The Herd

by Andrea Bartz

  “You think someone she met is responsible for her disappearance?” Daniel’s head whipped around, his hair bobbing.

  “Well, it doesn’t look great. That she had secret lovers.” Mikki leaned against the bookcase.

  If this were a noir, we’d have a new deck of possible motives: Eleanor had run off with someone new. Or she’d met up with a bad seed, someone who’d kidnapped her or worse. Or we could look at the flip side, ignore Daniel’s insistence that none of this was his idea: Perhaps Daniel had fallen in love with someone else and decided to dispose of his wife. Or a new lover had fallen for Daniel and opted to eliminate the inconvenient spouse. Or nobody had fallen in love with anyone, but Daniel had set his sights on this new single life, convinced his wife to open up their marriage so he’d have her permission in her own goddamn handwriting…

  “So you were with someone last night,” Hana prompted.

  He nodded. “I worked late, then met her at a bar in her neighborhood. I thought it would be awkward to, you know, come home first, see Eleanor, and then take off again. And then—not talking the next morning, that was her idea, because neither of us wants to know details. She wanted it to be completely separate.” He whipped his hands out, away from each other. “It was just a woman I was talking to online. I’d never met up with her before. It was just sex.”

  “The cops are gonna look into your alibi,” Hana said.

  “I know.” He nodded. “Everyone in the world is about to know about my sex life. I don’t give a shit. I just want Eleanor back.”

  The doorbell chimed, echoing up the stairs, and we all turned in the direction of the front door. Daniel loped out into the bedroom and the others followed.

  My eyes fell on the drawer, still gaping open like a question mark. Moving quickly, I kneeled and plunged my hand inside. Financial documents: I didn’t have time to read them, but I whipped my phone out and snapped photos of the pages, one by one. A pad of Post-it notes was in the drawer, too, unmarked, and I peeled off the top quarter-inch of sheets and shoved them in a pocket before strolling back downstairs.

  They were seated awkwardly around the living room, a pair of cops, a man and a woman, on the sofa, Daniel and Mikki in armchairs. The policeman appeared to be copying down details from Daniel’s driver’s license. Hana stood a few feet behind Mikki, her whole body curved toward her phone.

  “The news about Titan got out,” Mikki murmured, nodding in Hana’s direction.

  “What? I thought Hana pulled the press release back?” I whispered. I pulled out my phone; Joanna Chen’s article was at the top of The Gaze’s homepage, flame emojis indicating it was surging in traffic, and already twenty-seven comments clung to the bottom. It clicked: the tote bag full of press kits Hana had stashed behind the bar and then forgotten. Had a nosy reporter found it?

  “And you are?” the policewoman said, craning her neck to see where I’d come from.

  “Katie Bradley.” I pointed at Hana. “Her sister. And also one of Eleanor’s best friends.”

  “I’m Detective Ratliff. This is Detective Herrera.”

  “Are there more of you?” The male cop—Herrera, apparently—had wide arms, a thick trunk, and a New York accent to match: Are thair mora you?

  “No, sorry. I—I got distracted on my way downstairs because people started texting me about this article that just went up. About the Herd.” I unlocked my phone, held it out. “It mentions Eleanor.”

  Ratliff—pretty with full lips and wide-set eyes—plucked it out of my hand and scanned it.

  “This is about the event Eleanor didn’t show up for. The news wasn’t supposed to get out tonight, though. It’s what our friend is dealing with—she’s their publicist.” Mikki jerked her head in Hana’s direction, then met my eyes. “They’ve never heard of the Herd.” We held each other’s gaze for a moment, keeping our faces neutral. Blink, blink.

  Ratliff held out my phone and looked away theatrically. “You just got a new text.”

  It was from Mom: “Just saw the big news abt the herd!!! Very interesting choice to join Titan.” A moment later, a second text: “Tell Hana to call me sometime. xo”

  Hana walked back over and leaned against Mikki’s armchair, apologizing. She looked like she might puke. I mouthed You okay? And she gave a small, unconvincing nod.

  “All right, do I have your attention?” Ratliff seemed more bored than annoyed. We all nodded rabidly.

  “Right now we’re trying to assess the level of risk for the missing person. Ms….Walsh. That depends on a number of factors, and it helps us determine if we need to start investigating now or if we should wait a few days before taking further action.” She pulled a pen out of a pocket, clicked it. “Most people who are reported missing show up within forty-eight hours. So if she’s not immediately at risk, we’ll take that into account.”

  “Of course she’s at risk,” Daniel blurted out. “She vanished into thin air. She had an event tonight. Something must have happened.”

  “We’re considering all possibilities,” she replied mechanically, handing the folded yellow sheet to her partner. The polyamory contract. She thinks Eleanor just bolted.

  “Officer, we know her extremely well,” Hana said. “This is completely out of character.”

  “Is she on medication?” Ratliff replied. She was flipping through a small notebook to find a clean page.

  “What?” Daniel asked.

  “If she requires medication or treatment, that’s an important factor in assessing the level of risk.” She looked at Daniel expectantly, as if the rest of us weren’t there.

  “Um…I don’t know, birth control, antidepressants, she takes something for her allergies but that might just be in the fall and spring. Her medication’s in a drawer on the nightstand—I can go get it.” He started to rise, but the cop shook her head. Herrera shifted his feet, impatiently, like a horse kicking at the dirt.

  “Has she ever been involved in a missing-persons case before?” she continued.

  Daniel swung his head wildly. “Never.”

  I glanced over at Hana—had she and Mikki exchanged a look, or were my eyes playing tricks on me?

  “Okay.” Ratliff made a note. “Let’s keep thinking. You mentioned this business announcement tonight. Is there anyone who’d benefit from it not going through? Or who’d want her out of the way?”

  We all frowned. “We only just learned about it,” Hana finally said. “So I don’t know who, on our end, would have an opinion either way. I guess you should check with Titan.”

  Ratliff nodded. “Is there anyone else we should keep in mind? Ex-boyfriends?”

  “Eleanor didn’t really date anyone seriously between her high school boyfriend—she dated him the last year of college too—and Daniel.” Hana nodded toward him and he jumped. The high school boyfriend she’d briefly gotten back together with—I hadn’t met him, but I vaguely remembered him from photos. Blond and handsome, floating somewhere in that surfer/stoner/ski-bum continuum.

  “And the high school sweetheart, they’re not in touch?”

  “I guess a little. He doesn’t live here.” Hana kept tilting her head as her thoughts tumbled out. “Actually, we talked to his brother tonight. He was at the event.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Ratliff shook her head. “The brother of her ex was at the event this evening?”

  “What are you talking about?” I prompted.

  “He was there,” Mikki replied, frowning like it was obvious. “His brother is Ted.”

  * * *

  —

  Ratliff copied down our contact information and handed us her business cards. She had a few more things to discuss with Daniel, she said, looking at us pointedly until we rose and headed for the front door. Hana was slowest to leave, handing Ratliff her own card as Mikki and I suited up for the cold. Outside, I opened my mouth to rehash ev
erything that had transpired—the open relationship, what we thought those two cops were thinking—but then Mikki burst into tears, and when Hana hugged her she began to cry, too, and I almost wanted to join them, but the pressure behind my eyeballs was panic, not tears. Then Hana’s car was there, Mikki’s right behind it, and I was alone on the cold front stoop, the strangeness of the night spilling down the steps in front of me. I watched it, seeping into the street like billows from a fog machine, and suddenly knew what to do.

  On the car ride home, I scrolled through my contacts, praying I still had the number. With a spritz of relief, I saw it was there, and I sent an encrypted message before I could think too hard about it: “I’m back in town and need you. Call me ASAP.”

  As the car rolled along Delancey Street, I felt the old familiar pull, like a scratch, like a black hole centered somewhere in my lower torso: Figure it out. It was the feeling I got whenever an editor sicced me on something, had me sniff at the confusing pieces so I could pick up the scent and take off running.

  My phone buzzed in my palm and I read a text from Erin: “Just saw announcement abt titan acquiring the herd. CRAZY!! Idk if you racked up serious karma or sold your soul to the devil or what but as your agent I am HERE FOR IT. I’m sure you’re celebrating/reporting like crazy rn but call me when you can to discuss.”

  Of course Erin, too, had seen the headlines. Poor Hana—my sister never messes up, and now someone else had screwed her over. She gets so worked up, a balloon on the verge of bursting, when things don’t go according to plan. And then she acts irritated that she has to deal with it, but also doesn’t trust anyone else to help.

  At least news of Eleanor’s disappearance hadn’t broken yet. I pulled up my photos, swiping through and confirming my surreptitious photocopies from Eleanor’s desk were indeed readable. I ran my fingers over the sticky notes in my bag. Somewhere in my chest, my resolve took shape and hardened, like clay in a kiln.

  “Erin, you have no idea. I’ll call you in 30,” I texted back, then rested my head against the backseat and gazed out the window. Manhattan’s barbed outline flickered in the dark as the car thundered over the bridge and into Brooklyn.

  PART II

  CHAPTER 8

  BIG NEWS I COULDN’T BE MORE

  THRILLED TO SHARE

  By Eleanor Walsh Published to Gleam On Dec 6, 2017

  Good morning, Gleam Team! I woke up with a huge smile on my face because I couldn’t wait to tell you the secret I’ve been keeping for the better part of a year. My beloved publicist, Hana, encouraged me to share it first in a huge media outlet, but I was adamant: I wanted to share it here on the blog. You lovelies have been with me since Day One, you’re my inspiration, and you’re what makes running Gleam a dream come true.

  First, a story from my childhood. I went to junior high outside Boston, and every summer, a week before the start of the school year, the entire school took over a huge “Adventure Camp” about an hour from our hometown. It was a two-night outing to encourage bonding, team-building, and problem-solving with activities like a ropes course, Capture the Flag, rock climbing, and more. Sounds fun, right?

  WRONG. Lovelies, I dreaded Adventure Camp literally all summer. Every time I thought about it, I felt like I’d swallowed a bag of rocks. Nothing especially terrible ever happened to me there, but I felt so nervous and judged and miserable in the months leading up to it and definitely during it. My ENTIRE goal was to get through it without doing anything embarrassing or having anyone laugh at me or even think something mean about me. You know how crazy that is, trying to control what other people think?!

  Anyway, I made it through those two outings intact (obviously!) and pushed Adventure Camp to the back of my mind. Then, a few years ago, a friend mentioned that her niece was about to head off to Adventure Camp. She said her niece, who was nine, genuinely loved going every year. She sent me a link to an article about the program, and lovelies, my jaw hit the floor.

  This Adventure Camp? All girls. On the surface, it looked a lot like the one I’d attended: ropes courses, archery, boating, you name it. But the program was based on research about how girls can build resilience. High-achieving girls, the article said, are often super-stressed out and terrified of failure. The camp actually throws them into (safe!) stress-inducing situations and equips them with the tools to come out stronger.

  As I read, I kept thinking: WHY was my experience so different from these girls’? The answer was both totally obvious and a little shocking: My Adventure Camp was coed. I don’t need a mountain of studies to show you that many women are more comfortable, more creative, more relaxed, more able to think big and let loose when they’re in a space with all women (although there are researchers looking into this very topic). I wondered: What would an all-girl Adventure Camp for adults look like?

  And then I had my second lightbulb moment. When Gleam was getting off the ground, our scrappy little team couldn’t afford our own office space, so we rented some desks in a coworking space. It was a huge help, but every one I looked into was owned by men with a majority-male C-suite. One night, I was lying in bed when I thought, “Wait…what if…”

  That’s right, Gleam Team: I am SO excited to announce that we’re starting the world’s first coworking space and community exclusively for people who identify as female. We’re calling it THE HERD, both because that’s what you are—my team, my flock, my people—and because it’s all about HER. We’re crossing our T’s and dotting our I’s on an amazing location in NYC now. I’ll share more news soon, but I wanted you lovelies to be the very first to know.

  XX,

  Eleanor

  CHAPTER 9

  Hana

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8:48 P.M.

  Someone was coming up the hallway as I walked down it, a twentysomething woman pulling a dachshund on a leash, and they both regarded me curiously as I passed. I imagined my dripping nose, my bloodshot eyes, the black tracks ribboning my cheeks. I’d cried the whole car ride home from Eleanor’s place, and when I finally made it to my apartment, I took just a few steps in before sliding out of my heels and lowering myself to the ground. Leaning against the kitchen island, I breathed deeply, pulling myself together like someone sweeping crumbs into a pile.

  Frame by frame, I went over it in my head: When had Joanna stolen the press release? She’d been furious when I’d told her the interview wouldn’t happen; she kept repeating, We killed a story for you, as if last week the Gaze team had brought the graffiti photos out back and executed them with a firing squad. Ugh. I had promised her the exclusive, and in my harried state I’d assumed she’d accept my apology and await further updates.

  What a mess. Aurelia had counted and confirmed only one press release was missing, and Joanna had broken the news first; a few reporters who’d been at Hielo had tried to confirm the embargo was lifted, but of course, once other outlets started running the story, there was a mad dash for clicks, shares, eyeballs.

  Cosmo emerged from the dark hallway, his tail flicking. Of course, my brain was hurtling after Joanna Chen because it couldn’t face tonight’s much larger Terrible Thing. Eleanor was not one to sabotage her own event. Her own company. I could tell myself she had, for some bewildering reason, bounced without warning or explanation, but I knew it was bullshit.

  First things first: I fished my phone out of my pocket, ignoring all the new-message alerts, and performed the same series of searches I did every few months—Google, then a handful of apps, the series of memorized usernames, tapping on tagged locations to be sure. Nowhere near NYC. I set my phone down and exhaled.

  My gaze fell on my bag, crumpled on the floor just inside the door. I blinked at it and got the eerie sensation that the object inside was staring back at me. Waiting quietly, like a grenade with the pin yanked out.

  I crawled over to it and sat, pulling the
satchel onto my lap. It had all happened so quickly. The doorbell had chimed, and everyone had tumbled downstairs after it. Alone in the room, I’d let instincts take over—lunging over to Eleanor’s bed, to the side I assumed was hers thanks to the presence of La Mer hand cream and a worn bell hooks book. I slipped my hand under the white duvet, feeling dirty, feeling an instant urge to apologize to the bed for reaching inside. I forced my hand into the crease between the box spring and the mattress and felt it: a crisp corner, stiffness where only softness belonged. My whole arm had buzzed as I ripped the object out and flung it into my bag just as my phone began to ring, and I’d answered while pummeling down the stairs, grateful for the excuse for my tardiness.

  Now, heart pounding, I turned the envelope over in my hands: nothing on the outside, the edges a little worn from use. I slid a finger under the flap and then paused.

  Eleanor and I had been talking about chores, the household chores we hate. How long ago had that been? Two months, maybe three? It’d been a conversation like any other, banal thoughts rolling around like marbles on a tray when we crossed paths at the Herd’s café. I’d mentioned I was debating hiring a cleaning lady, and she’d told me about her own hire but used the much more gender-neutral term “housekeeper,” which touched off a jolt of embarrassment. She’d reported that she loved hers but had to ask her to stop folding the laundry because Eleanor liked doing it herself, which I found downright nuts. I’d pointed out I’d love a housekeeper (yes, a housekeeper) to make the bed after laundry day, a step I dreaded, and Eleanor had grinned. I asked her not to strip the bed or make it, either, but that’s just because I store my secrets there. Her eyes sparkled. It’s where I kept my diary growing up, so my mom wouldn’t find it. Old habits die hard, I guess. I’d giggled and bantered back that that was a perk of living alone—my secrets lived almost out in the open, the gratitude journal and expensive vibrator chilling in an unlocked drawer to the right of my bed.