emotions—be it by man or woman—would only serve to fog the mind and impede one from clear thought.
Whether is was the disappointment she felt at being cut from the swim team in eleventh grade after dedicating so many years to the sport or being thrown from her horse at the age of fifteen, her father admonished her tears, scolded her for not burying the pain deep down, never to be spoken of again. She had learned it so well that she was thought of by many as cold and distant. But her face to the world was so contrary to the swirl of emotions she felt within, emotions she didn’t display until she met Jack and he cracked the hard shell she had developed over the years. But those lessons her stepfather forced upon her, while not suitable for a child, had come in handy in her line of work. She was unreadable when she chose to be, masking her feelings with an expertise only seen through by her husband.
But as she thought of Jack, it all came pouring forth in her mind: the rainy bridge, the white Tahoe, the gunshot, her husband’s eyes as he looked pleadingly at her as the car tumbled over into the churning river below.
Despite all of her mastery of her emotions, despite the desperate need to find a means of escape, Mia wrapped herself in her grief.
For the second time, the most important man in Mia’s life had been murdered, violently taken from her as she was forced to bear witness.
And as all strength left her, she collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with sobs.
CHAPTER 15
J OY
T HE CALL CAME AT 6:30 that morning. Cursing under her breath at whoever had the nerve to rattle her so early on a Friday, Joy Todd rolled over and grabbed the phone to hear her sister utter her name in a fateful tone. Joy sat up and swept her long blond hair out of her face as if it would help her to focus. She climbed out of bed, stretching the kinks out of her back when her sister began to sob.
“Sheila …” Joy said. “What’s wrong?”
Sheila read the headline from the morning paper.
Joy’s anger was immediately vanquished by grief, and she collapsed to the floor, unable to move.
She finally struggled to stand, wiping the tears from her blue eyes, and she knew where she had to go. It was an odd instinct, something that affected everyone when dealing with the tragic death of a loved one. It happened in plane crashes, motorcycle accidents, and shootings. Some kind of mystical tug on the heart and mind drew the grieving to the place of the incident, where they could try to touch the souls of their loved ones as if they lingered waitingto say good-bye. Makeshift memorials were constructed of flowers, candles, handwritten notes, some in pen, some in pencil, many in crayon bidding farewell, expressing their love and anguish to the ones they never got a chance to say good-bye to.
Joy emerged from her apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Two subways, one train, and a cab ride later, she found herself in Byram Hills, standing with the crowd on the bridge. She was not surprised at how many had followed the same instinct to gather and mourn Jack and Mia. They were the type who always listened, who helped others through their troubles and tragedies, yet never spoke of their own difficulties. It contributed to the fondness people held for them, to the genuine love their friends expressed over the years.
Joy knew Jack as well as, if not better than, anyone. In all the years they had worked together, she had seen him at his best and worst, yet he never buckled, never broke, no matter how hard the pressure. When her parents died and she didn’t have money for the funeral, it was Jack who stepped in and paid. And while the gesture would warm anyone’s heart, Joy knew that it was paid for from what little savings Jack and Mia had. She was there for the births of their daughters, helped them move into their house; she was the only one from their office who attended their holiday parties.
As she watched the Tahoe being lowered
Whether is was the disappointment she felt at being cut from the swim team in eleventh grade after dedicating so many years to the sport or being thrown from her horse at the age of fifteen, her father admonished her tears, scolded her for not burying the pain deep down, never to be spoken of again. She had learned it so well that she was thought of by many as cold and distant. But her face to the world was so contrary to the swirl of emotions she felt within, emotions she didn’t display until she met Jack and he cracked the hard shell she had developed over the years. But those lessons her stepfather forced upon her, while not suitable for a child, had come in handy in her line of work. She was unreadable when she chose to be, masking her feelings with an expertise only seen through by her husband.
But as she thought of Jack, it all came pouring forth in her mind: the rainy bridge, the white Tahoe, the gunshot, her husband’s eyes as he looked pleadingly at her as the car tumbled over into the churning river below.
Despite all of her mastery of her emotions, despite the desperate need to find a means of escape, Mia wrapped herself in her grief.
For the second time, the most important man in Mia’s life had been murdered, violently taken from her as she was forced to bear witness.
And as all strength left her, she collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with sobs.
CHAPTER 15
J OY
T HE CALL CAME AT 6:30 that morning. Cursing under her breath at whoever had the nerve to rattle her so early on a Friday, Joy Todd rolled over and grabbed the phone to hear her sister utter her name in a fateful tone. Joy sat up and swept her long blond hair out of her face as if it would help her to focus. She climbed out of bed, stretching the kinks out of her back when her sister began to sob.
“Sheila …” Joy said. “What’s wrong?”
Sheila read the headline from the morning paper.
Joy’s anger was immediately vanquished by grief, and she collapsed to the floor, unable to move.
She finally struggled to stand, wiping the tears from her blue eyes, and she knew where she had to go. It was an odd instinct, something that affected everyone when dealing with the tragic death of a loved one. It happened in plane crashes, motorcycle accidents, and shootings. Some kind of mystical tug on the heart and mind drew the grieving to the place of the incident, where they could try to touch the souls of their loved ones as if they lingered waitingto say good-bye. Makeshift memorials were constructed of flowers, candles, handwritten notes, some in pen, some in pencil, many in crayon bidding farewell, expressing their love and anguish to the ones they never got a chance to say good-bye to.
Joy emerged from her apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Two subways, one train, and a cab ride later, she found herself in Byram Hills, standing with the crowd on the bridge. She was not surprised at how many had followed the same instinct to gather and mourn Jack and Mia. They were the type who always listened, who helped others through their troubles and tragedies, yet never spoke of their own difficulties. It contributed to the fondness people held for them, to the genuine love their friends expressed over the years.
Joy knew Jack as well as, if not better than, anyone. In all the years they had worked together, she had seen him at his best and worst, yet he never buckled, never broke, no matter how hard the pressure. When her parents died and she didn’t have money for the funeral, it was Jack who stepped in and paid. And while the gesture would warm anyone’s heart, Joy knew that it was paid for from what little savings Jack and Mia had. She was there for the births of their daughters, helped them move into their house; she was the only one from their office who attended their holiday parties.
As she watched the Tahoe being lowered
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