Did she know the identity of the young woman?

Did she think he’d been drinking the night of the accident?

She stuck to her usual approach and said nothing. She and Michael had sent a statement to all their employees, reassuring them. They’d focused on the business, not the personal.

But it was the personal that interested the media.

“I’ve been through your inbox.” Nessa put a cup of coffee in front of her. “Mostly it’s all the usual stuff. Nothing urgent. And the producer of Cliff Cooks called. They’ve put the filming on hold, obviously. She wants to talk to you.”

“Why? I can’t do anything about the fact they’ve lost their star presenter.” One of Cliff’s affairs when they were still married had been with Cally Martin, the producer. Joanna pushed the plate away, her appetite gone. “I’ll call her.” But not yet. When she was ready. Cally, presumably, was in a panic knowing that her golden goose had flown over a cliff.

Why did you crash, Cliff? Were you distracted? What were you doing with that girl?

“You need to eat more. If you lose weight, it will give them something to write about.” Nessa pushed the plate back toward her. “Do you know what you need? A spa day or something. You need to get away. You need to relax.”

“Leaving this house means looking over my shoulder the whole time. It’s not relaxing.” Technically she wasn’t trapped, but it felt that way. She was trapped by the choices she’d made. “Maybe I should climb over the wall, as you did, and disappear.”

“Not the worst idea in the world, apart from the spiders.” Nessa buttered toast for herself. “I feel self-conscious making you food when you’re probably used to creating restaurant-worthy dishes.”

“I’m not. I’m a terrible cook.” She used Cliff’s own words, because she knew they were true. You’re a terrible cook, Joanna.

Nessa stared at her, toast halfway to her mouth. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because Cliff must have taught you.”

It showed how little Nessa had known about Cliff. Even if Joanna had shown talent, he wouldn’t have wanted her to be a good cook. He needed to be the best. The most popular. He didn’t want competition. He couldn’t handle it.

“Cliff cooked when we were together, and after the divorce I either ordered in or ate something simple.” Fruit and cheese. Salads that required washing and not much else. “I’m good at opening containers.”

She could have told Nessa that elaborate food reminded her of Cliff, so her favorite dishes were all things he would never have touched. Mac and cheese that she bought from the deli and reheated. Cold cuts and raw vegetables.

Simple food became an act of rebellion, a way of distancing herself from her past life.