Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I breathed, slumping against the wall.
“And I won’t mention this to Neil. But I would like it if you could convince him to call me. In his own time, of course.”
“I promise I will. He’s going to need you.”
The secretary gave me the number, as promised. I checked on Neil, to make sure he was still asleep. He lay in our bed, Olivia in her playpen beside him. Neither stirred, so I crept out and closed the door until just before it latched. I went to the kitchen and sat down, because my knees trembled. I glanced up at the clock. It was late in Scotland, but I had no idea where in the world jet-setting celebrity Stephen would be.
Hopefully under an overpass, stabbed to death.
I punched in the number and held my breath, fully expecting that it would go to voicemail. But someone answered. And I could recognize that voice, anywhere.
“This is Stephen. Who is this?” he asked, sounding a bit peeved. I assumed people got his cell number all the time when he didn’t want them to, much in the way the press had gotten our number when Stephen’s stupid tell-all had come out.
“This is Sophie Scaife. Neil Elwood’s wife,” I began. “I’m sure by now that your sister has spoken to you about Emma and Michael?”
“Yes, of course she has,” he snapped. “Emma is my niece.”
“Then, I assume Valerie will also share information about the funeral arrangements.” I barreled on before he could speak, again. “You are not welcome. I will be personally hiring extra security. If you show up, you’ll be escorted off the premises. Do you understand?”
“Do you understand that Valerie is my sister, and she will need me at this difficult time?” I heard his sneer over the line. “If you think I’m going to stay away just because some little bitch threatened me—”
A cold sweat broke out all over my skin, and my jaw clenched from the sudden adrenaline of my fury. “Do you understand that you fucking raped my fucking husband, and if I fucking see you at this fucking funeral, I will make your life a living hell?” I shouted. “Do not come here!”
I was so out of control I ended the call by whipping my phone at the wall as hard as I could. It exploded into a jumble of broken glass and components, and I stared at it, still trembling all over.
Now, I could add, “buy a new fucking phone” to my to-do list. Was I ever going to stop making things harder than they already were?
CHAPTER SIX
The funeral was on Friday.
Neil stood before the mirror in the closet, the lighting overhead casting harsh shadows below his brow and cheekbones. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t a trick of the light, nor was the paleness of his complexion. He’d barely eaten anything all week, and he’d sat up nights with Olivia, as though he were standing guard.
From the chair beside my shoe rack, I fastened the ankle straps of my pumps and watched him knot his tie. Each piece of clothing he put on seemed to weigh him down more. He donned his jacket and buttoned it, then stood back, giving himself a final look over. He went still, horror transforming his expressionless face.
He fell forward more than stepped, bracing himself against the mirror with an arm above his head as those raw cries of agony tore from him. I leapt to my feet and rushed to his side, pulling him into my arms.
This had happened so often this week. He sleepwalked through his days, until something inevitably woke him and plunged him back into this nightmare. And he’d just realized he was dressing for his daughter’s funeral.
“Come on,” I said softly. “Let’s go get your Valium.”
Though I secretly feared loading Neil up on benzos was a bad idea and would just help him to avoid reality, Dr. Harris had assured me it wouldn’t interfere with the grieving process. It was so important to Neil that he maintain his composure in public, and I couldn’t take that away from him.
Though neither Michael nor Emma were religious, the services would be held in the Woolworth chapel in Woodlawn cemetery. We arrived an hour early, and the funeral director met us there. He took us to a small office where Neil, as executor of the estate, signed some forms for the cremation that would take place immediately after the service.
“I want to stay here,” Neil said, his hands trembling as he handed back the clipboard and pen. “Until it’s finished.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked, one hand on his shoulder. I rubbed his arm and linked my fingers with his.
“I want to know that it’s done, and it’s been done properly.” He took a breath and straightened his spine, settling the matter.