“How are we doing today?” Roberta asked.
Not far beyond her, a short way down the hall at the second-floor landing, stood one of Jeremy’s security detail. Heavyset, well dressed, the guy looked like a refrigerator in a suit and tie. Nicky knew he was there in case she decided to make a run for it when the door opened. She knew because she had tried it once. The guy grabbed her, carried her back to her room, and tossed her inside like she was a misbehaving puppy.
Roberta was carrying a small tray.
“Look what we have here,” she said. “Just about the best lunch ever. We hosted a little dinner last night for the Peruvian ambassador, and there was some beef Wellington left over. And a piece of chocolate almond cake that is to die for.”
Roberta set the tray down on the desk in the corner. Then she pulled out a chair, inviting Nicky to leave the bed and take a seat.
“I’m not hungry right now,” she said.
“I see,” Roberta said, unable to hide the hurt in her voice. “Antoine went to a lot of trouble to make this for you.”
“I’ll eat it in a bit,” she said.
Roberta painted on a smile and took a seat in a plush, leather chair that faced the bed. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“How are we doing today?”
“I want to leave,” Nicky said flatly. “I want to go to school.”
“Well, of course you do,” Roberta said, almost cheerfully.
“How long is my punishment going to be? I mean, I’ve heard of someone being sent to their room, but this is getting kind of ridiculous.”
“I totally understand that. I promise you, I’m going to speak to Mr. Pritkin about it. I guess a lot of it will depend on whether he feels you’ve learned your lesson.”
“I have, I really have.”
“That’s good. That’s good to hear.”
“Is he still mad at me?”
“Oh, Nicky, I wouldn’t say he’s mad at you. Unhappy, yes. Disappointed, for sure. But not mad.”
“I haven’t seen him since it happened.”
“He’s very busy. Did you see him last night on CNN?”
“I was watching something else, I guess,” Nicky said.
“He was talking to Chris Cuomo about the federal infrastructure plans. Jeremy knows a lot about that kind of thing. Not enough is being done.”
“If you say so. Listen, if I could talk to him for a minute, tell him again I didn’t hear anything, then maybe you could let me go?”
“I’ll certainly deliver that message. But surely you understand, hiding in his office, spying on him, so soon after you were thinking about talking to … others … about our life here inside this building—”
“I wasn’t spying.”
“It certainly looked that way, Nicky. And appearances mean everything. Mr. Pritkin is a great and powerful man, and he doesn’t take kindly to efforts to undermine him.”
“Honest, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Her shoulders sank. “Are you still texting the school and my friends, pretending to be me?”
“They all send their best wishes. Everyone wants to let you rest. That’s what they suggest for mono. They all know it can take several weeks to recover from that. So they’re not alarmed by your absence. I’ve spoken directly with the school administrators. Everything’s under control. Meanwhile, we’re trying to make things as pleasant for you as we can.”
“This is kidnapping,” Nicky said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a sick girl. We’re looking after you.”
Nicky felt tears coming, but she fought them. She would not cry in front of this woman.
Roberta stood, headed for the door. “I’ll send someone back for the tray later,” she said. “You really must try it. It’d be a shame to waste it. Would you mind if I told Antoine that you loved it? Because he’s going to ask.”
“Sure,” Nicky said. “The last thing I would want to do is hurt anyone’s feelings.”
Roberta smiled broadly. “That’s the spirit.” She went to the door and rapped on it twice, quickly. Seconds later, it was opened by the security guy. Roberta was halfway into the hall when Nicky called out to her.
“Roberta.”
Roberta stopped. “Yes, child?”
“What’s the plan? I mean, you can’t keep me a prisoner here forever.”
“No,” said Roberta. “No, I don’t suppose we can.”
Twenty-Six
Paris, France
It took Bonnie Trumble a while to figure out where she should go to report a missing person.
She was living in the Third Arrondissement, in the Marais district, around the corner from the Picasso museum. She and her bestie had found a place through Airbnb, had been saving their money for three years so they could come over here for a couple of months. Growing up in Lackawanna, just outside Buffalo, it was hard to imagine a place more exotic than Paris, although, when you lived in Lackawanna, the bar was not set all that high. All the way back to the ninth grade, shortly after they had become fast friends in their first year of high school, they had talked about going to the City of Lights someday.
When they finished high school, instead of going straight to college—their parents’ choice for them, of course—they decided this was their chance. They would rent a place, right in Paris, and spend two months there. Soak it up, live like the locals. And when the two months were over, they would go back to their boring Lackawanna lives.
And it had been going great. They did all the touristy things the first week they were here. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame Cathedral, although at that last one all they could do was walk around it, what with the fire and all a couple of years ago. Once they had the sightseeing stuff out of their system, they settled into more of a routine. Making meals at home—they were going to wipe out their savings pretty fast eating in the cafés every day—and going out to shop every day to get what they needed. Oh, man, the bread! Who could have guessed something as simple as bread could be that good? And you had to shop every day, because everything over here was smaller. The cupboards were small. You put a couple of containers of yogurt in the fridge and it was full. You didn’t exactly take out the car and go to Costco and bring home a six-gallon jug of olives.
Things were going so well.
And then her friend Katie disappeared.
While they were best friends, there were days when they wanted to do their own thing. On this particular Wednesday, Bonnie wanted to spend the day wandering the Pompidou Centre. She was into modern art, stuff that was more offbeat, but Katie had had enough of museums. “Knock yourself out,” she told Bonnie. “I’m gonna take my book and go someplace and get a latte and take three hours to drink it. I’ll find us something for dinner and get it ready for when you get back.”
When Bonnie returned shortly before six, Katie was not there.
That was not necessarily alarming. Katie could have decided to leave her shopping duties until late afternoon. Then it got to be seven, and then eight, and with each passing hour Bonnie’s anxiety level increased exponentially.
But it was more than Katie being missing.
She had discovered something very weird about the apartment. Something so weird she felt she needed to talk to the police about it tonight. Not tomorrow morning. Right fucking now.
It had never occurred to Bonnie that she might need to get in touch with the police while she was in Paris. What were they even called? Gendarmes? Policier? Where was the station? And if she could find one, would she be able to find a police officer who knew English really well? Because, let’s face it, her French was pretty basic.
It turned out that every arrondissement had its own police headquarters, so Bonnie was going to have to find the one for the third. The building where she and Katie were living had two other rental units. She banged on the door of the first one, found no one home, but got lucky with the second, which was occupied by an elderly couple from Toronto who took th
e place for half the year. They were fluent in French, and offered to go with Bonnie to the police station in case she had any trouble communicating with the authorities.
Once the Canadian couple had paved the way for her, a police officer in his fifties, named Henri and dressed plainly in jeans, a white dress shirt, and a sports jacket, offered to sit down with Bonnie and hear her story. She wondered, given that he was not wearing a traditional uniform, whether he was some kind of detective, but whatever. She wanted someone who would listen, and fortunately, he spoke English.
Henri: What is your friend’s name?
Bonnie: Katie Gleave. Um, Katie Frances Gleave. We’re both from Lackawanna, New York. It’s near Buffalo? We’re both nineteen.
Henri: And what brings you to Paris?
Bonnie: We wanted to experience it, you know? Living here?
Henri: Of course.
Bonnie: She’s gone.
Henri: Tell me when this happened.
Bonnie: I went to the Pompidou for the day. Katie just wanted to hang out. She was going to get something for our dinner. But she wasn’t there when I got home and she hasn’t come back.
Henri: She has not been gone very long. Not even overnight. Did you try calling her?
Bonnie: I texted her, phoned her. Nothing.
Henri: Perhaps … she has found a boyfriend?
Bonnie: No, no way. That’s not what happened. And even if it did, she would let me know. She wouldn’t make me worry like this. But there’s more.
Henri: Okay.
Bonnie: Her stuff is all gone.
Henri: Her stuff?
Bonnie: Her clothes.
Henri: Ah, I see. Maybe she has decided to go home, to go back to America. Maybe things were not working out between the two of you?
Bonnie: And the sheets from her bed.
Henri: The sheets?
Bonnie: Why would she take the sheets off her bed? What sense does that make? They weren’t hers. They belong to the people who own the apartment.
Henri: That is strange.
Bonnie: And everything in the bathroom. Not just her stuff. All of mine, too. I mean, if she was going to take off, which I don’t think she did, I could see her taking her own toothbrush, but why would she take mine?
Henri: That … is curious.
Bonnie: But here’s the weirdest thing of all. The place has been cleaned.
Henri: Cleaned?
Bonnie: It’s like, cleaner than the first day we got the place. Everything’s sparkling. I mean, we’re not pigs, okay, but we’re not the tidiest people in the world, either. We’d kind of let things go for a while. I was thinking, later this week, I’d clean the bathroom and maybe run through the place with the Dyson, but now the place isn’t just clean, it’s been disinfected.
Henri: Disinfected?
Bonnie: Bleach. The place reeks of bleach.
Twenty-Seven
Springfield, MA
The Pacer, with Chloe at the wheel and Miles sitting beside her, stopped at the end of the driveway. Charise was out of the limo and leaning up against the door, arms crossed, but when Miles got out of Chloe’s car, she straightened up.
“Mr. Cookson?”
Miles said, “Todd—Chloe’s half brother—wasn’t here. We’re going to try and find Todd’s mom. Chloe found an address for her online.”
“I’ll stay on your tail. When you need me, I’ll be there.”
“That’s great.”
“Mr. Cookson?”
“Yes?”
“I hope I wasn’t overreacting about the coffee thing.”
“Not at all.”
“It didn’t feel right. But maybe it’s nothing.”
“I always say, go with your instincts. Charise, I’m guessing you haven’t always been a driver for hire.”
“No, sir. I’ve done a few other things. A 911 operator, a cook, wrestler.”
“I’m sorry, wrestler?”
Charise smiled. “In my younger days. Big shows, the fights all choreographed. Wore a costume. I was ‘the Ebony Nightmare.’ Did that for three years. I suppose that’s where I learned to spot fakers. We were all fakers, back in the day.”
Miles smiled with admiration, and no small measure of astonishment. “I won’t cross you. Don’t want to be tossed across the hood of your car.”
Charise smiled. “I wouldn’t do that to you, sir. But I could.”
Miles returned to the Pacer. It took him three tries to get the passenger door to close all the way and latch.
“Let’s go meet the mother of my son,” he said grimly.
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Chloe said. “Is that how you’re going to be when you meet my mom?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a little on edge. Meeting the mothers first wasn’t part of my game plan. And from what you’ve said, your mom won’t be thrilled to meet me.”
“Yeah, but I’d give a lot to see the look on her face when I introduce you.”
She glanced over, expecting some reaction from Miles. But he was just sitting there, looking straight ahead. Sullen.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Pops. What’s wrong? The missing phone freaking you out?”
“Yeah. That’s part of it.”
“But it’s something else?”
He looked plaintively at her. “What I have, this disease …”
“Yeah, you told me. ALS. So?”
“I’d like you to take a test.”
“What kind of test?”
“A genetic test.”
“Like DNA?”
“Sort of. I’d pay for it. And any subsequent medical expenses.”
“So this isn’t about who I am? Because you got the information from the clinic, right? That says you’re my biological father? So this is a different test?”
“Yes.” Miles was silent for several seconds. “I was going to get to this later, but it goes to the heart of why I wanted to find you. And Todd. And the others.”
She waited.
“I’ve told you I have … a disease. I’m going to get a lot worse. The good news, if there’s any, is that I have the money I’ll need for special care when I’m less able to look after my needs. And it’s going to cost a lot.”
“Okay,” Chloe said slowly.
He turned in his seat to look at her more directly. “There is a chance, only a chance, not a certainty—” and at this point he winced inwardly because the likelihood of her developing Huntington’s was much greater than just a chance “—that what I have might not just be the ALS, that it could be more serious than that. And, maybe, at some point in your life, you might get this disease, too.”
“Are you kidding me?” She adopted a sarcastic tone. “‘Hey, guess what, not only am I your dad, but by the way, you might die!’”
“It’s not as bad as that. I just—fuck, maybe this has all been a mistake.” He turned back straight into his seat, looked out his window. “The test would show whether you’d develop the disease.”
“So, I could take it, find out I’m not going to get it, but then they’ll find out I’m going to get something totally different,” she said.
“I hadn’t thought of that. But yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“We’re all going to get something,” she said. “It’s not like any of us are going to live forever. So what’s the point?”
“The point is … I have money.”
“So?”
“A lot of it. I don’t have any children from, you know, a marriage. No children that I’ve raised myself.”
“You never got married?”
“No.”
“Never lived with a woman?”
“No.”
“You gay?”
“No.”
“But, like, you’ve done it with something other than a cup.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve had relationships over the years, but none that led to anything.�
�
“Why’s that?”
“We’re getting a little off topic here.”
“Yeah, well, forgive me for not wanting to talk about my getting a fatal disease. How come you never hooked up permanently with someone?”
“Maybe because I’m kind of an asshole,” he said.
“Really?”
“I like how you sound surprised.”
“That wasn’t meant to be sarcastic.”
“I was always more interested in work than making it work with anyone in particular.”
“Lots of women would put up with that. Especially if you’re loaded.”
“I wasn’t loaded at the time. That came later.”
“So then, why not find someone later?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She sighed, rolled her eyes, focused on the road again. “Gee, why would that be? You show up a few hours ago, tell me you’re my dad, tell me I should get this test to find out if maybe, just maybe, I have some fatal disease, and you think it’s weird that I have questions.”
Miles said nothing.
“Huh?” she said. “Well?”
“The thing is, if, and it’s just an if, but if it turns out you do, someday, have this … condition … you’ll be able to afford whatever kind of care you need.”
Chloe’s face turned serious. “What do you mean?”
“This is one of the reasons why I’m looking for you and … the others. My plan is to divide what I have between all of you.”
“You’re leaving me money?”
“Yes.”
“What if I don’t get sick? Do I have to give it back?”
“No.”
“How much money we talking here?”
“A lot.”
She set her jaw firmly, thinking. A moment later, she said, “I don’t need your money.”
Find You First Page 17