Page 84 of The Writer

“Your husband wasn’t sleeping with Mia Gomez. He wasn’t sleeping with you either.”

The woman at the bar is watching her again. This time when Denise glares at her, she doesn’t look away.

“Do you want me to give her one of these signed books?” This comes from her editor, Jennifer Henke.

“What?” Denise snaps.

“The fan at the bar.” Jennifer gestures in the woman’s direction. “She’s been looking over here with thatWhen is a good time to interrupt her?face. Maybe if I give her one, she’ll back off.”

Denise bobs her head and waves Jennifer away. She barely registers her words. Cordova is talking again.

“How long have you known about David and Jeff?”

“David and… you can’t be serious.”

Cordova says nothing. There’s only his soft breathing.

“Jeff is happily married with two children.”

“That was part of the problem, right?” Cordova says. “Jeff wasn’t willing to leave his wife and kids. Unlike David, who—”

“Where are you right now?” Denise spots at least four other people watching her. No, five. They’re spread out around the restaurant. Strategically placed, she realizes. Near the kitchen, the hostess station, all the exits. “If you’ve got half a ball, maybe you should step out of whatever closetyou’rehiding in.”

“I imagine that frustrated you, the idea of David leaving you not for another woman but for a man. How would that play out in the press? It being the twenty-first century, I suppose it would make some headlines but nothing like it would have a few decades back. The betrayal, though. I’m guessing that’s the part that stings. You put David through medical school, right, supported him all those years? Then you learn he’s in love with his former college roommate? Wow. The way Jeff tells it, this has been going on the whole time, even when you were struggling to make ends meet and pay his tuition. Back when you were working two jobs and writing at night, trying to keep the lights on—David and Jeff were off doing what David and Jeffdid. David called you ‘the Checkbook.’ Did you know that? That has to hurt. Do you think he ever loved you, even a little bit? Or did he play you the entire time?”

The woman at the bar shifted seats, moved two closer. Her back is now to Denise, but that doesn’t mean she’s no longer watching.

“Denise, are you okay?”

Kirby. Her agent is crouching next to her, a worried look on her face. Denise didn’t notice her get up. She realizes Gordon Brennon is no longer at the table and finds him halfway to the restroom, a rough stagger to his gait.

“Maybe you should keep an eye on Gordon,” Denise tells her in the calmest voice she can summon. “I’m not sure he’ll get to where he’s going without help. We don’t want… an incident.”

Kirby nods and starts after him, no doubt thinking about tomorrow’s headlines on Page Six if there is some kind of scene. She’s predictable like that. The kitchen door opens again. The chef is no longer there, but Denise catches a glimpse of a man who looks a lot like Declan. Same height. Same build. Same—when a waitress carrying a large serving tray pushes through, the door opens wider, and she realizes it’s not Declan. She doesn’t know who it is. He doesn’t look like he works here, though.

She needs to pull it together.

“You seem agitated, Ms. Morrow,” says Cordova. “Why don’t you try the grasshopper? Declan did. Said it helped calm his nerves. Maybe it will help yours.”

Denise ignores that and tells Jennifer, “I’m going to finish this call outside. I’m having trouble hearing in here.”

She doesn’t wait for her editor to reply. What she does do iswatch everyone in the restaurant as she rises from her table and starts for the door, her phone still pressed to her ear. She expects a few people to get up with her, follow her, possibly attempt to take her into custody, but none of them do. Not a single person comes after her. They don’t stop watching, though. She can feel their eyes burning into the back of her neck as she steps onto the sidewalk in the chilled night air. She tells herself they’re only fans. They recognize her from television. Nothing more. And this Cordova asshole is only fishing. “You have this all wrong, Detective. Jeff might have had a thing for David, but it wasn’t reciprocated. If he’s telling you otherwise, it’s a lie. David and I were very much in love, and I don’t appreciate you harassing me like this.”

Denise looks up and down the sidewalk, but there’s no sign of Cordova. In New York, that means nothing. He could be in any one of the surrounding buildings watching her from a window. NYPD has surveillance cameras everywhere; maybe he’s tapped into one of those. None of that matters. If he had anything on her, anything at all, he’d arrest her. A taxi flies by, and Denise realizes she’s far too close to the curb and takes a step back.

“Is the fresh air helping?” Cordova says. “Declan was big on getting outside when he needed to work out a problem. The guy loved to walk. Constantly wore out his shoes. But you knew that, right? You’ve seen his closet. Always bought the same kind—Merrell Moab, size eleven. Same kind we found in Geller Hoffman’s safe. Same shoes that made the tracks leading up to your apartment.” He pauses. “Are you a walker too, Ms. Morrow? Like Declan?”

More people are watching her out here on the street. There’s aguy dressed like a bicycle messenger. Two women standing at the corner who didn’t cross when the light changed. A man at the newsstand who doesn’t appear to be buying anything, only idly browsing the magazines. All of them keep glancing at her. Stealing looks. Quick. Barely noticeable. But she notices. She notices everything.

Denise is not much of a walker.

But she starts walking now.

Without so much as a glance back at her table in Louie’s, Denise Morrow spins to her left and starts down the sidewalk. Her apartment is only four blocks away, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let this man torment her in the street.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

“YOUR HUSBAND WASN’T sleeping with you,” Cordova says. “According to Jeff, he wasn’t sleeping with Mia Gomez either. I’d be willing to bet they didn’t even know each other. What do you think, Ms. Morrow, as an author, as an accomplished investigator of true crime? What does your gut tell you? Did the husband have a mistress or is that just another deal of three-card monte?”

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