I can't remember which of us—Sean or I—was the first to say that, despite what the police report said, we didn't think Emily killed herself. I honestly believed that her death had been an accident, and I'm pretty sure Sean did too. Having her death ruled an accident rather than a suicide would be much better for Nicky when he got old enough to understand.
And if it was an accident, as we believed it was, the insurance company owed Sean and Nicky the two million dollars that they wouldn't have had to pay if it was a suicide committed less than two years after the policy was taken out. I looked this up online and mentioned it to Sean, but I sensed that he already knew.
I had to wonder about Emily. Anyone would have had questions. And one of those questions had to do with the Patricia Highsmith novel that she was reading, in which the beautiful young woman kills herself for no reason that anyone ever finds out.
For Sean and I and Nicky and Miles, the reason and the way that Emily died was important. But it was only a detail. The main thing was that Emily was gone. She wasn't coming back.
Sean and Nicky scattered her ashes in the woods behind their house. I don't think Nicky understood what they were doing. And Sean didn't make it easier by telling him that they were throwing his mom's spirit to the wind. Later Sean told me that Nicky kept asking, "Where is Mom's spirit supposed to be? Where is Mom? And there isn't any wind."
Sean had read about the ritual on a Buddhist website, which I thought was really beautiful and not anything one would expect from a handsome, hypermasculine British guy who works on Wall Street. It made me think that his hidden sensitive side was part of what Emily loved about him. And it was certainly part of what I loved.
Sean asked if Miles and I wanted to be there when they scattered Emily's ashes. I would have liked to, more than anything, but I felt that it would be better for Nicky if we weren't. Maybe I'm superstitious. Maybe I wouldn't have felt right about scattering the ashes of a woman whose husband I might be in love with.
Sean showed me a copy of the autopsy report. He told me to look at the "findings" that described severe liver damage suggesting heavy, long-term use of alcohol and opiates. Not only scars, but ongoing damage. Apparently that had tipped the coroner toward the suicide verdict, but even so they couldn't be sure.
I said that it wasn't possible. One of us would have known if Emily was drinking heavily and abusing drugs. Sean insisted that it was highly possible. When he was at university, four of his most brilliant classmates were serious junkies. Two of them graduated at the top of their class, with firsts. And no one ever knew.
"You knew," I pointed out.
"I was their roommate," Sean said. "I must be drawn to those sorts of people."
It bothered me to hear Emily described as asort of people. But what sort of person was she? How could you know someone as well as I thought I knew her and not know the most basic things about her? Some people beat the odds and lead high-functioning, productive lives while maintaining a habit. Emily had kept it together. Work, a job, a child, a family. A well-organized and even (on the surface) glamorous life.
I went over every conversation I'd ever had with Emily, every afternoon we'd spent together. What had I failed to see? What had she been trying to tell me and I hadn't been able to hear?
What kind of best friend had I been?
* * *
The first time Sean and I had sex I remembered what I had been missing. The pure, crazy pleasure. One of his hands cupped my breast, while the fingers of his other hand trailed lightly up my thigh. He flipped me over so he could kiss the back of my neck and all the way down my spine, then turned me back over again and put his head between my legs. I was shocked by how good he was in bed, but why should I have been surprised? Our skins and our bodies, it all felt so good, nothing else existed except the rush of feeling—of gratitude and yes, of love—for someone who could make you feel like that. The desperately wanting to come and the desperately wanting the sex to never end.
