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IN THE THREE DAYS THAT passed after terrorists murdered and wounded more than four dozen people outside the Witherhouses’ mansion, it became clear to Alex and me that getting in front of the press as soon as we did had saved our asses when it came to Wenn’s stock.
On Monday morning, it didn’t fall as we’d expected it to—instead, it rose, which suggested to us that Alex’s plan on how to take Wenn forward in the interim without Diana and Mike had resonated with investors.
Assisting us in that cause was the groundswell of support we’d received from the press. After reading our reports, they had determined that, despite a depleted board, Wenn was still a force to be reckoned with. Moreover, with Alex leading the ship, many key members of the media wrote that, in the coming weeks, Alex would find suitable replacements for Diana and Mike.
“There is no reason for concern,” the Wall Street Journal wrote. “Alexander Wenn has proved time and again that Wenn Enterprises is in very capable hands. The company has only grown since Wenn inherited it eight years ago, when his father killed his wife and then himself.”
Over the last three days, Alex and I had attended too many funerals to fathom. We didn’t know everyone who had died that night, but we were close enough with eleven of them that we wanted to make certain we paid our respects in person. It had been painful and draining, especially for Alex, who had known many of these people far longer than I had. Some of the men and women who’d died he’d known since he was a boy.
Now, on the fourth day—with all of the funerals, hospital visits, and phone calls behind us—we had to move forward, and so we did, regardless of the fact that we still had no answers when it came to who committed the crime.
All the police knew from the surveillance footage they’d obtained from the Witherhouses as well as their neighbors was that two people were behind the shootings—a man and a woman. A Toyota Camry that had been reported stolen from New Jersey two days before the crime had been found on West Fifty-Seventh Street and Tenth with assault rifles and black ski masks in the trunk. There still was no word on whether any prints had been lifted from the car, but through Tank’s contacts, we’d know before most.
After Alex made breakfast for us, which made me love him more because I never took him or his unexpected acts of kindness for granted, I began my morning at the office with Blackwell, who was still shaken by what had happened, as were most of the people in Manhattan and around the world.
“Good morning,” I said to her when I entered her office.
She was reading the Times. When I stepped inside and took the seat opposite her with a cup of coffee in my hand, she flicked her head up at me, and her face softened.
“Good morning, my darling girl. How are you?”
“Ready to get back to work,” I said.
“You sound eager to...”
“I am. Those two bastards took away so much from so many people that night. And now they probably want those who survived to feel defeated. Frightened. They want us to feel as if they’ve won. They want to believe that they’ve weakened us. After three days of funerals and reflection, I’m at the point where I have to say to hell with that. Because if I don’t? If we all don’t? Then they have won, Barbara—and I refuse to let them win. I won’t let that happen. So? Time to get back to work, and to life.”
“I agree,” she said quietly. “Though it will be difficult.”
“None of this is easy.”
“And so it isn’t,” she said as she leaned back in her chair and studied me. “You have an event coming up this Saturday, which is just four days away. Are you and Alex still planning to go?”
“Of course—it’s Kate Stone’s yearly event for the Stone Foundation. We have every intention of going.”
“I apologize for being a bit distracted, but what is this event again?”
“It’s a charitable event for the Stone Foundation, which Kate founded in her husband Michael’s memory after he was murdered. You know about that, don’t you?”
“I do, and it was heartbreaking. But she seems to have come out of it well. He died five or six years ago, didn’t he?”
“Around then.”
“And didn’t I read that she’s now seeing a new beau?”
“Ben Cade,” I said. “Her first love from high school. He’s now a private investigator. I won’t go into the specifics, but fate brought them together again, and now they’re engaged.”
“And you like her?”
“I adore her.”
“Then I’d probably also like her.”
“Tank and Lisa will be going as well. Kate is a big fan of Lisa’s books and wants to meet her.”
Blackwell leaned forward. “Look, if you are going to go to this event, then we need to find you and Lisa dresses—and time is running out. How about some much-needed retail therapy today?”
“I came here to work, but I have to admit, Barbara, that I’d kind of love that.”
“As would I. We’ll have fun. Hell, I need to get back to my old self—and taunting poor Chloe at Bergdorf’s will do the trick. Call Lisa. See if she’s available, and if she is, set it up for noon.”
“Done.”
“A moment before you leave?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve said it time and again, but I don’t think you know how grateful I am and how lucky I feel that Alex and you survived that night. At this point, I’m not sure what I’d do without either of you in my life. You’re family.”
“And you, Daniella, and Alexa are our family.”
“Family,” she said. “Funny thing about what that means as you grow older, isn’t it? The definition changes. Your circle shrinks. The core people you want around you become important to you in ways that you never thought they’d ever become. But they do. Blood doesn’t make a family. I once thought that was the case, but not now. My family is my daughters, Alex and you, Lisa and Tank, and also Cutter. Now, give us a kiss on each cheek,” she said as she stood up from behind her desk.
I put my coffee down and kissed her twice.
“I love you, Barbara. Thank you for being my surrogate womb.”
“Please stop saying that—it’s grotesque.”
“It’s also true.”
“Then you need to find a better way to say it, because my womb—as fabulous as it once was—probably should see a plastic surgeon at this point. I could make the news, you know. The first woman to receive a womb lift.”
“I’m calling Lisa,” I said as I backed away from her.
Blackwell tugged down the sides of her jacket. “Do that,” she said. “We leave at noon.”
