But why? I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m single and so is he. And the fact that it’s probably way too soon for me—or him, for that matter—to get involved with someone only makes me stupid, not a criminal.
I push my guilt aside, along with the recurring flashes from last night. When I get to the Ejector, I work my way through the night’s accumulation of email, then plan my attack on the ten new files that have appeared on my desk. More boring insurance files from Matt, I assume.
My phone rings. “Emma Tupper speaking.”
There’s a click and a mechanized female voice says, “I’m sorry, that was an invalid response. Please press one—”
I hang up and start working my way through the files. Washer breaks causing flood, blah, blah, blah. I’m having trouble concentrating on the details. I stare out the window at the gray winter sky. The clouds are almost indistinguishable from the air and the earth below. More flashes from last night assault me. The way his skin tasted, a mixture of salt and soap. The way his fingers felt on the depression at the base of my spine. The rough caress of his teeth on my clavicle.
Why didn’t Dominic wake me up before he left? Better question: Why did he sleep with me in the first place? Was it all just a reaction to the call from Emily? And what about me? What do I want? Was sleeping with him only a way to get back at Craig?
My phone rings again. “Emma Tupper speaking.”
“I’m sorry, that was an invalid response. Please press one—”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Jenny!”
She arrives in my doorway looking panicky. She’s wearing a military-inspired suit with a super-short skirt. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy tumble.
“Yeah?”
“I’m getting some kind of automated phone calls. I need you to call Tech Support and have them block the number.”
“No problem.”
She turns on her very high heels with a determined look on her face. I watch her through the glass wall, twirling the phone cord around her finger as she flirts with the tech guy. Not that I condone flirting as a technique for getting things, but life would be simpler if a hair twirl could get me what I wanted.
Maybe that’s why Dominic left? Because I never twirled my hair around my finger?
What the hell is wrong with me? Seriously. I’m acting the victim with everyone. I should probably be in that group, that victims’ group Detective Nield suggested. What did he say again? That people found it harder getting back into their lives than they expected? Well, he was right about that.
My distracted gaze wanders around the office. I notice something resting on the chaise longue. It’s the thick file Craig was carrying yesterday. I flip through it; it’s the Mutual Assurance file about the stolen Manet painting, the one Sophie’s working on with Matt. I wonder what Craig was doing with it.
My phone rings. I consider not answering it, but Jenny’s still on the line with the tech guy. I grab the phone. “Emma Tupper speaking.”
“It’s me.”
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. “What do you want, Craig?”
He sucks in his breath. “Is this the way it’s going to be now?”
“Looks like.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Is that why you called?”
“No. I left a file in your office yesterday.”
“I have it. I’ll get Jenny to bring it to you.”
“No, I meant to leave it. Matt and I talked about it, and we’d like you to handle it.”
“But wasn’t Sophie—”
“It’s your file if you want it, Emma.”
Do I want to work on something more interesting than the ABC insurance files littering my office? Hell, yes. Even if it is some guilt-driven act of charity from Craig.
“Okay, thanks.”
“No problem. Call me if you have any questions.”
We hang up and almost immediately my phone rings again.
“Emma Tupper speaking.”
“I’m sorry, that was an invalid response. Please press one—”
Arg! If Jenny’s flirting can’t get this fixed, I’m going to have to get my number changed. This must’ve been how Craig felt when he was getting all those crank calls. No. Fuck that. I will not feel sorry for Craig.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and start googling Victor Bushnell. If I’m going to take over this file, I need to devote 110 percent of my attention to it. Sophie might be the devil, but I’ve never discounted her legal skills.
Victor Bushnell is a self-made billionaire who got his start by developing an online payment system that made access to pay-per-view porn sites easier. Once he sold that business, he moved into more legitimate online payment services, investing heavily in some of the Internet’s biggest successes. Last year he made a large donation to the Concord Museum so they’d name a gallery after him. Construction was completed in November, and he held an opening gala the night I came home for five hundred of his close personal friends. Bushnell got several of them to loan their paintings for the event. The centerpiece of the collection was his own prized possession—a Manet he’d paid seven million dollars for several years ago. Security discovered the painting missing the next morning. So far, the police haven’t even figured out how the painting was taken, let alone who took it.
The painting is insured for twenty million dollars, and Mutual is—no surprise—being shirty about paying out. I can see from the file memos that Sophie has spent a lot of time trying to figure out a way for Mutual to void the policy, without success.
I pull out a picture of the stolen article. It’s a self-portrait of Manet sitting in a boat. He’s painting while a white-robed lady watches him. The water around the boat shimmers like glass. It looks cool and inviting. It’s beautiful and striking, and if I had a spare twenty million, I might just spend it on this painting. Or not.
I hear the phone on Jenny’s desk ring. She answers it distractedly. “Ms. Tupper’s office. Yeah, she’s here. Hold on a sec.”
The phone next to me buzzes. “Yes?”
“It’s for you.”
“Jenny, when I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, it’s because I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say a little more testily than I mean to.
“But he sounds really cute. I’m transferring the call.”
I make a sound of protest, but before I can stop her, the line clicks over. It has that fuzzy quality overseas calls sometimes have.
“Emma Tupper speaking.”
“Hey, Emma Tupper,” Dominic says.
My tongue feels thick. “Hello, you. How was your flight?”
“Bumpy.” Dominic’s voice sounds low and serious.
“I hate that.”
“Yeah. Look, Emma, about last night.”
I glance up. Jenny’s watching me.
“Hold that thought.” I motion for her to close my door, which she does with a knowing smile. “You were saying?”
He clears his throat. “I was saying . . . I’m sorry I left like that. I had an early flight.”
“So your note said.”
“I should’ve woken you.”
“That would’ve been nice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I feel like, like . . . I’ve fucked everything up.”
Not yet, but I have a feeling you just might.
I stay silent.
He lets out a slow breath. “This is hard for me to say, but I thought a lot about this on the plane, and I think we made a . . . a mistake.”
My throat constricts. “You do?”
“Yeah, not that it wasn’t great.”
“Right.”
“I’m not happy about doing this on the phone, okay? It’s just, I’m not there, and, you kno
w, I’m all fucked up right now. About Emily, and . . . everything. And after everything you’ve been through, I don’t want to—”
“Lead me on?”
“No.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sorry, Emma.”
I look down at my hands. They’re gripping the phone cord so tightly my knuckles are white. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No, it does matter. That’s not what I want you to think.”
“Okay, I won’t think that.” I pause, trying to steady my voice. And breathe. Breathing is important too. “Anyway, I’m kind of busy here. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Emma, I—”
“Have a good trip, Dominic.”
I hang up with a shaking hand and turn my chair until I’m shielded from the people passing my fishbowl office, living their ordinary lives. A few hot tears slide down my face. I let them fall.
He thinks it was a mistake. One of the better nights of my life is something that he wishes had never happened, that he wants to forget. Well, that probably won’t be too difficult. I’m pretty forgettable these days.
Did I really misjudge Dominic by this wide a margin? I thought I was smarter than that.
But that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it? Thinking that because I’m smart, I should see things coming. Like being smart gives you precognition, or defensive skills that other people don’t have. When all it really does is makes you blind, and stupid about the things that come easily to others.
My phone rings and I answer it automatically. “Emma Tupper speaking.”
“I’m sorry, that was an invalid response. Please press one—”
Will you think less of me if I collapse in a heap on the floor?” I ask Stephanie.
We’re sitting on the squashy white couch in her beach house–themed living room. The cool-blue walls usually make me feel peaceful, but it’s going to take more than a jar full of beach glass and an ocean-sounds CD to heal what ails me.
“Of course not,” Stephanie says. She’s sitting in the matching armchair wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. She looks about twelve years old, haircut and all. I think she may have been cutting her own bangs again. They have that ragged off-cut look I used to give to my Barbies.
“Good.”
I lay my head down on the couch and pull my knees up into the fetal position. If only I had a nice, warm womb to hide in.
“That’s all he said? That he didn’t want to lead you on?”
“Yeah. Or maybe I said that, and he agreed? The details are a little fuzzy.”
She looks thoughtful. “And he seemed nice too.”
“Not at the beginning. That first night, when he was moving into my apartment, he didn’t believe me. He thought I was a crazy person. I should’ve remembered that.”
“I don’t think that qualifies as a warning sign that he’d regret sleeping with you.”
“No? I’m not so sure.” I stare off into space for a minute. “I just wish my life would go back to the way it was.”
“Why?”
“Because I was happy then. Things weren’t perfect, but still. I knew where I fit. I knew where I was going.”
“And you don’t feel that way anymore?”
“No. I feel kind of . . . lost in the middle of my own life, if that makes any sense.”
“I think it’s normal to feel that way after everything you’ve been through.”
“Then how do I make it go away?”
“Not by expecting everything to go back to the way it was, I don’t think. Your life has changed, whether you wanted it to or not. You have to adapt.”
“How do I do that?”
She leaves her seat and sits next to my head. She rubs her hand gently over my hair, smoothing it away from my face. “This really isn’t like you, you know.”
“I know, right?”
“What are you going to do about it, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to lie here while your life passes you by, or are you going to fight for what you want?”
I sit up. “Hey! You said you wouldn’t think less of me if I collapsed in a heap.”
She smiles. “I don’t, but I do expect more of you.”
“Why?”
“Because you do great things. And you’ve done them all by yourself.”
“Such as?”
She ticks a list off on her fingers. “Graduating near the top of your class. Getting that scholarship. Making partner two years before you’re supposed to.”
“No, I haven’t done that,” I say petulantly.
“Well, you did those other things.” Her eyes turn thoughtful. “Where’s that Emma?”
“I think I lost her in Africa.”
“She’s not lost. She’s right here if you want her to be.”
“You sound like Dominic. He told me I should treat what happened to me like an opportunity to change the things in my life I didn’t like.”
“That sounds like good advice.”
I pick up a pillow and whack her with it. “I’m sorry, that was an invalid response.”
Chapter 17: Groundwork
When I get to the office the next day, Sophie is sitting in my chair, waiting for me. She’s wearing another one of her immaculate black suits, and a pair of shiny red heels that remind me of the ruby slippers the Wicked Witch of the West wanted to steal from Dorothy.
“Keeping bankers’ hours, I see,” she says in her tight, precise diction.
I glance at my watch. It’s 8:13. I’d bet good money that she, Matt, and I are the only three people on the whole floor.
I will not let her bait me, I will not let her bait me, I will not . . .
“Gee, Sophie, are you thinking about taking over another one of my offices? I would’ve thought I’d be safe from that in the Ejector.”
Her eyes narrow. “I came to retrieve something that belongs to me.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Where’s my file?”
The file is in the briefcase swinging in my hand, where I put it last night in case I got inspired to work at home. I ended up moping at Stephanie’s instead, but Sophie doesn’t have to know that.
I put my briefcase on the floor. “Are you talking about my file?”
“Your file. Please. That file was mine, as you very well know. I want it back.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sophie. You know how Matt is when he makes a decision.”
“Ha! I know what really happened.”
“What’s that?”
“You obviously cried victim to Craig, and he convinced Matt to give you the file.”
I laugh. “You really think I’d ask Craig for anything right now?”
“Of course you would. You want him back.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Then why’d you kiss him on Cathy Keeler?”
“Because I didn’t know you’d stolen him yet.”
She falters. “You were dead.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You can’t have him back.”
“Sophie, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t want Craig back. But if I did, that would be for him to decide, not you. He’s not a piece of property, and this isn’t the school yard. Grow up and leave me alone.”
She stands aggressively, anger crinkling her face into a snarl. “I want that file.”
“Take it up with Matt. Get out of my office.”
“This isn’t over.”
She marches past me. I watch her red heels click, click, click down the hall toward my old office. I can almost hear the cackle of her voice muttering, I’ll get you, my pretty.
It’s bad enough that we all have to work in the same firm
,” I say to Craig. “But to find her lying in wait for me, and to have you directing pity files my way. It’s too much, Craig. I can’t take it.”
We’re in the break room, where I went in search of a full-fat croissant after my exchange with Sophie. When I found Craig there, standing at the cappuccino machine, it took me about three seconds to lose it.
“It wasn’t pity, Emma,” he says, his frothing milk abandoned on the counter.
“Don’t bullshit me, Craig. Please.”
“Why’d you take the file, then?”
“Because the files Matt’s been giving me are boring as hell. I’d be crazy to turn something like this down. And you knew that. You’re manipulating me.”
He raises his palms in protest. “When have I ever been able to do that?”
He has a point, but I can’t let him know that. Especially not when too large a part of me wants to let him comfort me. Craig’s always great in a crisis. It’s one of his best qualities.
“Just keep Sophie away from me, all right?”
“I’ll do my best.”
I turn to leave.
“Emma?”
“What?”
He gives me a knowing smile. “Don’t forget your croissant.”
When my phone finally stopped ringing yesterday, I called the president of the museum and asked him if he could arrange a meeting with the detective in charge of the theft investigation. He was a little reluctant at first, but since it’s in the museum’s interest to cooperate with us for now, I eventually got my meeting. So here I am, back at the police station, walking through the rows of cubicles full of outdated computers and stained coffee mugs.
I shoot a look at the large case board as I pass it. I scroll through the names, but as predicted, mine is gone. A new year means the black standouts among all the sad red stories get erased, filed away. It’s hard to believe I was standing here less than a month ago, sure I’d gotten the hard part over with.
Detective Nield walks toward me with a welcoming smile on his round face, his Newman-blue eyes glinting. He’s accompanied by a tall, plain woman in her midthirties with strawberry-colored hair that’s parted in the middle and falls stick straight to her shoulders. She’s wearing gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and simple black pumps. She has an olive-green folder tucked under her arm.
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