He told the woman a softer version of the truth. "It's easier if you let Amanda do all the talking."
"So they won't ask me about killing Adam?"
"Among other things."
"Aren't they going to wonder why I'm not at home waiting for the second phone call?"
He gathered she was speaking more for herself than the members of the press. "This is a very tense time-not just for us, but for whoever has Emma. We need the press to tone down the rhetoric. We don't need them running with some wild story, making up clues and chasing down crazy theories while we're trying to negotiate for Emma's return."
She slowly nodded her head. "What will it be like in there? In front of all those cameras?"
Excruciating, Will thought, but said, "I'll be standing in the back of the room. Just look at me, okay?" She nodded, and he continued, "There will be a lot of cameras flashing, lots of people asking questions. Just stare at me and try to ignore them. I'm kind of easy to pick out of a crowd."
She didn't laugh at the joke. He noticed that she was holding her purse against her stomach. It was small, what he thought was called a clutch. Will had seen her closet, a spectacularly furnished room that was larger than his kitchen. There were evening gowns and designer labels and slinky high heels, but nothing in her wardrobe had appeared understated. He wondered if she had bought the outfit for the occasion, or borrowed it from a friend.
As if she could read his mind, she asked, "Do I fit the part of the bereaved killer?"
Will had heard the news call her as much this morning. The reporters were having a field day with the savage-mother-protecting-her-daughter angle. The irony was too rich to pass up. "You shouldn't watch television. At least until this is over."
She opened her purse. He saw a tube of lipstick, a set of keys, and a bundle of photographs that she rested her fingers on but did not take out. Instead, she pulled a tissue from the bottom and used it to wipe her nose. "How can I not watch? How can I not soak up every horrible thing that comes out of their mouths?"
Will did not know how he was expected to answer, so he said nothing.
One of Paul's ubiquitous "fuck you"s came from down the hallway. Whatever Amanda said was more of a murmur, but the tone sent out a chill that could be felt even from this distance.
Abigail said, "I like your boss."
"I'm glad."
"She wrote my statement for me."
Will knew this already. Amanda wouldn't have trusted the mother to prepare a plea for the return of her child. The semantics were too important. One wrong word could send the wrong message, then they would suddenly find themselves going from working a kidnapping to working a murder case.
"She doesn't lie to me," Abigail said. "Are you going to lie to me?"
"About what?"
"Are they going to ask me questions about Adam?"
"If they're any good at their jobs-yes. They'll try. But keep in mind, you're not here to answer questions. The reporters know the ground rules. That doesn't mean they'll necessarily follow them, but you have to. Don't let them bait you. Don't let them force you into a situation where you have to explain yourself, or where you say something that might later be used against you."
"I killed him. In every sense of the word, I murdered him."
"You probably shouldn't say that to a cop."
"I used to be a lawyer," she said. "I know how this works."
"How?"
"It all depends on how things go from now on, doesn't it? Whether or not you charge me. If Emma comes back in one piece, or if she's…" Abigail sniffed, wiping her nose again. "If the newspapers are with me, if they paint me as some kind of cold-blooded killer, if the parents push for prosecution…so many ifs."
Will assured her, "I'm not going to charge you with anything."
Abigail indicated Amanda. "She might."
Will admitted to himself that the woman had a point. "It's not my place to advise you, but you're not going to do yourself any favors talking like this."
"He was just a child. He had his whole life in front of him." She pressed her lips together, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "Think of all the things I took from him-from his parents. There's nothing for them now. Just eighteen years, then nothing."
Will wasn't sure what he would be saying in her place, but he found himself wondering if Abigail was focusing so much on Adam Humphrey because the alternative-focusing on the fate of her own daughter-was too much to bear.
She asked, "What should I say when the reporters ask me about Adam?"
"Nothing," he told her. "We told them from the start that they're only supposed to direct their questions to Amanda. They won't do that, of course, but you don't have to talk to them."
"What if I want to?"
"What would you say?" Will asked. "Because if it's the things you just told me, I can tell you right now that they'll have you nailed to a cross by nightfall." He added, "If you want to punish yourself for what happened to Adam Humphrey, then take some pills or try experimenting with heroin. You'll be much better off than throwing yourself onto the mercy of the press."
"You are honest."
"I guess I am," Will admitted. "Save yourself for Emma. If you can't be strong for yourself, then be strong for her."
"I'm so sick of people telling me to be strong."
Will wondered what else could be said-be weak? Fall on the floor? Rend your clothes? Wail? All of these things seemed like obvious reactions that a normal person might have, but they certainly wouldn't play well for the cameras.
Abigail said, "I'm not usually this melodramatic. I'm afraid I might…" She shook her head. "What if he sees me on television and thinks that Emma deserves it? What if I do something wrong or don't look grieved enough, or look too grieved, or-"
"You can't keep playing this game in your head."
"Game?" she asked. "I want this all to be a game. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and yell at Emma to get ready for school. I want to scream at my husband for screwing around on me. I want to play tennis with my friends and throw dinner parties and decorate my house and ignore my husband's affairs and…" Her composure had held up longer than he'd thought it would. Slowly, she started to shatter. It started in her mouth-a slight tremble of her bottom lip that spread up her face like a tic. "I want to change places with her. He can do whatever he wants to me. Fuck me, sodomize me, beat me, burn me. I don't care." The tears came pouring now. "She's just a baby. She can't take it. She won't survive…"
Even as he took her hand, Will felt the awkwardness of the gesture. He did not know this woman and certainly was in no position to comfort her. "Emma's alive," Will reminded her. "That's what you need to hold on to. Your daughter is alive."
Impossibly, the moment turned more awkward. Gently, she slipped her hand from his. She ran her fingers under her eyes in that magical way women do to keep their eyeliner from smudging. Unexpectedly she asked, "How do you know my husband?"
"We met a long time ago."
"Were you one of the boys who bullied him?"
Will felt his mouth open, but could not find any words to answer.
"My husband doesn't talk much about his childhood."
Will could've told her some stories. Instead he said, "That's probably a good thing."
Abigail looked at him-really looked at him-for the first time since they'd met. He could feel her eyes scanning the scars on his face, the thin, pink line where his lip had been split so badly that there wasn't enough good skin left to sew it back together straight.
Her gaze was so intimate that it was almost like a touch.
They both looked away uncomfortably. Will checked his watch to make sure the battery was working. Abigail rummaged around in her purse.
Footsteps clicked against the tiles as Hoyt, Amanda and Paul made their way back up the hallway. Paul looked positively defeated, and Will wished that he had paid more attention to the exchange. Paul silently took his wife's hand and placed it on his arm.