one beside the big picture window facing the road.

Maybe she won’t take her coffee to go after all. It would be a relief just to settle down for a few minutes and check her e-mails and text messages. By now Cory must have figured out she’s gone. He’s probably worried.

He doesn’t know about Meredith, of course—and she has no intention of telling him.

As Meredith’s daughter finishes reading the last few lines of her poem, Landry wipes tears from her eyes with a soggy tissue. She can’t help but marvel at the young woman’s strength; can’t help but compare her to Addison.

If it were my funeral, she’d do the same thing, Landry finds herself thinking. She’s so strong. Stronger than I could ever be.

Meredith would have been proud.

The minister steps back to the podium with a few final words, and at last it’s over. The crowd begins to move.

Someone touches Landry on the arm.

She looks up to see an attractive African-American woman flashing a badge.

“I’m Detective Crystal Burns,” she says, addressing all three of them. “I’m assuming you’re friends of Meredith’s?”

Caught off guard, Landry nods.

“Mind if I ask how you knew her?”

It’s Elena who answers promptly, “Only through the Internet.”

The detective pulls out a little notebook, and Landry grasps that this is not going to be a quick, simple conversation.

“Ladies,” she says, “I know this is not the best time or place to talk. I’d like to take down your names and ask you a few quick questions, and then maybe, if the three of you are staying in town, we can meet a little later to talk further?”

Landry quickly speaks for all of them: “Anything we can do to help, Detective.”

The bag containing Roger Lorton’s final effects has been lying on the floor beside the front door ever since the detective delivered it this morning.

It isn’t until later in the day—much later—that Sheri finally musters the strength to pick it up and carry it to the living room, trailed by the puppy’s jingling dog tags. She sits in a chair and Maggie settles at her feet. She’s been sticking close to Sheri’s side these past few days, since Roger’s murder. Every once in a while she looks up as if there’s something she wants Sheri to know.

You saw the person who killed him, didn’t you, girl?

But you can’t talk, and whoever did it is going to get away with it.

Sheri dully looks down at the bag on her lap, fighting back tears.

Finally, she opens it and looks inside.

The first thing she sees is the wedding ring, catching the sunlight that falls through the window. She pulls it out, swallowing hard, and slides it over her fingers one by one. It’s much too big for all but her thumb. She leaves it there for now. Maybe she can wear it on a chain around her neck.

The bag’s remaining contents are meager. One by one she removes a house key, a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer Roger always carried, a pack of cigarettes, and a couple of folded bills. Roger never keeps cash in his wallet, always places it in a separate pocket. Years ago, when they first met, Sheri asked him why. He said it was so that if a pickpocket robbed him, he wouldn’t be left without both cash and credit cards.

Whoever stole his wallet was probably looking for quick cash, probably drug money. Why else would you mug someone?

Sheri finds scant satisfaction in knowing that the murderer came away with nothing but credit cards, none of which have been used since the wallet went missing and aren’t likely to be now. Oh, and Roger’s silver lighter, the one he always carried. It’s missing as well.

About to set the empty bag aside, she frowns and peers into the bottom. Something else is there, a small, dark triangular object.

Pulling it out, she sees that it’s a guitar pick.

Certainly not Roger’s.

How did it end up with his belongings?

It must have gotten mixed in with this stuff back at the morgue, maybe fallen out of someone’s pocket . . .

You’d think the authorities would be more careful when dealing with someone’s final effects.

Final . . .

Final.

With a sob, Sheri crumples the bag and tosses it onto the floor. The wedding ring goes with it, sliding off her thumb and rolling across the hardwoods.

With a whimper, Maggie lifts her nose from her paws and looks up at Sheri wearing a morose expression, as if she, too, is mourning.

Remember me when I am gone away . . .

Beck still can’t believe her mother is gone.

The funeral had been as torturous as she’d expected; struggling to maintain her composure, she’d been relieved the moment it ended.

But now she’s crying all over again as departing mourners take turns embracing her. No one seems to know quite what to say, other than to tell her how sorry they are, or how much they’re going to miss her mother, or how fitting the poem was, or how aptly the eulogy captured Mom.

The minister hadn’t known her very well, but he’d asked the family to help him prepare, taking notes as they shared anecdotes that had them laughing and crying, often simultaneously.

“Thank you,” Beck says, over and over, in response to the compliments about the service and the expressions of sympathy.

Some comments and questions are unexpectedly awkward: a few people want to know whether the police have a suspect yet.

She just shakes her head.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” a woman—a total stranger—asks her.

Beck just shakes her head as her uneasy gaze seeks and then settles on Detectives Burns and Schneider, across the room. She wasn’t at all surprised to see them here today and knows it’s not simply because they want to pay their respects to her mother.

They’re thinking the killer might be in the crowd.

Beck is thinking the same thing. When she allows the thought into her head, it’s all she can do not to flee for the nearest exit. The rest of the family appears to be feeling the same way.

And Dad . . . poor Dad.

Every time she glances at his face, she feels his pain.

She just hopes the detectives can, too; hopes they know he couldn’t possibly be responsible for what happened to Mom. No matter what statistics say . . .

No matter what I saw that day last month . . .

He didn’t do it. It’s that simple.

“Oh, Rebecca . . .” A childhood neighbor grabs onto her, hugging her hard. “I’m so sorry for all of you. Your poor father is going to be lost without your mother. Just make sure you take care of him.”

“Don’t worry,” she says grimly. “I will.”

Climbing into the backseat of the rental car after a long, silent walk from the funeral parlor to the back lot, Elena is still rattled by the brief encounter with the detective.

The woman took down basic information—their names, home addresses, ages—and arranged to meet them at their hotel later.

“I wonder if she’s doing that with everyone,” she says as Landry and Kay settle into their seats.

Neither of them asks who—or what—she’s talking about.

“I’m sure she is,” Landry says.

“Probably,” Kay agrees, pulling on her seat belt.

“We should stop off someplace on the way back to the hotel,” Elena suggests as Landry shifts the car into reverse, “and get something to eat.”

Something to drink is what she means. Her nerves are shot.

“Now?” Landry asks. “I thought we were planning to go out to dinner later.”

“We are, but we should get something now. Just, you know, something light. Especially since we have the detective coming to talk to us.”

“That might take a while. I could go for a cup of tea myself,” Kay agrees.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind some coffee,” Landry decides, and so it’s settled.

Coffee. Tea. Terrific.

Elena had been thinking along the lines of cocktails—a little more hair of the dog for her pounding head. The Bloody Mary on the plane had done nothing to take off the edge. And now they have to face a meeting with the detective investigating Meredith’s death . . .

I want a drink.

No. I need a drink.

“There were a couple of restaurants back toward the hotel,” Landry says. “I’ll head back that way.”

Elena settles back in the seat, resigned to a low-key coffee break—for now—and wishing she’d insisted on driving, or at least that she’d taken her own car. The parking lot has become crowded with moving people and cars, and Landry is taking her sweet old time maneuvering toward the exit.

To be fair, it’s not as though she can just barrel out of here. Still, she’s as slow and deliberate about driving as she is about everything else.

When they first met back at the hotel, Elena had to fight the urge to hustle her friend along—even conversationally. Everything about the self-proclaimed Alabama belle strikes her as languid. Not a bad thing, necessarily. Just . . . different.

Kay is different as well. Different from Landry, and from her, too. Practical and perfunctory, she reminds Elena of someone’s maiden aunt.

Not of her own aunt—maiden, or otherwise. Thanks to her father, she’d lost touch with her extended family after her mother died. But her dim memories of her parents’ sisters and sisters-in-law are of vibrant women very much like her mother.

Had she initially met these two women, Kay and Landry, in person, rather than online, Elena is pretty sure they wouldn’t have clicked at all.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere, she decides. But what is it?

She’s always telling her students to look beyond the obvious.

“Dig deeper,” she urges her first graders. “Don’t accept anything at face value.”

Good advice.

Okay. So look at Tony. If she’d first gotten to know him online, might she possibly have clicked with him in a way that she doesn’t in person?

Just the thought of him sets her nerves on edge now. He’d called her cell phone and left her a message while she was on the plane, asking her to give him a call back when she landed.

She didn’t—and not just because her battery was drained. He called again while she and the others were leaving the hotel, and that time she ignored it. He didn’t leave a message, and she turned off the phone immediately afterward.

Now, reluctantly turning it back on, she sees that she missed a couple of calls.

The first one is from Tony.

Really? Really?

Scrolling through the missed calls log, she sees that his number is attached to all of them—and there are half a dozen. He left her a message the first time he tried her, then just kept dialing and hanging up on her voice mail.

Reluctantly, Elena puts the phone to her ear. She might as well hear what he had to say. Maybe he wanted to apologize for being . . .

Well, for being Tony.

“Elena, I need you to give me a call right away . . .”

Even in a recording, he annoys her. He urgently needs her to do something now? When she’s halfway across the country, at a funeral?

“ . . . I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t think you should be alone right now, and . . . you know what? Just give me a call the minute you get this. Okay. ’Bye.”

Jaw clenched, Elena presses Delete. Then she turns off her phone, in case he decides to call back yet again.

I’m not alone, Tony. I’m with my friends. Although . . .

In the front seat, Kay is pointing. “There’s a McDonald’s.”

Elena doesn’t acknowledge her. McDonalds? I’d rather be anyplace else right now—including alone.

Yes, preferably alone at a bar somewhere, drowning her sorrows. That’s what you do after a funeral. It’s what her father did after her mother’s . . .

For thirty years.

“I don’t think McDonald’s is exactly what we’re looking for,” Landry tells Kay.

Relieved, Elena looks toward the opposite side of the road. “There’s a Chili’s. And an Applebee’s.”

Landry makes her face. “I’m not crazy about– Oh, wait, I see Starbucks!”

She flicks on the turn signal and pulls into the left turning lane toward Starbucks as if it’s all decided.

Elena opens her mouth to put in her vote for going back to the hotel, or to someplace that has a bar, then thinks better of it.

If she goes back and sits in her room, she’s only going to stress about Tony and . . . everything.

And if she goes to a bar . . .

Look what happened to her after all that wine last night.

Look what happens every time she drinks too much.

With the detective meeting them soon, it’s probably best to stick with her friends and drown her sorrows in a cup of coffee. At least that’ll keep her out of trouble—for now.

Several cars in front of them make the left turn into the parking lot, and Landry creeps forward with each one. When it’s her turn, the light turns yellow. There’s only one oncoming car and it’s far enough away . . .

“You can make it,” Elena advises.

But Landry is braking. Stopping. So is the oncoming car.

Elena can’t help herself: “You could have made it.”

“Like I always tell my kids when they’re at the wheel, yellow means slow down, not speed up.”

“Not where I’m from.”

Landry shrugs. “Where I’m from, slow and steady wins the race.”

Finally, the light is green, the coast is clear, and they’re pulling into the busy parking lot. Starbucks is hopping at this hour on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Reaching for the back door handle, Elena flashes back to what Tony said to her as she got out of his car at the airport this morning.

“Your secret is safe with me . . .”

What was he talking about?

What did I tell him?

She rubs her temples with her fingertips as they step from the parking lot glare into the dimly lit interior—then stops short, spotting Tony at the far end of the counter, waiting for a beverage.

Landry promptly crashes into her from behind. “Oops, I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Elena murmurs.

It’s not him. As he turns, she’s almost positive the man is a total stranger who has on the kind of sleeveless muscle T-shirt Tony sometimes wears.

Or is it?

It has to be a stranger. This is Ohio. Tony’s back in Massachusetts.

Still, Elena keeps a wary eye on him as he walks out without a backward glance, half expecting him to come back.

He doesn’t.

Of course not, because he isn’t Tony.

Waiting anxiously for her turn to order coffee, she stares blankly at the menu board she’s seen a thousand times at Starbucks back home, frustrated with herself.

After connecting with the others back at the hotel, she’d finally managed to banish unpleasant thoughts of Tony and last night. But now that she’s heard his message and seen evidence of all those missed calls, toxic tendrils are once again unfurling in her mind, choking out all other thoughts.

Tony knows “her secret.”

Tony wants to talk to her.

He wants to see her, be here with her . . .

Back at home, she had a printout of the hotel reservation right next to the flight information, under a magnet on the refrigerator. Did he wander around her apartment while she was sleeping?

What if he really did follow her here?

What if he pops out any second now? Surprise!

The thought is enough to make her queasy.

“Elena?”

She blinks, and realizes Landry is talking to her, gesturing at the waiting cashier. “Your turn to order.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m just feeling a little . . . out of it,” she murmurs, and asks for a venti black coffee.

“Are you okay?” Landry asks.

She’d never understand. Aside from Meredith’s death and the cancer diagnosis they all share, Landry Wells has her life together. Elena came here thinking she was finding kindred spirits: women who know what it’s like to walk in her shoes.

But they don’t. When this weekend is over, Landry is going to go back to her handsome lawyer husband and her two beautiful kids and her big house on the water. And Kay is going to go back to . . .

Well, who knows what Kay’s life is really like?

For better or worse, cancer or not, it’s a world away from hers, which means . . .

Which means I have never been more alone in my life.

“So did you see her?” Crystal demands of Frank, the moment they’re safely back in the car.

He’s driving this time, headed back to the station house. She has some information to look up on the Internet—the sooner, the better.

“Did I see who?”

“Jenna Coeur.”

His eyes widen. “Did I see her where?”

“At the memorial service,” Crystal says impatiently, pulling her iPad out of her bag.

“Jenna Coeur was there? Are you sure?”

“Positive. I recognized her but I don’t know if anyone else did, and I could tell she was trying to keep a low profile. She was disguised as a blonde—or maybe she is a blonde now—and she came in late and then snuck out right before the end of the service.”

“Why was she there?”

“Good question.” Crystal rapidly types the name Jenna Coeur into the search engine. “There’s obviously some connection between her and Meredith Heywood. We need to figure out what it is.”

“Maybe they’re old friends or something, from when they were kids.”

“I doubt it. Meredith lived in Ohio all her life and I’m pretty sure Jenna Coeur was from someplace in the northern Midwest—Minnesota, North Dakota . . . something like that. Her real name was Johanna Hart.”

“Coeur means heart in French.”

“You speak French?”

“I took it in high school. That’s one of the only words I remember. That’s because on Valentine’s Day junior year there was this Parisian exchange student who—”

“Frank.”

“Yeah.”

“As much as I love to hear about your teenage Casanova years, we’re talking about Jenna Coeur right now.”

“Right. I’ll tell you the other thing later,” Frank says as he pulls out onto the highway. “Her name was Mimi. It’s a good story.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“Named Mimi? French girls?”

“No, I meant aren’t they always good stories. Anyway—” Crystal breaks off as the search results appear. She scans the links, then clicks the top one and quickly reads the news item that pops up.

“Looks like our friend is back in the headlines today, Frank.”

“Yeah? What did she do?”

“Today? She went to a funeral and left early. But ask me what she did seven years ago today.”

“What did she—” Frank breaks off. “Oh. That was seven years ago already?”

Crystal nods, scanning the retrospective news item about Jenna Coeur—also known as the notorious Cold-Hearted Killer.

“She was acquitted, you know,” Frank comments.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Just like O. J. Simpson at his criminal trial.” He shakes his head. “If you ask me, they both got away with—”

“But O. J. Simpson wasn’t at Meredith’s funeral. Jenna Coeur was. Why?” Crystal types in Jenna Coeur’s name along with Meredith’s, looking in vain for a connection.

The two women’s lives must have intersected at some point in the past, even though they’re nowhere near the same age, haven’t ever lived in the same state, and God knows they’ve probably never traveled in the same social circles . . .

It doesn’t make sense. Jenna Coeur has been a recluse for the past few years. Why would she show up in Ohio today?

“I’m having a hard time coming up with any scenario where these two might cross paths,” she muses aloud. “Not in the real world, anyway . . .”

But what about online?

That’s a strong possibility—and one she fully intends to bring up when she interviews Meredith’s blogger friends later.

As Landry pours sugar into her steaming latte, still thinking about her conversation with Detective Burns, she finds herself wondering about Bruce Mangione, the man who’d brought her coffee back in the Atlanta airport.

Chances are, he’ll be on her flight home tomorrow. He’d said something about just being in Cincinnati for twenty– four hours, and there are only a couple of Sunday options for connecting flights back to Alabama.

If he is there, she’ll have to thank him again. They’d parted ways so quickly at the rental car counter . . .

And maybe she can ask him what he thinks about Meredith’s murder.

Landry assumes the detectives haven’t made much progress on the case, and she wonders what, exactly, Detective Burns is going to ask when they meet at the hotel later.

I wish I felt like I might have answers for her, but I probably have more questions than she does.

What if the case is never solved?

What if whoever killed Meredith gets away with it?

No. That can’t happen. They need some kind of closure. They, as in her family; they, as in the blogging community; they, as in . . .

Me.

I need closure.

I need to know that Meredith was the victim of a random crime, not stalked and killed because she shared too much online.

I need to know that what happened to her can’t possibly happen to me.

“Are we staying, or going?” Elena asks, interrupting her thoughts.

“It’s up to you guys,” Landry says with a shrug.

About to press her lips to the white plastic lid of her cup, Kay glances up and shrugs. “I don’t care. I’ll stay or go. It’s up to you, Landry. You’re driving.”

Landry isn’t used to being the driver or the decision maker. At home she often defers to Rob’s judgment, or to the kids’.

But today she’s discovered that she kind of enjoys being in charge. “Let’s stay.”

No sooner do the words escape her mouth than she sees the skittish expression on Elena’s face. “Or we can go,” she adds quickly. “I really don’t care.”

“I wouldn’t mind sitting down.” Kay is holding a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin.

“Good. We’ll sit.”

Landry allows Kay to lead the way to the only empty round table, over by the plate-glass window facing the road. They settle into three chairs, sandwiched between a high school girl reading a magazine and listening to music that’s audible from her earbuds and a woman who has her back to the room and is busily thumb-typing on her cell phone.

Watching Kay sip her tea as Elena gulps her coffee like it’s water, Landry can’t help but note their differences again—from each other, and from her. Elena is a little younger and brasher than the women she’s used to, Kay a bit older and more reserved.