“I want you to know,” she said, desperate, “it’s been an absolute dream having dinner with you. And if you ever want to talk again, I’m here. I’m a good listener, really. Very discreet. I would never share a confidence. You might not believe that, the way I blab on, but it’s true.”
“Thank you,” she said absently.
The judge had broken off eye contact during Madison’s outburst. She was looking toward the door, probably desperate for the waitress to come and free her from the crazy stalker girl. She waved again, and the waitress dropped off the check. Judge Conroy glanced at it, then tucked a credit card into the folder. Madison reached for her bag, but the judge shook her head.
“You don’t have to,” Madison said.
“Relax. I’m not mad.”
“You’re not? Because I feel like I pried. I know we’re not actual friends, that I just work for you. I should know better than to ask personal questions.”
“We are friends. I consider us friends.”
“You do?”
“With all we have in common? After our great talk tonight? Of course. But don’t go telling people at the office. It’ll cause jealousy.”
“I won’t, promise.”
“And look, I’m the one who brought up Matthew, so I can hardly blame you for asking. He was my husband. I lost him, and that’s why it’s difficult to talk about him.”
“I understand.”
“I know. You’re a good friend.”
The judge squeezed her hand with a smile so sad that it made her heart hurt.
“Judge, if there’s ever anything I can do to help you out, anything at all, you can count on me. Just ask.”
“Actually, there is something. I have a favor to ask. I know we’re just getting to know each other. But this was such a great conversation that I sense I can trust you. Come to my house now. We’ll have a glass of wine, and I’ll explain.”
9
The sake headache that set in on the way to the judge’s house didn’t stop Madison from appreciating the Back Bay. It was the most beautiful neighborhood in America on any night. But tonight, shimmering with rain, it was utter romance. Ornate town houses, flickering gas lanterns, towering trees wrapped in fairy lights. She held her breath and imagined living here. Someday. In the meantime, she was a guest of the woman in the driver’s seat, who was as dazzling as the neighborhood.
“We’re about to get to my street,” the judge said, her voice tight with anxiety. “This might sound strange, but would you mind ducking down?”
“Would I— What?”
“Lean over so you’re not visible? I hope you don’t think I’m paranoid. I just don’t like people seeing who comes and goes from my house. Nosy neighbors, strangers walking by. You never know.”
The judge had exhibited an outsize anxiety all night, though you could hardly blame her. The poor woman’s husband had been gunned down in their driveway five years earlier. This was a different house in a different location, but she obviously wasn’t over the trauma.
“Sure, no problem.”
Madison doubled over in the passenger seat. The street was icy, and the car skidded slightly on the turn. Good thing the judge was sober. Madison couldn’t’ve passed a Breathalyzer to save her life. Feeling dizzy, she braced herself against the door. From the little she could see bent over, they were driving down a narrow, dimly lit alley with high walls on both sides. Pulling up next to some trash cans, the judge switched off the engine, and they got out of the car.
Judge Conroy tapped a code into a keypad, and a metal gate slid open. Madison followed her into a long, narrow courtyard, as the gate closed behind them. The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by high walls, and on the fourth by the towering, four-story town house. She saw a gas grill covered by a tarp, a few bedraggled planters, and no other furniture. It must look cheerier in better weather. At the back door, Judge Conroy unlocked three separate locks with the sureness of long practice. The burglar alarm was already beeping by the time they stepped into the foyer. The judge typed a code into a keypad on the wall, and it stopped.
“You have a lot of security,” Madison said.
They hung up their coats and took off their shoes. The judge went around turning on lights. They were in a stark, modern kitchen, with a giant island, sleek cabinets, an enormous stainless steel Sub-Zero with matching wine tower. She took out a bottle of red and set about opening it. There were tall, graceful windows, though the shades were drawn. It was open plan, presumably the result of an extravagant renovation to what looked like a century-old house. You could see all the way through the dining and living rooms to the front door, a distance of at least fifty feet.