My throat stuck shut, and I had to go to the kitchen for some water. I braced my hands on the counter and stared into space. Olivia wasn’t for us. She was for Emma and Michael. How could we ever step into their shoes?
I called Holli and Deja and broke the news. They tried to be comforting, but I was in such shock, I probably came across as ungrateful. I ended the call with a promise to contact them if we needed anything—everyone wanted to help if we needed anything—but when we hung up, I regretted it, because I was alone, again.
I wanted to be alone, but I didn’t at the same time.
I had to distract myself, so I went to the TV room and mindlessly watched brides saying yes to their dresses for an hour and a half.
A flower delivery came while Neil and Olivia napped. The doorman brought it up and expressed his condolences. I’m sure I said something in return. I just couldn’t remember what; my brain was practically leaking out of my ears. I placed the flowers on the table in the foyer and opened the card.
It was from Stephen Stern.
I crumpled it in my fist. How dare he? He may have been Emma’s uncle, but he was a rapist and a sociopath. I grabbed the arrangement and hurried through the house with it like it was a bomb. I went down the service stairs, found the garbage chute, and stuffed the flowers and card down. Then, I went back upstairs. I paced the living room and counted to ten before I made a phone call.
“Doctor Harris’s office,” the receptionist answered.
“I need to speak to Doctor Harris immediately,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“I’m sorry, the doctor is—”
“This is Sophie Scaife, calling about my husband, Neil Elwood. I believe he and Doctor Harris have some kind of emergency arrangement—”
“Hold, please,” she said quickly, and like that, the line switched, and Dr. Harris came on.
“Sophie? What can I help you with?” he asked, concerned but calm.
“Neil’s daughter…” My throat clogged. I struggled through my hoarseness. “Neil’s daughter has passed away.”
There was a brief pause before the doctor said, “I’m so sorry to hear that. But, while this is undoubtedly a difficult time for your whole family, I have to remind you that I’m not able to discuss my patients’ therapy—”
“That’s not what I wanted,” I assured him. “You arranged a meeting between him and Stephen Stern. Which means you probably have his number.”
“Neil is going to attempt to inform Mr. Stern himself?” Dr. Harris asked.
He was right to worry; just seeing the flowers would have killed Neil. “No. Stephen has reached out to Neil. He sent flowers and card, which I intercepted, thank god. I just want his number so I can call him and tell him he’s not welcome at the funeral.”
Dr. Harris’s indrawn breath was audible on the phone. “Ms. Scaife—”
“Please.” My voice cracked. I would have liked to remain assertive, but the day had been too much already. “Please. I promise I’ll make Neil call you. But you can’t mention this to him. I just want it to be done.”
I knew Dr. Harris was reluctant, but I sent every desperate mental plea I could manage over the line. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, he said, “I’ll transfer you back to my secretary. She’ll give you the number.”
“Thank you,” I breathed, slumping against the wall.
“And I won’t mention this to Neil. But I would like it if you could convince him to call me. In his own time, of course.”
“I promise I will. He’s going to need you.”
The secretary gave me the number, as promised. I checked on Neil, to make sure he was still asleep. He lay in our bed, Olivia in her playpen beside him. Neither stirred, so I crept out and closed the door until just before it latched. I went to the kitchen and sat down, because my knees trembled. I glanced up at the clock. It was late in Scotland, but I had no idea where in the world jet-setting celebrity Stephen would be.
Hopefully under an overpass, stabbed to death.
I punched in the number and held my breath, fully expecting th
at it would go to voicemail. But someone answered. And I could recognize that voice, anywhere.
“This is Stephen. Who is this?” he asked, sounding a bit peeved. I assumed people got his cell number all the time when he didn’t want them to, much in the way the press had gotten our number when Stephen’s stupid tell-all had come out.
“This is Sophie Scaife. Neil Elwood’s wife,” I began. “I’m sure by now that your sister has spoken to you about Emma and Michael?”