Page 49 of No One Can Know

She remembered, suddenly, standing in front of her father in the study while he sat in that huge chair with its oak arms and dark upholstery, a glass of amber liquid sweating in his hand. Rememberedher silence, and all her meaningless noise as she tried to explain and justify and apologize, to find the secret code, the combination of contrition and logic that would spare her the punishment she had never once managed to evade.

Nathan’s face was red, his jaw clenched. He wouldn’t hit her. He’d never hit her. He was not like her father.

But there was nothing she could say to apologize, she knew that. He would push and push and push and she would have no answer, and this precarious balance of theirs would topple at last, and it would be her fault.

She couldn’t stop it. But she could make it so that it wasn’t her fault. Not only her fault.

She looked up at him, and her lips parted to speak. His face was ruddy with anger, lines deep at the corners of his mouth.I know, she could have told him.

She stood instead. She walked to the hall, plucking her purse from its place on the credenza.

“Where are you going?” Nathan asked.

“Out,” she said. Because if she stayed, they would break. She would lose him.

“Emma.” He put himself in her path.

“I just need some air,” she said. She started to step around him. He grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop. She looked down at his hand, fingers dimpling the skin of her upper arm. Tight enough to balance on the edge of pain.

He let her go.

She was afraid of so many things; he had never been one of them, and he wasn’t now. But she couldn’t be here.

“When are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked.

Never, she thought. “Soon,” she said.

This time, he let her leave.

23EMMA

Now

Wilson’s was a bar utterly without personality; it didn’t slouch into dive bar territory or manage the gloss necessary to be trendy. It was a bar you only ever ended up at because it was the only one open or the only one close by.

As soon as she opened the door she spotted the man she was looking for down at the end of the bar, pulling a pint. At forty, Logan Ellis had a few flecks of gray in his hair and more definition to his jaw, but little else about him had changed. Still good-looking in that slightly off-putting way, still with those pale eyes. His attention flicked up to her, and he raised a few fingers in a perfunctory greeting, not showing a glimmer of recognition. She made her way down to the other end of the bar and sat, watching as he delivered the beer to the only other patron in the bar before coming back her way.

Logan approached. A puzzled smile crossed his features, and he rested his hands on the bar. “Emma Palmer. My dad mentioned you were back in town.”

“I’m sure he’s thrilled,” Emma said.

He laughed, not unpleasantly. “Yeah, he’s not exactly your biggest fan. What can I get you? Club soda and lime?”

“Sure.” His father must have told him that, too. He set the drink in front of her. There were tattoos climbing up his arms, smudged withage. Clumsy images of demons and dice, an anchor with an unreadable banner. She caught the edge of the smell of him, musk and soap.

She took a sip, remembering that she hated club soda. Studied him while he studied her. Her ice clinked in her glass as she tipped it back and forth in her hand idly.

“Why are you here, Emma Palmer?” he asked. “It’s not for the drink and it’s not for the ambience, so what is it?”

“You and my sister,” she said.

“Me and your sister,” he replied with a half grin. “So you heard about that.”

“I was kind of hoping it wasn’t true,” she said.

“Can’t imagine someone like me with the perfect princess of Arden Hills?” he asked, and laughed. It was an unkind sound, like a crow’s warning call.

“Is that why you slept with her? You wanted to ruin the pretty princess?” Emma asked.

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