Page 82 of The Writer

Denise swallows. “He had no right to hurt anybody.”

“That’s what I meant.”

This wasn’t the first time the two women had talked about this. Denise called Kirby yesterday and they were on the phone for nearly an hour. She told her she would have forgiven David for all of it, every single indiscretion. If there was a void in their marriage, a door left open wide enough for another woman to step through, Denise felt that was as much her fault as it was David’s. Kirby told Denise she might be experiencing survivor’s guilt. Suggested that she should talk to someone. Aprofessionalsomeone. And Denise said she would, and she sounded serious.

Page Six snapping a photo of her walking into a therapist’s office?Yes, please.

And Kirby Neilson hanging up, quickly calling a dozen of her closest friends, and telling them that Denise Morrow was grief-stricken over the loss of her husband, coming apart at the seams, how sad that this once strong woman was broken now?Yes to that too, please.

Denise makes no mention of her affair with the detective. Of course not. Instead, she paints a picture, she spins a story, she lays out the narrative she wants others to follow. As any good writer would do.

Oh, how she hoped the young and gullible publicist Jada Reed would excuse herself to the bathroom so she could fire off the series of messages no doubt brewing in her thoughts. Maybe she’ll even snap a couple of clandestine photographs.

“Look,” Denise says with a forced smile. “I just need a little time.”

Kirby pounces on that. She reaches over and gently pats Denise’s hand. “Of course you do. You’re not going to get any pressure from anyone sitting at this table. You decide what’s best for you when you’re ready to decide it, and know that we’re all here for you regardless. If you want to take a match to that book, that is fine by me.”

“Yeah. Take your time,” Gordon mutters. He picks up his glass, realizes it’s empty, and holds it in the air until their waiter spots him.

A few moments later, the waiter sets Gordon’s scotch down on the table and places a drink in front of Denise.

When she speaks, she has trouble getting the words out. “I… I didn’t order that.”

The drink was bright green.

In a martini glass.

A grasshopper.

The waiter says, “It’s from the gentleman at the bar.”

Denise turns, but there is no gentleman at the bar, only two older couples deep in conversation. “What did he look like?”

The waiter follows her gaze, then looks back at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see him. He placed the order through the bartender and I was told to bring it here, since this is my table.”

Denise is about to go talk to the bartender when her phone rings.

The caller ID readsDeclan Shaw.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

DECLAN SHAW.

On the table, Denise’s phone rings a second time.

A third.

“Denise?” Kirby says softly. “Your phone. Are you going to get that?”

Denise realizes she’s been staring at it. At the name blinking up at her. Everyone at the table is watching her. Her eyes drift to the grasshopper, then back to her phone.

Fourth ring.

She picks it up, thumbs Accept, presses the phone to her ear. She says nothing as the call connects. At first, there is only soft breathing, then—

“Declan Shaw wasn’t just my partner—he was my friend.”

Not Declan.

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