The Widow Read Free Page A

deep breath. “Look,” she said, “it’s early in the morning and I’ve just barely heard. Why don’t you call me back in a few hours and we’ll discuss—”
    â€œI’m already at the airport. I’ll be on the next flight and we can discuss it in person.” And she hung up before Charlie could form another protest.
    She set the phone back in its cradle. The bread dough lay on the marble counter, a round, plump mass. She picked it up and tossed it in the trash, then washed her hands, scrubbing at them. She had flour beneath her short fingernails, and she kept scrubbing, mindlessly. Her hands were raw and red by the time she finished. She dried them quickly, then reached for the dish of rings. She put the silver rings on her right hand, the gold on her left. Then she slid the huge, winking yellow diamond onto her ring finger, staring down at it blindly.
    And she began to cry.

2
    H e shouldn’t have listened to Gregory. He seldom did—his own instincts usually served him well—but this time his editor had been adamant, and he was footing the bill, as well.
    â€œYou’ve got to get to New York for the memorial service,” Gregory had insisted. “Just to check out the lay of the land. You can stay undercover—we have camera crews and reporters there to do the main work. But you need to see what’s going on firsthand. How the widow’s bearing up. Whether any former lovers decide to appear out of the woodwork and make a scene.”
    â€œWhat if someone sees me? How the hell can I talk my way into the villa when someone might remember me from the service?” he’d argued.
    â€œI don’t need to tell you how to do these things, Maguire,” Gregory had replied. “You’re an old pro—you can talk your way into and out of anything.”
    â€œI’m planning on passing myself off as an insurance adjuster once I get to the villa. Why would I be in New York?”
    â€œAfraid you can’t handle it, Maguire? Lost your nerve?”
    â€œI can handle it,” he’d drawled. “I just don’t like needless complications.”
    â€œConsider this a needful complication. Pompasse was a famous man, and there’ll be media from all over the world looking for a story. We’ve already got an inside edge—you’ve been working on him for weeks now. But we can’t afford to let anyone else get the jump on us.”
    And so he’d gone. He’d stayed in the background, watching, blending in with the ability he’d perfected over the years. And everything would have been fine, if the widow hadn’t looked up at one point and, as luck would have it, met his gaze.
    He’d ducked behind a pillar in the huge, crowded church a second later, and by the time he dared emerge her attention was once more on her lap. The place was jammed—with mourners, with curiosity-seekers, with paparazzi like himself. She probably hadn’t even focused on him in that split second. There’d be no way she’d remember him after all those people.
    He’d stayed in the background just to be sure, listening to the tributes that sounded more suited to Mother Teresa than a monstrously self-indulgent artist, and Maguire took note of several key phrases for later use. He’d get the full transcripts eventually. Right now he only needed local color, impressions. Like the widow’s firm step and straight, narrow back. Like the fact that for all the flowery tributes, there wasn’t a damp eye in the house. As far as he could see, no one mourned the old man.
    Least of all Connor Maguire.
    He didn’t dare spend more than a few minutes at the private reception afterward. He had no trouble talking his way into the place despite the tight security, but he couldn’t risk running face-to-face with Pompasse’s widow. Not if he planned to pass himself off as someone else later.
    He paused near