by Aimee Molloy
Nell sinks onto her desk chair, out of breath. “That photograph of me. Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
Nell closes her eyes, seeing the photograph again. The sweat stains under her arms. The maternity band at her waist. The milky fat of her stomach. “Who sent that to her?”
“An opportunistic jerk, that’s who,” Colette says. “I don’t think it was one of us. You can tell from the angle. Whoever took it was on the far end of the deck. And really, Nell, nobody will know it’s you. It’s way too blurry. You can’t make out your face.”
“But then why is Lachlan Raine being interviewed?” Nell asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him, on CNN or something. Taking questions.”
“They say he’s being considered for the Nobel Peace Prize. Did you think he was commenting on the photo of you?” Colette laughs. “I know some people are going to treat the image of a mother drinking as a matter of national security, but involving the former secretary of state might be a tad extreme, even for Patricia Faith and her cable news friends.”
Nell rests her forehead on her palm, feeling the relief wash over her. There’s a light tap on her office window. Ian is standing in the hall, pointing at his watch. Nell holds up a finger to indicate she’s on her way.
Francie sounds on the verge of tears. “This keeps getting worse. What are people going to think?”
“Who cares what people think?” Colette says. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
Nell’s desk phone rings. “Shit. Hang on. Sebastian is calling me. The baby woke up with a fever and he’s home with her.”
He must have seen Patricia Faith’s show. He’ll be so worried.
“Thank god you answered,” he says, his voice strained. “I know you have that meeting, and I was afraid I wouldn’t get you.”
“I know. I have to go now. Did you see it?”
“See it? See what?”
“The photograph. Patricia Faith.”
“No, but—”
“Isn’t that why you’re calling?”
“No, darling, listen.” He lowers his voice, as if someone is listening. “The police are here. They want to speak to you. I think you need to come home.”
Mark Hoyt stands in Nell’s living room, browsing the bookshelf. He’s gotten a haircut since his visit four days earlier.
“Ms. Mackey,” he says, turning to look at her as she closes the door behind her, laying her bag on the floor next to the couch. She can’t tell a thing from his expression. In the taxi on the way home, after telling Ian that Beatrice’s fever had spiked and she needed to go home, Nell tried to convince herself that everything is fine, reminding herself she’s done nothing wrong. Or at least nothing illegal. And yet she can’t deny the rising sense of dread she feels. Does Mark Hoyt know something about that night? Did he discover something that happened, in the moments Nell can’t remember?
The sound of someone walking down the hall startles her, and she turns to see Sebastian. “Oh good, you’re here,” he says, setting a mug of coffee on the table. “You okay?” He whispers the words, but she can sense the uneasiness in his voice.
“Yes. How’s Beatrice?”
“Good. Her fever broke. She’s sleeping.”
“Why don’t you take a seat, Ms. Mackey?” Hoyt suggests.
Nell reaches for the coffee Sebastian set down, knowing he likely made it for Hoyt, and sits on the couch. “What brings you here, Detective?”
Hoyt walks slowly to the oversize armchair near the window and perches himself on one of the arms. She resists the urge to tell him to sit properly, that he’s going to ruin the frame the way he’s sitting. The chair was a wedding gift from her mother, and Nell knows how many overtime hours at the hospital she worked to pay for it.
“Just a few questions,” Hoyt says, sliding up the sleeves of his gray cotton T-shirt. “Some loose ends you might be able to help us out with.”
“Okay.”
“First, how you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
He stands and returns to the bookshelf. “Yeah? You’re all right?” He lifts a framed photograph from the shelf, one from her wedding day, wiping the dust from the glass with his thumb. “This your dad?”
“Stepdad.”
He nods. “Nice dress.”
Nell points to the bottom shelf, to the large photo album tucked alongside some of Sebastian’s art books. “There’s the full album. Says ‘Wedding Day’ on the binding. If that’s why you’re here, to look at my wedding pictures.”
Hoyt laughs. “No, not quite.”
“That’s too bad. It was a brilliant wedding. Just sixteen people. My mother-in-law made Haitian food.” Hoyt places the photograph on the shelf. His silence feels oppressive. “So, Detective, today was my first day back at work after maternity leave. Not really the ideal time to tell my boss I need to leave early. Plus, my baby came down with her first cold after four hours at a day care. I’m a little knackered. Can we get on with why you’re here?”
“I’m really sorry about that.” He’s shaking his head, his voice tinged with good-cop sympathy. “I thought it would be better for us to go over my questions here, rather than, you know, show up at your office.”
“What questions?”
“Still trying to clear up some of the confusion about that night.” Sebastian enters the room with another cup of coffee, but Hoyt waves it away. “No thanks. Overcaffeinated.” He addresses Nell. “You’ll have to forgive me if we’ve gone over this already. My mind’s not as sharp as it once was. But as I understand it, you’re the one who organized this night out to the Jolly Llama. Correct?”
“Not really. We all—”
“You were pretty adamant that Winnie Ross join you.”
“We all wanted her there.”
“But you sent the e-mail to everyone. You wrote something—what was it—‘Everyone come, and especially Winnie. We won’t take no for an answer.’ Or something to that effect. Am I right?”
“I can’t remember exactly.”
“No?” He takes a notebook from his back pocket and flips it open. “Yes. That was it. Maybe my memory’s not as bad as I thought.”
Nell nods. “Can’t really say the same. I can hardly remember to put on pants these days. A bit sleep-deprived at the moment.”
Hoyt grins, a little-boy smile, a look Nell guesses his wife probably finds irresistible. “Let’s see. What else? Oh yes.” He looks up. “Ms. Ross’s video monitor app. Why did you delete that?”
“Why did I—”
“Peek-a-Boo, I believe it’s called? Allows a mother to watch the video monitor remotely. You deleted this app from her phone?”
Nell can feel Sebastian’s eyes on her. She’s been too ashamed to tell him she did that. “It was silly, really. We were just having a bit of a laugh.”
“A bit of a laugh?”
“Playing a joke. Winnie was looking at her phone a lot, watching the baby. The point of going out was to be away from the babies. So when she got up to get a drink, and Colette saw she’d left her phone behind on the table—” Nell tries to keep the tremble from her voice. “Of course I’m gutted about it now. Thinking how the night might have ended differently if I hadn’t done that.” Sebastian takes Nell’s hand, easing his fingers between hers. “And really, she could have easily reloaded the app. It wouldn’t have taken her more than a minute.”
“Is that right?” Hoyt nods, offers a shallow laugh. “Have to admit, I know nothing about how all the gadgets these days work. My eleven-year-old daughter—she’s always making fun of me, saying I live in the Dark Ages. Between you and me, I’m pretty sure my daughter thinks the Dark Ages began sometime around 1995. But she can find her way around my wife’s laptop with her eyes closed.”
Nell doesn’t want to hear about this man’s daughter or wife. She wants him to leave.
“And why did you call Winnie Ross’s cell phone on two separate occasions that night, Ms. Mackey?”<
br />
“Why did I—”
“Ms. Ross’s cell phone records indicate that between 10:32 and 10:34 p.m.—just around the time of the abduction, we believe—you called her cell phone twice. Or”—he holds up a hand for clarification—“I suppose I should say, someone using your cell phone did.”
She feels her palm growing sweaty in Sebastian’s grip. Hoyt raises his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation, but she has no explanation. She doesn’t remember doing that.
“Why did you call her phone?”
“I was . . . I must have—”
“How many drinks did you have that evening, Ms. Mackey?”
“I already told you. Two.”
“Right. And Ms. Ross. Do you know how many drinks she may have had that night?”
“You asked me that the other day.” She wills herself to stay measured. “Honestly, who cares?”
“Who cares?”
“Yeah, how is it relevant? I don’t think she drank that night. She was having iced tea. And despite what the mob on cable news might be saying, mothers are still allowed to have a drink if they want.”
“Alcohol can make her story a little less reliable,” Hoyt says, his expression static. “The same goes for you.”
Beatrice whimpers from the nursery, and Nell’s mind clouds as she tries to decipher the cry. Is the baby’s fever back? Is she hungry? She realizes Hoyt is staring at her, waiting for her to say something.
“I missed that,” she says. “What was the question?”
“Was anyone near her when she ordered her drink? Anyone who may have had bad intentions. Who may have slipped something in it.”
“No, not that I saw.” Beatrice whimpers more loudly, sending Sebastian jogging down the hall. He closes the nursery door behind him, and Nell turns toward Hoyt. “While we’re asking questions, Detective, maybe I can ask a few of you.”
Nell sees something flash across his face, but then he steadies his expression. “Shoot.”
“Who’s talking to the press about Alma?”
“Who’s—”
“Yeah, this thing about her being in a baby-selling ring. These whispers that she might have been involved.” Nell knows she should rein herself in, but her anger and impatience take over. “Unless there’s something very concrete you want to tell me, I will swear on my child’s life she had nothing to do with this. You and the people in your department need to stop suggesting otherwise. This could ruin her life.” Nell smiles. “She may be an immigrant, but she’s still human.”
“I’ve suggested nothing—”
Sebastian steps into the hallway, looking worried. “Her fever’s back,” he says. “You should probably nurse her.”
Nell sighs and presses her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to contain the ache swelling behind them. “Listen, Detective, it’s been great catching up, but my baby needs me. I’m assuming I have the right to ask you to leave?”
Hoyt nods. “Of course you have that right. I’m happy to come back when it’s more convenient. I know how it is with kids.” He rolls his eyes. “I got three of them.”
Nell stands, her legs heavy, and walks to the door. She makes a show of opening it wide. “Then you know how difficult it can be when they’re sick.”
Hoyt pauses a beat. “Of course, Ms. Mackey. It’s not easy. Parenting can be truly overwhelming. Certainly when they’re babies.” His gaze is intense. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
She’s silent as Hoyt stands from the chair and walks slowly toward the doorway. He stops in front of Nell and draws a business card from his back pocket.
“This is my direct line,” he says, handing it to her. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us. Okay, Ms. Mackey?”
She takes the card. “Yes, fine.”
Before she can close the door, he stops it with the toe of his boot, peeking his head back inside, and gives her a curious look. “That is your real name, correct? Nell Mackey?”
Chapter Eleven
Day Six
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 10
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 57
If you haven’t already implemented a bedtime routine, we have one question: What on earth are you waiting for? A routine will help the little one know it’s time for sleeping, so consider spending as much time as you can rocking, singing, bathing, reading, and/or cuddling. You’ll both be ready for a good night’s sleep afterward!
The blood runs from the slit in Francie’s wrist down her forearm, pooling in the bend of her elbow. She steadies herself against the counter as Lowell rushes toward her, holding the good yellow dish towel, the one with sunflowers. The blood is going to ruin the towel. She’ll have to throw it away.
“Jesus,” he says, pressing the towel to her wrist.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Hold it tighter.”
“But that plate. It was one of your grandmother’s.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He wipes the blood from the scuffed linoleum under her feet before picking the pieces of glass out of the sink. After everything is cleaned up, he leans against the counter. “You okay?”
“Fine. It looks worse than it is. That was so weird. The plate slipped through my fingers.”
He nods. “I heard you out here last night. What were you doing?”
“I thought I heard Will cry, and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. I was just reading some things—”
Lowell shakes his head. “There are people working on this case, Francie. Professionals. If he’s out there, they’ll find him.”
She keeps her eyes down, pressing the wound. “I know.”
“You’re so anxious and distracted. That’s not good for Will.”
She spins toward him. “What does that mean? Not good for Will?”
“You need to be thinking about him now. About his—”
“Are you serious? Our baby is the only thing I think about anymore.”
“Francie. Come on. Calm down.”
“Calm down? No, Lowell, you calm down. The people working on this? They’re a bunch of incompetent buffoons. You’ve said so yourself. And what? I’m just supposed to forget that?” She throws the towel on the counter. “This whole Bodhi Mogaro thing? Have you been reading about it? People are coming to his defense. Saying he’s being racially profiled. The ACLU is starting to pay attention. They have nothing on him. No criminal history. No motive. His wife says he missed the flight because he overslept.” She hears the accusation rising in her voice. “She says he doesn’t get much sleep, because he gets up with their son at night. So she can rest.”
Lowell is silent, his expression impassive.
“Even Patricia Faith is saying the police are overstepping by keeping him in custody. The guy was lost. That’s why he was on that government property. If they had anything on him, they would have charged him by now.”
“I wouldn’t put too much faith”—he raises his eyebrows and smirks—“in what that woman says.”
“It’s not funny, Lowell.”
“I know it’s not, but Francie, you can’t do anything about it. I’m serious. You’re not sleeping. You’re hardly eating.” He rests his arms on her shoulders. “I know I’m not allowed to suggest that Midas is dead—”
“Lowell, stop.”
“—but guess what? He might be.”
She pulls away. “Lowell, stop. Don’t be so cavalier. It’s a baby’s life we’re—”
“Francie, listen to me. He might be dead, okay. It’s awful, but you have to prepare yourself for that news.”
“He’s NOT dead.” She remembers that Will is in earshot, rocking on the bouncy chair in the living room, and she lowers her voice. “I know it.”
“How? How do you know it? Bad things happen, France.”
Francie closes her eyes, and the memory returns: sitting under the willow tree among the May Mothers just ten days earlier, the
sun on her neck, hearing Nell’s words. Bad things happen in heat like this.
The room tilts around her. “The best thing you can do is take care of yourself,” Lowell says, his voice thin and distant in her ears. “It’s not good for anyone for you to be losing your shit like this. I’ll take today off. I can cancel a meeting.”
She looks up at him. “Why?”
“So you can rest.”
She savors the idea: climbing into bed, treating herself to a few hours alone. It’s been months since she’s been by herself for more than fifteen minutes—when Lowell watched the baby so she could run to the shop for a jar of sauce. She should do it. She should allow herself a break from Will and his crying, from thinking about Midas and reading Patricia Faith’s website, with its hideous comments and the questions people are beginning to ask about Winnie. Where was she that night? Why isn’t she speaking to the press, doing interviews, demanding Midas’s return?
But she can’t do that. They can’t afford Lowell missing a meeting, not after he just lost the job they were counting on.
“No, it’s fine,” she says. “I planned to take the baby out for a walk. I need to start exercising.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You’re right. I need to take better care of myself. A good brisk walk will help.”
Lowell seems to soften. “I’m offering. Last chance to say yes.”
“You need to work. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Lowell kisses her forehead. “I’m going to take a shower.”
She waits until she hears the shower running to head into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her, removing the notebook she buried in the top drawer under the lacy underpants she hasn’t worn in months. She flips it open to the list she made of the people who were at the bar that night, and turns to the new list she’s been keeping—the names of every possible suspect.
She puts a question mark in front of the first name on the list.
Bodhi Mogaro.
What if his lawyer is right? What if it really isn’t him? She reviews the other options.