“Of what?”

Her eyes were fixed on her lap, fingers pleating and unpleating the hem of her skirt. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to learn your spouse’s darkest secrets from a pack of reporters? To be the last one to know he’s been leading some kind of double life?”

“No, but I can imagine.”

She lifted her chin. “Can you?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Mrs. Ludlow, do you know the woman they pulled from your husband’s car the night he died and were they involved sexually? Do you know how long the relationship had been going on? Have there been other women, or was she the first?” She held his gaze, fighting tears that were more about anger than self-pity. “And those were the polite questions. But the worst part was I couldn’t have answered them if I wanted to. And it made me ashamed. How could I not know what my own husband was up to? And then when you said what you said the other night, about me not wanting to know, I was ashamed all over again. Because I realized you were right. I didn’t want to know. Not really.”

Wade reached for the red tote and unzipped it, producing a paper towel and a bottled water. “Here,” he said, pushing the paper towel into her hands. “You’re leaking.”

“Sorry.” She felt foolish as she blotted her eyes. “I didn’t come here because I wanted you to feel sorry for me. I just wanted you to understand.”

“I get it. I do.” He was foraging in the tote again, pulling out a variety of leftover containers, peeling off lids and balancing them on his lap. “Because I’ve seen it firsthand. The news business was different when I got in. It used to be about real news. Now it’s about voyeurism and the public’s need to revel in the suffering of others. The human fallout doesn’t enter into it. It’s about ratings, circulation, copies sold.”

She dabbed at her eyes again. “And that’s why you quit?”

“Yes. It had been coming for a while, but things reached critical mass when they asked me to interview a kid who’d just watched his mother die at the Crystal Lake shooting. So here I am.”

“Writing your book?”

“Trying to, yes. Want some dinner?”

Christy-Lynn blinked at him, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. For a moment, she considered pressing for more, but something in his expression warned her off. Instead, she surveyed the makeshift picnic spread out on his lap: cold chicken, fresh fruit, and what looked like potato salad.

“Go on,” Wade prompted, holding out the container of chicken. “There’s plenty.”

She chose a drumstick and began nibbling, not because she was hungry but because she wasn’t ready to tell him why she had really come.

“This is delicious,” she said between bites, an awkward attempt at small talk. “Where did you get it?”

Wade glanced up, looking mildly insulted. “I didn’t get it. I made it.”

“Well then, I’m impressed.”

He shrugged. “Not much to it actually. Lemon, olive oil, some rosemary, and a little garlic. Marinate it for a couple of hours, then throw it on the grill. The potato salad, on the other hand, is from the deli. If it isn’t some form of pasta or something I can toss on the grill, I’m fairly hopeless.”

Christy-Lynn found herself smiling. “I’m still impressed. I don’t think Stephen knew how to turn on the oven.”

“My ex-wife’s idea of a home-cooked meal was coffee and a Twinkie. She was a whiz with a takeout menu, though.” He reached back into the tote, producing a fork, and handed it to her along with the container of potato salad. “Sorry, there’s only one. I wasn’t expecting company. You go first.”

They ate in silence as dusk settled around them, the quiet broken only by the occasional splash or a birdcall from high in the trees. After a few bites, she wiped the fork with her paper towel and handed it back to Wade, along with the potato salad, watching as he dove in with gusto.

“So,” she said, trying to sound offhand and failing miserably. “Are you still . . . connected to any of the people you worked with at Review?”

Wade looked up and stopped chewing. “We’re going there again?”

“No,” she said quickly. “But yes, a little. I was wondering if you might . . . be able to help me.”

He suddenly looked leery. “Help you how?”

Christy-Lynn clamped her hands between her knees and glanced away. “I called the Clear Harbor police this afternoon. They said Daniel Connelly has taken early retirement. So I did what you said and went over his head. Or tried to. No one would tell me anything. Not even her name. So I was wondering . . .”

“If I could get one of my parasitic reporter pals to dig up the dirt on her?”

Christy-Lynn felt her cheeks go hot. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“I was merely pointing out the irony of the situation in case you had missed it.”

He was enjoying himself immensely, and she supposed he had a right to that. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” she told him sheepishly. “I’m aware. In fact, I almost didn’t come. But I was out of options. So here I am, sitting in your boat, eating crow. If you’ll just row me back to shore, I’ll go.”

“Paddle.”