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CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I’m on my way home to brush my teeth and grab lunch—something nutritious and comforting, to help steady my body—when Beth calls.

“Stella, I owe you an apology for this morning.”

I blink in surprise. Beth had acted as if it was my fault. Now she’s taking responsibility. Perhaps she remembered I’m the one who will recommend how much access she has to her daughter following the divorce.

Or maybe Beth is just like Rose: warm one moment, remote the next, and capable of deep anger—which I glimpsed on her face just last night at the dinner table.

“I was wondering if you’re free,” she continues.

I’m not interested in racing back to the Barclays’ this minute. “I’m a little busy now, but I can be there in a couple hours.”

“Of course.” Beth’s tone is conciliatory.

“Will all four of you be there?”

“I don’t know Ian’s schedule. This is my afternoon with Rose. Harriet will be around. And Ian should be here for dinner. You’re welcome to stay, too.”

The more time I spend with the Barclays, the quicker I’ll finish this job. So even though staying for another dinner is the last thing I want right now, I accept.

I got some valuable information from Harriet last night. Perhaps someone else will slip up tonight.

I head home and take a warm shower, then pull Angela’s ziti out of the fridge. Naturally, she gave me a huge portion, so I scoop a quarter of it onto a plate and pop it in the microwave. I sip water and catch up on my emails while Gwen Stefani sings in the background.

First I write to Samuel Prinze, the former FBI agent, telling him Detective Garcia referred me and requesting a meeting. Then I file a brief BIA report on the Barclay case with Judge Cynthia Morton, listing the meetings I’ve held. Then I print out the documents from my mother’s file and staple them together, sliding them into a folder and tucking them in my bag.

When the microwave dings, I bring the ziti to my kitchen island.

I sink heavily onto a stool, my joints aching. I know I’m running myself ragged. Stress, lack of sleep and regular meals, probably a bit of dehydration, too—it isn’t a good recipe for peak performance. I make a vow to go to bed early tonight.

I sprinkle some chili flakes onto the savory, delicious-smelling ziti and dig in. The taste is a gateway to the memory of the first time Angela cooked for me.

It happened a month or so after Marco and I moved in together, when he came down with a bad flu. I ran out to the store to pick up juice and NyQuil, and when I returned home, I discovered Angela had commandeered my kitchen.

Homemade chicken noodle soup—even the noodles were scratch—simmered on the stove, and a loaf of bread was rising on my counter. She was grating fresh ginger for some elixir she swore would banish the flu within two days.

I was annoyed. Territorial. This was my house. My fianc é .

Angela didn’t seem to care. My resentment and not-so-subtle comments bounced off her like Teflon.

She left my kitchen immaculate, but I refused to touch her soup or bread on principle.

I inherited the flu a few days later, right when Marco got healthy, as if the illness was a baton he handed off to me.

Marco went back to work, leaving a bottle of orange juice and a box of tissues and some medicine on my nightstand.

I awoke from dozing that first morning to hear someone insistently ringing my doorbell.

When it was clear they weren’t going away, I pulled on a robe and headed downstairs.

Angela stood on my doorstep, her arms filled with shopping bags.

“You look terrible,” she announced.

She left a couple of hours later, after she’d buttered a warm, crusty slice of fresh bread and heated up a bowl of garlicky soup and delivered it to me on a tray along with her magic elixir.

She was claiming me as one of her own, whether or not I liked it.

It took me a while to get there, but eventually I did like it. I liked it very much.

I put down my fork and reach for my phone. If I ignore Marco’s message, it won’t be only him I’ll lose. I’ll lose Angela forever, too.

Texting Marco back isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

It isn’t even the hardest thing I’ve done today.

I type: I’d love to meet Annie. How’s next week look for you guys?