Page 4 of The Secrets We Hide
“Men do like to breathe.”
“His skin radiated heat. It was like sleeping next to a space heater.”
Emmy raised an eyebrow. “You sure that was him?”
“Don’t talk to me about perimenopause.” Hannah fanned her face like the mere mention had brought on a hot flash. “I thought you had to wait until you were fifty, but Aunt Barb told me Mama was two years younger than me when it hit her. How old was Myrna when it started?”
Emmy shrugged, because by the time she’d thought to ask, Myrna couldn’t remember.
“Jude’s at least sixty. She’s gotta be on the other side of it. You should talk to her.”
Emmy shook her head. “She has atone.”
“My next-door neighbor had atone. Gave her chlamydia.”
“I think that was your neighbor’s piano teacher.”
“Oh,” Hannah said. “That makes more sense.”
Emmy smiled when Hannah smiled. She let herself enjoy the ease between them before the awkwardness started to tear at the edges. There was a reason Hannah hadn’t been at Myrna’sgraveside. She hadn’t just made a mistake. Her husband was about to be sentenced to life in prison for the murder of Gerald Clifton.
“Okay,” Emmy said.
She stood up. Brushed the dirt off the back of her dress. Touched Hannah’s shoulder as she walked toward the parking lot. Cliftons had bottlenecked the exit, which is what happened when a bunch of entitled morons were used to getting all their parking tickets fixed. If Brett had a lick of sense, he’d bring that up at the debate.
Cole had Aunt Millie on his arm as he slowly walked her toward her ancient baby blue Cadillac. Emmy let herself enjoy the sight of her son wearing a crisp suit and tie. His wardrobe usually had two variations: his sheriff’s deputy uniform or baggy basketball shorts with T-shirts that had messages she’d aged out of understanding.
“He looks nice, right?”
Jude was leaning against Emmy’s sheriff’s cruiser, which Emmy supposed was her way of asking for a ride. Emmy opened her purse, fished out her keys.
Jude said, “I heard the school board scheduled Hannah’s hearing for the end of next month. Do you think they’ll let her teach again?”
Emmy opened the door.
Jude said, “One could argue that she’s the reason Gerald was killed.”
“One could argue she did you a favor, then.” Emmy stared at Jude over the roof of the car. “Didn’t you vow that you wouldn’t step foot back in this town until Dad was dead?”
“I did.”
Silence ensued, which had its own way of speaking.
Jude was a retired FBI agent with a PhD in criminal psychology from Stanford University. Trying to start an argument with her was like sneezing into a windstorm.
“Cole,” Emmy called to her son. “Let’s go.”
She slammed the door. Kicked off her cousin’s ridiculous high heels so her foot could make contact with the pedals. The key slipped out of Emmy’s hand when she tried to jam it into theignition. She quickly snatched it back up. Her hands weren’t just sweaty. They were shaking. Her heart was trembling in her chest again. She felt seized by anger.
Jude said, “I used to have debilitating panic attacks.”
Emmy was not having a panic attack. “Was this before or after you were an alcoholic?”
“Once you’re an alcoholic, you’re always an alcoholic.”
“Like being in a street gang.”
“Emmy Lou.”
