“He felt he was in danger?”
“We’d been having some trouble with vandalism,” Emma said, keeping her voice measured.
“Bad enough that he thought you needed a firearm.”
“Like I said. I disagreed,” Emma replied.
“You said that you asked him to get rid of them. Did you handle any of the guns at all?” Mehta asked.
“Once. The Glock, just to clean it. Nathan didn’t know how.”
“Why would you clean a gun you didn’t want around?” Mehta asked, eyebrow raised.
“Keeping busy, I guess,” Emma said. It sounded glib, and Mehta frowned. “Was it … do you know if it was one of those guns that killed him?”
“We’re still conducting tests,” Mehta said. She laced her fingers, hands resting on the tabletop, and Emma’s mouth went dry. This was it, then. The part she’d been dreading.
“How was your relationship with your husband?” Mehta asked.
“Not great, recently,” Emma said. Mehta looked interested at last, straightening up. “Things have been stressful. It’s the reason we moved out here.” She explained about the house. The baby.
“It sounds like he screwed up pretty bad,” Mehta said. Emma thought she was trying to sound sympathetic. Like they were venting on a girls’ night out. But Mehta wasn’t built for it.
“It was difficult. And Nathan had a hard time with coming here, given my history with the place,” Emma said. “We were working through it.”
“I see,” Mehta said. She angled her body in a way that seemed to exclude Chris, making this conversation just between her and Emma. “I get it. Marriage is hard. You fight. Things fester.”
“We didn’t fight. Not really,” Emma corrected, shaking her head. “We talked, that’s all.”
“That’s surprising. Nathan lied to you. Cost you a house, your savings—forced you to move back to a place that’s got to have a lot of terrible memories. You must have resented him for that.”
“I didn’t care about the money. Or the house. And being here … It’s not hard because of Nathan. It’s hard because of me. My past. That isn’t his fault.”
Isn’t. Wasn’t. Tense got slippery at times like these. She remembered once hearing someone in the next room saying, “Did you notice she said didn’t? My parents didn’t have any enemies. Past tense, right away. She didn’t have to correct herself.”
As if that meant anything.
Mehta sat back in her chair. Her finger tapped against the table, and Emma’s eyes fixed on it. Her father used to do that. Tap, tap, tap. Like a metronome; like a timer, ticking down.
Mehta sat forward, squared up. Next would come the blunt statement made into a question, meant to take Emma off guard and provoke a reaction.
“Were you aware that Nathan was having an affair?”
She had expected the question. But still, she almost laughed.
Did she know her husband was having an affair? Of course she did. It was a miracle that it had taken her as long as it did to find out. She had known he was feeling guilty about something—easy to read even when he was trying not to be—but she hadn’t pried. She couldn’t see what good there could possibly be in knowing the answer.
It was the stupid shared calendar that had done it. He was always on her to put things on it, and she was always telling him that she didn’t really have things to put on the calendar. Her anemic social life had cratered after her accident, and she hadn’t attempted to resuscitate it. Anytime she had appointments and things, she handled them during the day when he was at work, so she didn’t see why he needed to keep track of them, but she’d dutifully logged in once a week to add things in, sometimes putting in random work deadlines just so that she would have something to add.
One Monday, there it was: a woman’s name and the name of a hotel. Her chronically organized husband had put his romantic rendezvous on the wrong calendar.
And, of course, he’d never disabled his phone tracking. She’d glanced at it once at the time listed on the calendar to confirm where he was. She’d already met Addison—a somewhat severe-looking woman with bright green eyes and aggressively bleached hair who had been awkward the one time Emma had dropped by the office.
Nathan used to sit Emma down to do what he called a “trust audit.” Every corner of their lives an open book to each other. It had started when they first got serious. He would have her log into all of her accounts, and he would hand over his computer for her to do the same—check through private messages and emails, even pull up the call logs on the online portal for their phone plan. He insisted it was a demonstration of how much they trusted each other, how they had nothing to hide. She would page through his Facebook and click a few random emails to satisfy him, but she never understood his reasoning. If they trusted each other, they shouldn’t have to look.