Page 42 of Emma on Fire

“That was an interesting experiment,” he says.

Emma nods. There’s a sudden lump in her throat, and she doesn’t know why.

Maybe it’s all the things she won’t ever say to him.Daddy, why didn’t you save Claire? Daddy, we’re all alone. Daddy, I can’t take it any longer—

She feels like she might start choking.

She stands up. “I’m going to go get some more water.”

When Emma comes back to the table with a plastic pitcher of ice water, her father is frowning and stripping the fat from his bacon. She wants to take him by his broad, strong shoulders and shake him.Don’t you understand what’s going on?Instead she sits down, leans forward so their faces are almost touching, and says quietly, “Were Claire’s cries for help not loud enough?”

Her father looks away. His entire posture changes, themuscles in his jaw twitching. With nothing to complain about and no one else to blame, the man has nothing to say. In the silence between them, the whispers grow louder.

“I knew she was hurting,” Emma says. “But I had no idea how much. Did you?”

Slowly Byron shakes his head. “I didn’t know,” he says finally. “I didn’t know.” But then he looks straight at Emma. His two hands have become fists. “She was different, Emma. She wasn’t like us.”

“Wasn’tlikeus? What do you mean?”

“I’m tough,” he says. “And you’re tough. Claire was strong, but she was a china teacup compared to you. You’re the toughest person I know. You’re made of iron. You’re going to be fine. You just need something to do, something to keep you busy, take your mind off it.”

Her father might be able to stay busy and not feel things, to work until all of his thoughts only flow through one channel, a desensitized, unfeeling one. He is never still, her father.

His hands are flexing, fingernails digging into his palms or darting out to rearrange silverware. Even here, on his mercy mission to save the only daughter he has left, he’s multitasking, putting the tines of his fork at a perfect angle to his plate, refolding the linen napkin into a more perfect triangle. Anything to stay busy. Anything to flood his mind with something other than emotion.

Emma isn’t like that. Emma feels things, right down to her core. She feels the loss not only of her own mother and sister, but of every elephant that died for its tusks, and the pain that comes from watching the uptick of the thermometer each summer. Emma wants to direct all her efforts toward what she feels, until she’s able to do something that makes other people wake up and feel that way too.

But she can’t admit that to him. Even if she did, he wouldn’t believe her. Byron Blake says she’s tough, that she’s going to be fine, and Byron Blake is always right.

CHAPTER 29

EMMA’S FATHER GLIDES off in a chauffeured Lincoln Navigator soon after breakfast. He waves as the car pulls onto the road, his phone already pinned to his ear.

Emma lifts a hand in return. “Goodbye,” she whispers as the car grows smaller in the distance. “Have a nice life. Or at least, a busy one.”

She really hopes he will. He’ll remarry, of course. Some tanned, young tennis-playing blonde, a daughter of Boston high society. Someone who stays equally busy with her garden club and Orangetheory classes. Someone who will be content with things looking like they’re perfect and not care how they actually are. Maybe he’ll even have more kids. He’s only forty-six—he’s got plenty of time.

She wonders if he’ll figure out, next round, that maximizing billable hours isn’t the best parenting strategy. That money is so much less important than he thinks it is. Success, too, for that matter. She wonders if he’ll figure out that pouring himself into work won’t save anyone—not even him.

Probably not. As the saying goes, a leopard doesn’t change its spots.

Amur leopards are on the brink of extinction.

Emma turns and goes back to her dorm room. Olivia’s blasting Taylor Swift and checking her outfit in the full-length mirror. She’s wearing a halter top, baggy low-rise jeans, and black platform Converses, just like every other day. Her skin is dewy and perfect.

“Hey, Liv.” Emma slips into faded Levi’s and a rumpled white button-down.

Olivia whirls around to face her. “Oh, my god, Emma! Your phone’s been blowingup! Where were you last night? Did you sneak out? Were you with a guy? Did you and Thomas get back together?”

Emma almost laughs. Her roommate’s theoneperson on campus who doesn’t know what’s going on. She’s probably spent 90 percent of her time online since Emma posted her video, but the most important part of social media to her is theme.Emma doubts she even looks at her feed or anyone else’s posts; she just goes straight toher latest, looking for likes and new follows. Or, if it’s her OnlyFans, her account balance. A better name for her would be Oblivia.

“I spent the night in the nurse’s office,” Emma finally says. “I thought I was coming down with something.”

Olivia takes a quick step away from her, covering her mouth and nose with a manicured hand.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says. “I’m not contagious.”

And I’m not—high anxiety coupled with a feeling of dread is not something she can pass on to someone else. But awareness, and making sure everyone has all the facts? That’s a virus she can create, and hope that it burns through the population.

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