Chapter 14
Seven Days Before the Hurricane
In the morning, Beau and I still aren’t speaking.
But the Barnie’s on Park Avenue is alive with morning chatter and the sounds of fresh coffee being prepared.
My thoughts are drowned out by the usual low, rumbling hums of coffee grinding and the whine of steam pulsing into steel mugs, frothing milk of every variety.
I didn’t sleep last night. I passed out a few times amidst fitful tossing and turning, but none of it was restful.
The fear won’t let go. Fear of what the investigation might turn up. Fear Beau is keeping another secret from me.
Because if Beau is keeping any other secrets about Gemma, I don’t know how either of us survives this.
Around 2:00 a.m., I doomscrolled Gemma’s social media—searching the photos of her life in the years when she and I knew each other in California.
I zoomed in on pictures and cross-referenced location tags to try to find some past connection to Beau.
In the late hours, the snapshots on her Instagram grid took on a darker hue, a sinister shade I hadn’t seen before.
I studied her eyes, watching how her smile shifted from carefree in the early posts to slightly more guarded as the years progressed.
I scoured the edges of images for clues she was in trouble.
Of course, I stared too long at the picture she posted of herself posing in a window.
“When he catches you in the perfect light.”
By 3:00 a.m., I had revisited my memories of all the times Gemma was at my house for résumé prep. I tried to remember if Beau and Gemma were ever alone together. What was their dynamic? Did they fight then? Impossible. Beau would have told me. He tells me everything.
Except for the things he’s keeping to himself. Like whatever he and Gemma talked about the night she died.
His bloody pocket square is back in my purse, crowding my thoughts like some kind of tell-tale heart.
All my late-night scrolling has left me tired and bleary-eyed, so I keep my sunglasses on until the last possible second and make my way to the back of the shop, skirting the windows that overlook the brick-paved courtyard. Only pushing up my glasses when I realize my date is already here.
Big smile, Este. You can’t afford to look like you’re falling apart right now. Even if you are.
At the sight of me, Autumn sends an arm straight into the air, grinning widely and waving. “Morning, sunshine!” she calls.
I try to smile, but everything looks different after Beau’s confession. Every single piece of this fucked-up puzzle. Gemma. Beau. Even me.
She quit Lemon & Fig and never mentioned it. Emptied out her apartment like she was skipping town. Fought with my husband. How well did I really know Gemma?
The chirp of Autumn’s voice feels like the pitch of a rusty hinge—grating my ears—but I keep my smile welded in place. If there were things I didn’t know about Gemma, maybe Autumn can fill in the gaps.
“Morning,” I answer, hoping to match her trill. “Thanks for being available to meet.”
“Oh, a text at four in the morning is going to get a response, Este. Especially from me.”
It’s a strange thing to say. Most people leave their phone notifications off through the night. Not me, of course. And not Autumn either.
I wonder what Autumn knows about the razor’s edge.
She watches me expectantly as I take the bistro chair beside her. There’s a hopeful expression on her face when she says, “I’m so happy you texted. I had such a good time at your dinner party last night. And I was thinking we don’t hang out enough. And never only the two of us.”
I almost feel bad I didn’t come this morning to socialize, but I need Autumn’s help. So I ask her how her week’s been. When her shoulders briefly squeeze upward like she can barely tamp down the enthusiasm, it occurs to me I’ve never asked her a personal question like this before.
“Ohmygod, you’re so sweet to ask! I’m planning a big bat mitzvah for next weekend. And Jenny Rubenstein is one tough customer,” she says. “I’ve been working for weeks on the Make Your Own Mitzvah Mocktail station, but you can’t believe the politics of ice sculpting in this town.”
As she describes infighting among vendors—the DJ who hates the catering manager for interrupting the set lists with the pacing of food—I listen carefully. But when the conversation turns to the logistics that go into hiring a champagne aerialist, I fear we’re losing the plot.
“Autumn—”
“Sorry,” she says. “There’s so much going on. Not to mention everything with Gemma. How have you been?” Her lips quirk a little, like she’s curious to see if I’ll admit that I’ve heard the gossip about Beau.
“Not great,” I say. “Gemma was a good friend. I think I’m in a little bit of denial.
Listen,” I go on, “I didn’t want to say anything at the dinner party.
But I’ve been worried about you, too.” I say it because it’s true, but I hate how much I’m hoping she’ll offer more intel in return for my sympathy right now.
Information. A thread to pull. Anything.
I haven’t socialized with a hidden agenda since my Simon days, and it feels corrosive.
“You and Gemma worked together so often.”
I let the words hang in the air for a moment.
Autumn nods. “She was doing such a good job at Lemon & Fig that she did some moonlighting with me, picking up bartending gigs at parties for the extra cash. She’d only been doing it for six months or so, but that’s a long time in the service industry.
Most people only stay a few months, and then they get bored or burnt-out and move on to something new. But Gemma was such a pro…”
I shift in my seat. “I still can’t figure out why she quit Lemon & Fig. That job interview wasn’t a guarantee.”
“She quit with me, too,” she says. “Said she didn’t need any more shifts.”
“What?”
Autumn hums noncommittally, and I look down to mask the fact that I’m starved for every detail. Under the table, my legs bounce slightly.
Gemma left both of her jobs, and then at the end of her last shift, she died. Autumn must know more about why.
Autumn nods, takes a sip of her coffee, and looks around the shop.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say, reaching out and putting a hand on her arm.
“I mean…” She stalls out, but I can tell she wants to spill what she’s holding back. “I know Gemma wanted to make a good impression with everyone. The thing someone said that night, about pulling a Nora? She could be a little flirty with guests.”
“What, you think she pissed off someone’s wife?”
“No. It’s not that.” Autumn swallows, and then slowly says, “Gemma was very discreet about her dating life.”
She was very discreet about a lot of things apparently.
“I only found out by accident,” she goes on.
“A month or two ago, she left her phone behind after an event one night, and it lit up with text after text until she came to claim it. I think she was dating someone. She said she couldn’t tell me who.
Someone married or in the process of maybe divorcing?
The details were fuzzy, but it sounded complicated. ”
“Ohmygod!” The words fall out of my mouth in a rush as pure shock zaps through me.
Autumn takes in my reaction, which was clearly bigger than she was expecting.
“Did you tell the police about this?” I say, trying to recover.
As she nods, my phone rings in my purse. My hand feels heavy as I reach for it.
Gemma was having an affair with a married man. Add it to the long list of things she never mentioned. If Gemma was having an affair, whoever she was seeing could be the reason she was killed.
I see Nora’s name on the caller ID and look at Autumn. As eager to please as always, she makes a gesture encouraging me to take the call.
“Hey,” I say to Nora, and my voice sounds hollow. Like someone has scooped out my insides.
Who was the guy?
My thoughts jump to Beau, and his confession that Gemma was upset about something from the past.
“Can you meet me somewhere? Like, now?” Nora asks.
“Is everything okay?” And as I ask, it feels like nothing will ever be okay again.
Nora says, “I’m going to send you an address, okay?”
I make my apologies to Autumn, but I’m happy to be going. I need a minute alone.
My phone chimes with a text from a 310 number, and my chest squeezes.
10:24 A.M.
I know what Beau did. Do you?
No thank you, ominous phone number.
My marriage, my life, my sanity—every piece of me is in free fall. And I’m chasing the wreckage—picking up bits and pieces—like I’m going to be able to put it all back together with my bare hands.
I’m too distracted to look at the address Nora sends. I copy and paste in a daze, and let the robotic voice on my dash guide me, doing my best not to hyperventilate or drive into a mailbox.
Talking to Autumn was supposed to help. She was supposed to have a clue or some reason to believe Beau’s not hiding something sinister. But instead, I’m spiraling.
Every street looks the same. Every second stretches like it’s taunting me. Finally, I pull into a driveway as my breath catches. Because this? This is not what I expected.
“What the actual fuck, Nora?”