How did she feel about his latest affair?

Why didn’t she leave?

Had she no self-respect?

She’d become a fascinating case study in humiliation. She’d been photographed from every angle. They’d commented on the weight she’d lost, how haggard she looked. Their speculation had been cruel and deeply personal. They hadn’t judged Cliff—they’d judged her.

If he cheats, it must be her fault.

They’d speculated on whether in marrying a man fourteen years her senior she’d somehow been trying to replace her father. That suggestion had offended her more than any of them. Cliff had been nothing like her father. Hearing the two of them mentioned in the same breath had made her want to lash out.

The buzzer rang again. She ignored it.

Nessa frowned. “They’re like hyenas...ready to chomp down on a carcass. And you’re the carcass.”

Joanna gave a faint smile. “Yes.”

“The stuff they say about you is all total crap. Aren’t you ever tempted to give your side of things? I guess today they need to milk the story, and to do that they have to talk to someone. Cliff’s dead, so he’s not going to be saying anything, that girl is in the hospital—that just leaves you. They’ll want your reaction.”

What was her reaction? What did she feel?

“Dead.” She said the word aloud again, trying to make it real. Testing herself. Pressing, to see if it hurt.

Nessa eyed her. “Can I pour you a drink? A real drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Her thoughts were complicated enough without clouding them with alcohol. Untangling her emotions was complicated. Was she feeling humiliated? Cliff’s behavior had continually embarrassed her, even after they were divorced. Was she prostrate with grief? Angry at the impact his actions might have on the business and the people they employed?

Joanna finished her coffee, ignoring the fact it was cold. She felt oddly detached. She felt grief, yes. But was it grief for Cliff or grief for the life she’d wanted that had never turned out the way she’d hoped?

She wasn’t sure what she felt. It couldn’t be relief, because that would make her hard-hearted.

Would it? Or would it make her human?

The buzzer sounded again. Annoying. Persistent.

Nessa slid off the stool and refilled her glass. “I’ll tell people in the office you won’t be in for a few days.”

“I won’t hide.”

“You’re not hiding—you’re avoiding intrusive questions. Also, if we’re being practical, you’re trapped.” Nessa added ice to the glass, splashing droplets of water onto the tiled floor. “Unless you’re going to wear a disguise and shimmy over the wall like I did, your only way out of this place is through the front entrance. You can drive over the photographers, but then you’d be arrested, and I don’t have enough money in my account to bail you out. You could ignore them, but they’ll follow you. I suppose you could just make a statement and hope they’ll go away.”

“They won’t go away.”