Текст книги "The Perfect Stranger"

Автор книги: Wendy Corsi Staub

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Reaching Out

The first time my blog went live, I remember feeling totally alone, envisioning the void beyond my laptop. I was writing extremely personal stuff, things I might never mention to anyone in real life, face-to-face, yet there it was, heading out to . . . where?

Somewhere.

I guess deep down I was hoping someone might find it. But I doubted it, and knowing no one was reading made it easier to keep going. It was very liberating, writing about the day cancer changed my life or how exposed I felt at the hands (literally) of my surgeons or the difficulties keeping my job at the prison a priority.

Then one day it happened: a stranger—a reader—commented on my blog. And then another one did. And another. Each comment that said I was understood, justified, and among friends lifted my load bit by bit until somewhere along the way I got my brain back. It was no longer jam-packed with thoughts of cancer, but slowly, the real things that make up my life filtered back in.

Would that have happened simply with the passage of time? Would that have happened without all of you? I don’t think so. Sharing freed me from cancer’s hold. Discovering and connecting with an amazingly supportive and caring online community did that and more in ways I never thought possible.

—Excerpt from Kay’s blog, I’m A-Okay

Chapter 7

“Need a hand with your bag?”

Landry turns to see her handsome friend from the gate area standing right behind her in the narrow aisle of the plane, gesturing at her rolling bag.

“Oh . . . that’s okay, I . . .”

“Which seat are you in?”

“Right there, 12C. Aisle.”

He’s already picking up her bag, lifting it into the overhead bin above her seat.

“Thank you,” she says, sitting down.

“No problem.” He turns to lift his own bag into the bin just opposite, then settles into seat 12D, directly opposite. What a coincidence.

As the rest of the passengers board, obscuring her view across the aisle, she texts Rob to let him know that she’s on the plane at last. The flight delay was extended—twice—meaning they’re now going to land almost three hours late. She’ll be lucky if she has time to drop her bag at the hotel before the memorial service starts.

Okay, call me when you land. Love you, Rob texts back immediately, probably still out on the golf course.

She sends back a little sideways text heart the way Addison showed her, using the < and the 3 key. Then she texts Kay and Elena to let them know what time she lands.

She’d already texted them both earlier, after the second delay was announced. Neither has responded so far, but maybe—

“Ladies and gentlemen, the cockpit door is now closed,” the flight attendant announces. “Please turn off and put away all electronic devices.”

So much for hearing from her friends before she gets to Cincinnati.

The plane jerks as it begins to roll away from the gate. Landry puts her phone into her pocket and leans back. The two people beside her—a young couple occupying the window and middle seat—are whispering to each other.

Unfortunately, she already finished all the magazines Addison gave her, along with the newspaper she picked up back in the airport. Her only other reading material is digital—meaning she can’t access it until they’re in the air and the flight attendants green-light electronic devices again. She looks in the seat pocket for the airline magazine—does this airline even publish a magazine?—and finds just a barf bag and safety card.

Nothing to do but stare at the illuminated FASTEN SEAT BELT sign in the row in front of her.

Until her friend across the aisle asks, “So what’s in Cincinnati? Family? Friends?”

“Friends,” she says simply. “You have family there?”

He nods. “It’s my hometown. I lived there until I retired last year.”

“Retired? You’re retired?”

“I’m youthful for being in my late sixties, don’t you think?”

“I . . . um . . .” She could have sworn he was in his mid-forties or so.

He laughs. “I’m just kidding.”

“You’re not retired?”

“Oh, I’m retired. But I’m not in my sixties—or even my fifties. Yet. I retired at forty-eight. That’s the upside of being a cop.”

So he’s still older than he looks—but not that much older.

“How about you?” he asks.

“Me? I’m not a cop. Or retired. Or in my fifties. Yet.”

He grins at the quip and points a finger at her. “Quick. Very quick. I like that.”

She can’t help but smile. This isn’t flirting, though. Absolutely not.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m . . . a writer.”

Really? Where did that come from?

“What do you write?”

“A blog. I’m a blogger, really.”

“A blogger is a writer. So you’re a writer.”

Gratified, she smiles. “Right. And I’m a mom. Mostly a mom. And a wife,” she adds hastily.

“Wife . . . mom . . . blogger . . . writer. Got it.” He nods. “What do you blog about?”

She hesitates. “You know . . . my family . . . my husband, my kids, I have two kids . . .”

Cancer, I have cancer . . .

Had. Had cancer.

The intercom clicks on and the flight attendant launches into the safety demonstration.

Saved by the bell.

Thrusting her feet into a pair of black flats, Elena holds the bedpost with one hand to keep her balance, while fumbling through the clutter on the adjacent dresser top with the other hand. Her cell phone is here, thank God—imagine if she’d lost that? Although the battery is run way down. Ordinarily, she charges it overnight; clearly, last night she wasn’t in any condition to—

The toilet flushes in the bathroom.

Reminded that she’s not alone, Elena closes her eyes, bracing herself.

She hears the water run just long enough for hand-splashing, not hand-washing—and then the bathroom door opens and Tony reappears in her bedroom.

At least now he’s clothed from the waist down—unlike when he got out of her bed ten minutes ago. Rather, when she kicked him out.

“What are you looking for?” he asks.

“My keys.”

“I have them.”

She looks up. Seeing him standing there, in her bedroom, half naked—there are so many things she wants to say. But she has a flight to catch, and there’s no time for anything other than a strained, “Why do you have them?”

“Did you really think I let you drive home last night?”

That gives her pause. Dammit.

“So you drove my car?”

“You don’t remember?”

Clenched, she shakes her head. Dammit, dammit dammit . . .

In a way, she’s grateful to have forgotten pretty much everything that happened last night after the toasts. That’s probably a blessing.

On the other hand, it’s dangerous, she knows, in more ways than she can count, to have drunk herself into oblivion—again.

“I didn’t drive your car,” Tony tells her, sounding almost smug. “I drove my car. With you in it. You honestly don’t remem—”

“Where’s my car, Tony?”

“At the restaurant, where you left it. Where do you think it would—”

“At the restaurant? Are you kidding me?”

“Relax. I can drive you to—”

“I don’t have time for this! I have to get to the airport!”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

She closes her eyes, seething.

Mine. It’s my fault.

But I hate him even more than I hate myself.

Elbow on the arm of her seat, chin in hand, Landry focuses on the flight attendant standing in the aisle. She listens—well, pretends to listen, because it would be impolite not to—as though she’s never heard the safety spiel before in her life.

“ . . . keep in mind the nearest exit may be behind you . . . in the event of a water landing . . . loss of cabin pressure . . .”

She remembers the first flight she took after her cancer diagnosis, to Saint Thomas for her sister-in-law Mary Leigh’s Christmas wedding in the Virgin Islands. She recalls thinking, as the crew was going through the safety drill, that at least when you’re on a plane and a life-threatening situation pops up, you’ve been told exactly what to do.

But if you have the misfortune, as you’re going about your daily business, to be struck out of the clear blue sky with a life-threatening illness . . .

Well, then you’re completely on your own. There is no plan. No escape chute, no flotation device.

She blogged about that later; wrote about cancer as if it were an airline journey, with mock in-case-of-emergency instructions. It was a clever post, one of her first that generated lots of appreciative comments.

The safety presentation concludes, and the flight attendants go back to preparing for takeoff as the plane joins the endless line of other delayed aircraft inching toward the runway. The worst weather has passed—for now—but a stormy day is forecast here.

Actually, there was unsettled weather along the entire East Coast. She overheard other passengers talking back in the gate area. One was trying to connect to Philadelphia, another to Hartford.

Wondering whether Elena will be able to fly out as planned, Landry gazes past her row mates, noting the still-gray sky beyond the portal. Then the man in the window seat abruptly pulls the shutter down, obliterating her view.

She looks around for another portal and once again makes eye contact with the man across the aisle.

“So where do you live in Alabama?” he asks.

She keeps the answer vague: “Baldwin County.”

“Me too. Gulf Shores. Right on the beach.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Alabama is the best place in the world to retire, did you know that?”

“Is that a statistic?”

“No. Opinion. Mine. My wife wanted to go to Florida, but I won that battle. I don’t win many, believe me. But that was the important one.”

Wife—so he has a wife. She relaxes at last. He’s just a nice, friendly guy making conversation to pass the time. Nothing more.

“You’re not that far from Florida,” she points out. “The panhandle, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, my wife was thinking Boca. She has family there. Too fancy for my blood. Hers too—but she wouldn’t admit it.”

“How does she like Alabama?”

“Loves it. What’s not to love? Can’t beat the weather, or the friendly people, or the tax breaks.”

“So you’re both retired?”

“Not exactly. The wife’s in real estate, so she got licensed down there, and I’m licensed down there, too.”

“To do what?”

“Pack a pistol,” he says with a grin. “What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just kidding around. Well, not about the gun license. But it’s just for my job.” He reaches into his pocket, takes out his wallet, passes her a white business card. “Here. In case you ever need me. You never know.”

She looks down.

BRUCE MANGIONE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR AND PERSONAL SECURITY

“No, you never know,” she agrees, and tucks the card into her bag.

“I can’t believe you’re spending all this time and money to go to a funeral for a perfect stranger,” Tony tells Elena as they barrel along interstate 93 toward Logan Airport.

“She’s not a stranger. She’s a friend. One of the closest friends I—”

“You never even met her!”

“So? I have plenty of friends I’ve never met.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just . . .”

He doesn’t bother to complete the comment, and Elena isn’t about to ask him to.

Jaw set, she keeps her head turned toward the passenger’s window, eyes fixated on the suburban landscape flashing past against an overcast sky.

Anything is better than looking at Tony.

Whenever she thinks about last night, she cringes. Of all the one night stands she’s ever had—and there have been plenty, more than she remembers—this is by far the worst. She doesn’t even like the man. How the hell did she end up bringing him home?

Oh, come on. You can guess, can’t you?

After a few too many glasses of wine, the usual loneliness and bad judgment set in . . .

That’s how it usually happens—more and more often, it seems.

You try to fill the gaping void left by your mother’s death, or your father’s neglect, or your own illness, or . . .

Who knows what really lies at the root of her problems? The only thing that’s certain is that she feels empty inside; has felt empty for a long time now. Most of her life, but the real problem started when she got sick.

So she tries to fill the emptiness with booze, and empty talk, and meaningless sex . . .

Tony Kerwin. For God’s sake.

When are you going to learn?

Sometimes, the morning-after haze is frustrating, and she struggles to piece together the events of the evening before. But in this case, she realizes, amnesia might actually be a blessing.

“So you said this woman is someone you got to know online?” Tony asks.

“Did I?”

“Last night.”

“Oh.”

Maybe amnesia isn’t a blessing.

What else did I say to him last night? she wonders nervously. How much does he know about Meredith—and the others? About me?

“Did you ever even talk to her on the phone?” Tony asks.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t get it.”

She shrugs and gestures at the car in front of them. “You might want to back off that guy’s bumper.”

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

“I’d like to get there alive. Back off, okay? Please?”

He ignores her.

Damn him.

Thank goodness the school year is almost over. Another few weeks and she won’t have to see him again until fall. By then this will have blown over.

That she was forced to accept a ride to the airport from him is beyond maddening, but what choice did she have? There wasn’t time to collect her own car from the restaurant parking lot, nor even time to arrange for a car service. Her only option was to let Tony drive her—or miss the flight.

Even now that might happen. She steals a quick glance at the dashboard clock. They’re cutting it really close. Maybe the tailgating is okay after all.

“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.

Both Teddy and Neal have been busy talking to people, tending to details. Teddy, the numbers guy, has been handling the bills and the paperwork; hands-on Neal dealt with the logistics of cars clogging the driveway and the street, the funeral service arrangements, where to seat all the visitors . . .

Poor Dad is too shell-shocked to do anything but sit and stare as people pat him on the shoulder.

But Keith . . .

Keith has spent the last few days either hiding away upstairs or on his phone incessantly checking his e-mail or texts. That didn’t escape Neal, the more intuitive of Beck’s brothers.

Touched by the concern in his eyes when he asked her about it, Beck said, “Now isn’t a great time to get into what’s going on with me and Keith.”

“I know it isn’t,” he agreed, putting an arm around her. “But when you need to talk . . . I’m here. Okay?”

She nodded her thanks, unable to speak.

Her brother—both her brothers—have solid marriages. Teddy rekindled the flame with his high school prom date a few years after graduation and walked down the aisle with her at twenty-three; Neil wed his college sweetheart. They’ve both always made it look so easy.

Maybe that’s why she said yes when Keith proposed, though he seemed halfhearted about it and she had her reservations even then, mostly based on his mercurial moods.

She didn’t share that with anyone, though, not even her friends, or her mother. She figured everyone must have doubts but also assumed it was normal for relationships to run hot and cold. Anyway, that was the logical sequence of events, right? Graduate high school, graduate college, get a job, get married, buy a house . . .

Have babies is supposed to be the next step, but it looks like for her it will be Hammer Out Separation Agreement.

“Rebecca?” Keith pokes his head into the room as she reaches up to fasten a string of pearls around her neck. “Your father wants to know if you’re ready to go.”

“Almost.”

The funeral director asked the family to be there a couple of hours ahead of everyone else. That was the case when her grandfather died, too—but it was so they could have a private viewing of the body.

Today, with Mom, that’s not going to happen. Her body was cremated. That was Dad’s decision. He said it was what she would have wanted.

Beck isn’t so sure about that, but she wasn’t about to argue.

Her hands tremble; she struggles with the clasp on her necklace.

Keith, still standing behind her in the doorway of her room, doesn’t move to help her. Not surprising.

She wonders if he remembers that she wore these pearls on their wedding day. Mom gave them to her. Beck stumbled across them last night in a velvet case in a dresser drawer here in her bedroom, still right where she stowed them before she and Keith left on their honeymoon.

Whoever broke into the house—whoever murdered her mother—didn’t find them.

He didn’t find a lot of things you’d have expected to be stolen.

Maybe that’s why the detectives don’t seem convinced it was a just a simple robbery gone bad. They didn’t come right out and say that the other day, but Beck could read between the lines.

They suspect her father.

That they didn’t arrest him doesn’t mean they’ve ruled him out—but it doesn’t mean they haven’t.

She can only hope that after interviewing everyone in the family, including Dad himself, they realize it’s ludicrous to think he could be behind this.

But if it goes any further and the police want to talk to Dad again . . .

Beck and her brothers have been quietly discussing whether they should hire an attorney. It’s not something anyone wants to bring up to their father, but they’ve agreed that if the questioning persists after today, they should all stop talking to the detectives and get in touch with a lawyer.

Maybe they should have done it before now, but they don’t want to raise any red flags or be labeled as uncooperative. That would only complicate matters or, God forbid, seem to implicate Dad in some wrongdoing.

Finally, Beck’s shaky hands manage to fit the hook into the clasp on the pearl necklace.

“How long do you think the service will last?” Keith asks.

“I have no idea. An hour? Two?” She picks up a hairbrush.

She doesn’t turn to look at him, but she can see him reflected in the mirror. He’s wearing a dark suit, and he trimmed his beard for the occasion, but he didn’t shave the damned thing off.

She’s been asking him to do that for months, ever since he grew it. She’s never been a fan of facial hair. He knows that. So why, she wondered at first, would he grow the beard in the first place?

Because someone else in his life—someone who matters more than I do—is a fan of facial hair.

That’s the answer that makes the most sense.

“Okay. So I’ll be waiting downstairs,” Keith tells her, starting to go.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“You can leave,” she says. “After the service. If you want. You can go back to Lexington.”

She waits for him to tell her that it’s okay—that he’ll stay here another night, at least. That he won’t leave her yet.

Ever.

He doesn’t say that.

He doesn’t say anything at all, just nods and leaves the room.

Okay. So . . .

She inhales deeply, puffs it out slowly, ruffling her bangs with her own gust of breath.

Jackass. He really is a jackass.

Beck brushes her bangs back into place, studying her own reflection in the mirror.

You look so much like your mother . . .

How many times has she heard that in her life?

But she’s never really seen it until lately. Mom had short blond hair; she has long brunette hair. Mom had dark brown eyes; hers are hazel. Mom was short and kind of round; she is tall and lanky.

And yet . . .

We do look alike.

She can finally note the resemblance in the curve of her eyebrows, the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lower lip as opposed to the slash of an upper . . .

Her image blurs with tears.

She feels around on the dresser for a tissue, keeping her eyes wide-open, not wanting her mascara to run. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past week. As soon as you blink, it’s raccoon city.

So you don’t blink. You blot.

She finds a tissue. Dabs at her eyes. Stares at herself.

Oh, Mom.

Is this the way it’s going to be? Every time she looks into the mirror, is she going to miss her mother even more desperately?

Remember me when I am gone away . . .

That’s the first line of the Christina Georgina Rossetti poem she will be reading at the funeral. Her mother had been an English major during her fleeting college semesters before she met Dad, and she kept all her texts on the bookshelves in the den. Beck found the poem among them, one of many with the corner of the page folded down and notes scribbled in the margins. It seemed fitting.

“I wish I could talk to you, Mom,” she whispers. “I wish you could tell me . . .”

So many things.

What to do about the mess she’s made—no, Keith has made—of their marriage.

How to help Dad, not just today, but every day, going forward.

And . . .

Most importantly . . .

“Who did this to you, Mommy?”

The words escape her on a sob, just as she sees a shadow come up in the doorway.

Keith again.

“What?” she asks, high-pitched, sounding strangled.

He just looks at her.

“What?” This time she almost screams it.

“Nothing.”

He walks away without saying another word.

No first-class ticket for Jaycee this time. Not on this no-frills airline.

But at least there were plenty of seats available on the last minute flight to Cincinnati, and she has an entire row to herself.

As the plane taxis out to the runway, she pushes her sunglasses up to her hair and presses her forehead against the window, staring at the gray mist shrouding the New York skyline to the northwest.

She probably shouldn’t be doing this—flying to Cincinnati on a whim.

But when Cory showed her that newspaper, her first instinct was to escape; catch the first flight out of town. She didn’t even care where she went, as long as it was someplace between the coasts, someplace off the beaten path like . . .

Ohio?

I’m cc’ing you just in case you can join us last minute, Jaycee . . .

Browsing the last minute travel Web site, she impulsively entered Cincinnati into the search engine.

Before she could rethink the idea, she had booked a ticket on the next flight out. In the cab on the way to the airport, she used her phone to call a luxury hotel downtown as opposed to the one BamaBelle had mentioned in her e-mail—she doesn’t want to run into the others.

No? Then why are you going at all?

The truth is, she’s not sure. She just knows that she can’t stay here, and she feels as though she should be there. For now, that’s enough.

“Hi, I’m just wondering whether you have rooms available for this evening?” she said to the desk clerk at the Cincinnatian.

“Yes, we do. Would you like to make a reservation?”

“I’ll call back. Thanks.”

But no thanks. Hotel reservations need credit cards, and credit cards leave tracks. Much safer to walk in and pay cash, like she did in L.A. last week.

Maybe, when she lands, she’ll simply hole up in a suite, order room service, and spend the weekend in seclusion.

Or maybe she’ll decide to attend the memorial service for Meredith.

Maybe I owe it to her. And to myself. For everything I did wrong when it came to my connection with Meredith, in the end, I cared about her. We were friends.

One thing is certain: if she does go to the service, she’ll keep to herself. The others will never even have to know she’s there.

It’ll be just like on the Internet, where she can be shrouded in anonymity until when or if she does decide to make her presence known—or she can simply lurk, silently watching.

Bruce Mangione is quite the conversationalist. Throughout the endless wait on the runway, he keeps Landry engaged—mostly with talk of movies they both happen to have seen and books they both happen to have read.

Then, after a lull during taxi and takeoff, he asks again about her plans in Cincinnati for the weekend.

“You said you’re visiting a friend?”

“Yes.”

“So . . . doing some sightseeing?”

“Actually . . .” She takes a deep breath. “It’s a funeral for a friend. I’m going with other friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nods, uncomfortable.

“Was it sudden?”

Again she nods, and finds herself wanting to tell him the whole story. He is, after all, a former cop. Maybe he has some insight into how this could have happened to Meredith.

But that’s silly, isn’t it? It’s not as though he works in Cincinnati law enforcement anymore. And even if he did—or if he had a direct pipeline into the investigation—it’s not as if he’d share details of the case with a perfect stranger on a plane.

Anyway, she doesn’t necessarily want to get into how well she knows—or rather, doesn’t know—Meredith. Why complicate what should really remain pleasant small talk between two people who are never going to see each other again?

She changes the subject, asking him if there’s a magazine in his seat-back pocket.

He looks. “No magazine.”

“I was wondering if maybe I just didn’t have one, or if the airline doesn’t publish one.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

They both fall silent again as the plane gains altitude. Hint taken. He’s no longer asking for the details about Meredith’s death.

But maybe she wishes he would. Maybe she wants to tell him what happened. After all, he’s a private investigator. Maybe he can—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a bell signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant announces, “the fasten seat-belt light is still on and we ask that you please remain seated. However, it’s now safe to turn on electronic devices . . .”

Landry bends over to take her electronic reader from the bag under the seat in front of her. When she straightens, she sees that Bruce Mangione is already opening his laptop.

The moment has passed.

It’s probably just as well.

“So what’s Jermaine doing today?” Frank asks, in the passenger seat beside Crystal as she pulls onto the interstate, heading toward the western suburbs.

“Same thing he does every Saturday, working. What’s Marcy doing?”

“Same thing she does every Saturday: taking the kids to activities. Swim lessons, ballet, Little League . . .”

Three kids. Three different directions. God bless Marcy.

Frank’s wife is a bubbly, energetic woman adored by everyone, including her husband. But that doesn’t stop him from straying.

“You’re missing it all,” Crystal observes, merging into traffic. “Their ball games, their dance recitals . . .”