Will wasn't sure what he would be saying in her place, but he found himself wondering if Abigail was focusing so much on Adam Humphrey because the alternative—focusing on the fate of her own daughter—was too much to bear.
She asked, "What should I say when the reporters ask me about Adam?"
"Nothing," he told her. "We told them from the start that they're only supposed to direct their questions to Amanda. They won't do that, of course, but you don't have to talk to them."
"What if I want to?"
"What would you say?" Will asked. "Because if it's the things you just told me, I can tell you right now that they'll have you nailed to a cross by nightfall." He added, "If you want to punish yourself for what happened to Adam Humphrey, then take some pills or try experimenting with heroin. You'll be much better off than throwing yourself onto the mercy of the press."
"You are honest."
"I guess I am," Will admitted. "Save yourself for Emma. If you can't be strong for yourself, then be strong for her."
"I'm so sick of people telling me to be strong."
Will wondered what else could be said—be weak? Fall on the floor? Rend your clothes? Wail? All of these things seemed like obvious reactions that a normal person might have, but they certainly wouldn't play well for the cameras.
Abigail said, "I'm not usually this melodramatic. I'm afraid I might..." She shook her head. "What if he sees me on television and thinks that Emma deserves it? What if I do something wrong or don't look grieved enough, or look too grieved, or—"
"You can't keep playing this game in your head."
"Game?" she asked. "I want this all to be a game. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and yell at Emma to get ready for school. I want to scream at my husband for screwing around on me. I want to play tennis with my friends and throw dinner parties and decorate my house and ignore my husband's affairs and..." Her composure had held up longer than he'd thought it would. Slowly, she started to shatter. It started in her mouth—a slight tremble of her bottom lip that spread up her face like a tic. "I want to change places with her. He can do whatever he wants to me. Fuck me, sodomize me, beat me, burn me. I don't care." The tears came pouring now. "She's just a baby. She can't take it. She won't survive . . ."
Even as he took her hand, Will felt the awkwardness of the gesture. He did not know this woman and certainly was in no position to comfort her. "Emma's alive," Will reminded her. "That's what you need to hold on to. Your daughter is alive."
Impossibly, the moment turned more awkward. Gently, she slipped her hand from his. She ran her fingers under her eyes in that magical way women do to keep their eyeliner from smudging. Unexpectedly she asked, "How do you know my husband?"
"We met a long time ago."
"Were you one of the boys who bullied him?"
Will felt his mouth open, but could not find any words to answer.
"My husband doesn't talk much about his childhood."
Will could've told her some stories. Instead he said, "That's probably a good thing."
Abigail looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they'd met. He could feel her eyes scanning the scars on his face, the thin, pink line where his lip had been split so badly that there wasn't enough good skin left to sew it back together straight.
Her gaze was so intimate that it was almost like a touch.
They both looked away uncomfortably. Will checked his watch to make sure the battery was working. Abigail rummaged around in her purse.
Footsteps clicked against the tiles as Hoyt, Amanda and Paul made their way back up the hallway. Paul looked positively defeated, and Will wished that he had paid more attention to the exchange. Paul silently took his wife's hand and placed it on his arm.
Amanda said, "Thank you,"toHoyt, shaking his hand.He kissed his daughter on the cheek, gave Paul a clap on the shoulder, then headed toward the exit. Will guessed the millionaire's work here was done.
Amanda took both of Abigail's hands in hers. The naturalness of the gesture was surprising, but women—even Amanda—could get away with that sort of thing. "Chin up," she said. "Don't let them see you break."
Will chewed his lower lip, knowing that Amanda was hoping for the exact opposite. The grieving-mother card could never be played enough times in situations like this. Paul was simply an accessory. Knowing how these things worked, Will guessed that half the people following the story assumed that the father was the root of all this evil. If Abigail came across as too strong, then they would toss her onto the list of suspects, as well. Then, of course, there was the only opinion that mattered—that of the person who was holding Emma Campano. If the abductor thought that the parents were unworthy, then he might have second thoughts about returning their child.
"This way," Amanda said, indicating the opposite end of the hallway. She opened the door to the pressroom and lights flashed like a strobe, blinding them all for several seconds.
Will stood at the edge of the door, making sure the cameras followed Amanda and the Campanos to the impromptu stage at the end of the narrow room. He didn't want his picture in the paper. He didn't want to answer their stupid questions. He just wanted the kidnapper to see Abigail Campano, her sunken eyes and chapped lips, her thin shoulders. He wanted the man who had taken Emma Campano to see what he had done to her mother.
The reporters shuffled around as Amanda took her sweet time adjusting the microphone, unfolding the prepared statement. There were about fifty reporters in all, most of them men, all of them giving off a slightly desperate smell in the cramped room. The air-conditioning wasn't doing much to help matters, and hot air was blasting through a broken window like heat from a flame. Not much news had leaked out on the case, mostly because no one on Amanda's team was stupid enough to open their mouths. This had left the press to their own devices, and from what Will had heard on the radio this morning, they had started to report on what other stations were reporting.
Without preamble, Amanda read from the statement. "The reward for any information leading to the safe return of Emma Campano has been increased to one hundred thousand dollars." She gave the particulars—the toll-free number, the assurance that the call would be completely anonymous. "As you already know, Emma Eleanor Campano is a seventeen-year-old girl who attends a private school outside of the city. Emma was abducted from her home three days ago between the hours of eleven a.m. and twelve noon. At approximately ten-thirty yesterday morning, a call was made from a man claiming to be Emma's kidnapper. A ransom demand was made. We are awaiting details and will brief you at this same time tomorrow morning. I will now read from a statement written by Abigail Campano, Emma Campano's mother."
The cameras flashed like mad, and Will could see Abigail Campano looking for him in the back of the room. He stood up straighter, his height giving him a natural advantage. She finally found him, and he could read the terror in her eyes.
Maybe Will had spent too much time with Amanda lately. He was glad to see the terror, glad that the cameras would pick up this woman's fear. You could read every second of the last three days in the mother's expression—the sleepless nights, the arguments with her husband, the absolute horror of what had happened.