Page 50 of Thicker Than Water
In spite of myself, I almost chuckle; I can only imagine how “nuclear” Dale would go onourreviews if I swore at him in an email. Still, Maeve’s suggestion might be a useful template. Dale is detail-oriented—often obnoxiously so, sending us more information than the average web visitor would possibly read—and I wonder now if the “family emergency” Sienna mentioned to him was too vague, if he interpreted it as a cop-out instead of a crisis.
I open the email to type out a response.
Hi Dale,
I am so sorry for your frustration. To clarify our previous messages, my husband—Sienna’s brother—has been in the hospital since Tuesday. He had an accident and is now in a coma, and as such, we won’t be able to complete your updates on time. You’re certainly a valued A&A client, but family comes first for us, and we’re hopeful you’ll be kind enough to grant us an extension as we navigate this difficult time.
Thank you,
Julia
My finger hovers over Send before pressing it. Then, with a definitivewhoosh, the message zips off to Dale’s inbox.
“Sorry you have to deal with people like that,” Maeve says, “on top of everything else.” Her face scrunches with another wince. “Including me. I’m sorry to, like, bombard you with this visit. I just needed you to know that I’m serious about paying you back—and, of course, that I’m sorry. It might not mean much, but I fucking hate hurting you like this.”
Regret pools in her eyes, as tangibly as tears. Maeve’s either Meryl Streep in the making, or she’s being sincere. Either way, she’s right; it doesn’t mean much.
“I’ll go,” Maeve says, rising from her seat, but she pauses when my phone chimes with another email. “Is that him already?” She leans forward to read the screen.
I pull my phone from her gaze, then brace myself when I see Dale’s name. “It is.”
His message is shorter this time, its only capital letters the ones at the start of each sentence:
Oh, wow. Really sorry to hear that. I’m eager to get these updates done, but I understand you’ve got a lot going on. Let’s touch base next week and decide on a reasonable deadline for the extension.
My brows shoot upward. It actually worked. I read his response again, savoring the shift in Dale’s tone, the way I nudged him from aggressive to acquiescent with a single message. Pulsing with pride, my fingers itch to text Sienna, tell her I handled Dale myself for once, saw his caps-lock screaming and did not flag it as a problem only she could solve.
But even in the midst of my tiny personal win, there’s something that feels like losing, another tether between Sienna and me that’s gone a little slack. My heart chafes at the thought: I managed this without her.
“Is he still pissed?” Maeve asks.
“No. He backed right down. That was good advice, I wouldn’t have—” I close my mouth, stopping short of thanking her.
“Happy to help.” Maeve picks up her tote. “I’ll get going.”
“Wait.”
Her presence makes the air feel heavy, but I can’t deny she’s just been useful to me—and there might be other ways she’s able to help.
“They’re arresting Jason as soon as he wakes up,” I tell her.
Her eyes flash with surprise. “What? How— I told them he was with me that night.”
“You told them he left at ten thirty. According to the police, that still gave him time to murder Gavin. He didn’t get home until an hour later.”
Slowly, Maeve descends back into her seat. “Shit. I didn’t know, I—”
“He had a receipt in his pants from that night. On the back, he’d written Gavin’s address. Do you have any idea why?”
Maeve’s forehead wrinkles. “No.”
“Do you know any reason he’d want to hurt Gavin?”
I expect even more confusion. I wait for her brows to squeeze together, her lips to pitch down. Instead, her expression smooths out, like a crumpled piece of paper carefully flattened. My heart kicks at how clearly I can read her expression.
She knows something.
“Maeve, what is it?”
