by Kate White
It’s going to be okay, I assure myself. No one was watching me earlier, it was simply my imagination. Yes, I’m still troubled by what happened to me years ago, but once I speak with the police in Millerstown and apologize for my deception, I’m bound to feel more at ease. Things will get better with Hugh, too. Tonight will be nice. If I know my husband, he loves a good cheese course.
And Mulroney will help me find the threads that lead to the truth, even if Damien had nothing to offer.
For a brief moment, I allow my thoughts to be tugged back to Damien. It’s true that I was the one who suggested the break, after a fall weekend in New Hampshire. We often went away together because there was less of a chance of being busted out of town than in the city, and we purposely picked spots we figured our colleagues weren’t likely to surface in. It had been an amazing weekend. Hiking on beautiful trails, reading on the porch of our inn, a three-hour lunch at a restaurant along a rushing river.
On Sunday, however, Damien’s car had broken down and we ended up spending the night in New England. I called my assistant the next morning, saying I’d decided to extend a weekend visit to my dad’s since he wasn’t feeling well. Damien had emailed his assistant on Monday morning to say he had a last-minute meeting with an investor—and then made a point of showing up at the office midafternoon.
But clever Greenbackers weren’t so easily fooled. A few of them had probably already had an inkling, and the simultaneous unplanned absences clearly ratcheted up their suspicions. I sensed them watching us more closely after that. I hated it. I didn’t want people to assume that I’d slept my way to my most recent promotion. “We should put things on hold for a while,” I’d told Damien. But I never meant forever. And it was gutting when I realized several months later that he’d started dating someone else.
What does it matter now, though?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed so I’m sitting on the edge, grab my phone, and try Gabby, reaching her voice mail. I leave a message asking her to call me, and before I have a chance to set the phone down, it rings in my hand. Mulroney.
“Ms. Linden?”
“Yes, hi.” From the main part of the apartment, I hear the sound of Hugh’s key turning in the lock. “Did you receive the retainer okay?”
“Yes, thanks. We’re all set on that front. And I’ll be starting the canvassing at eight tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“I’m actually calling to tell you about the results of the blood test.”
My heart lurches. “This soon?”
“Yeah. And you were right to wonder. The blood on the tissues isn’t yours.”
17
Ally?” Hugh calls out. He’s standing now in the doorway of the darkened bedroom. I can only see his backlit silhouette.
“I’m in here,” I tell him.
“Ms. Linden?” Mulroney says. I direct my attention back to him as I try to process his news.
“Sorry, that was my husband coming home. You’re sure about this?”
“Very. It’s a lab we use regularly. The blood on the tissues is A positive, which, by the way, is the second-most-common type. About 34 percent of the population has it pumping through their veins.”
“So someone was injured in my presence.”
“Seems like it. I’ll let you go, but I’ll touch base tomorrow, midafternoon-ish, fill you in on what we turn up by then.”
“Is everything okay?” Hugh asks after I’ve signed off. There’s worry in his voice. Maybe because he’s found me in the bedroom without the lights on.
“Yes, fine, I was resting in here when my phone rang. Are you ready for dinner? I picked up a few things.”
“Great. I’ll change and be right out.”
We brush past each other in the dimness and I hurry to the living area. Mostly on automatic pilot, I set the broccoli on to steam and nuke the chicken dish.
So Gabby’s theory might be right, I think as I dress the lettuce. Rather than being a victim myself, I might have witnessed something happen to someone else. Maybe the person fell, or was mugged, or hit by a car, and I tried to assist him or her. Maybe I grabbed a wad of tissues to stanch the flow of blood, and then lost my phone in the confusion.
But I don’t carry tissues in my purse. Did another passerby thrust them into my hand? Or did the injury happen at an indoor location, where I had access to a restroom?
The biggest question of all: Was whatever happened traumatic enough that it made me dissociate?
While I finish prepping dinner, Hugh returns to the great room, and slides into a dining chair, the sleeves of his pale-blue sweater pushed to his elbows. It isn’t until I bring the food to the table, though, that I get my first really good look at him today.
I’m startled. His face is drawn, and his eyes faintly bloodshot with fatigue. I realize that I actually haven’t seen him since last night because I was in bed sleeping when he departed for work today.
“This smells great,” he says, pouring us each a glass of sparkling water. “But please don’t feel you have to make a fuss.”
“It’s not a problem. If it was stressing me out, I’d let you know. How about you? You look tired, Hugh.”
“I admit I’ve been tossing and turning lately. It’s tough reshuffling the deck on a case at this late stage. And if we lose—and we very well might—it’s going to bite me in the ass.”
Hugh’s not the kind of guy who would ever, say, throw his tennis racket in a snit or even sulk after losing a bet, but he likes to win, and it’s tough for him when a prize ends up out of reach.
“You’ll figure it out, Hugh, I know you will.”
“Let’s talk about something else for now though, okay?” he says.
Something else. Sure, I’ve got a few things that could really cheer him up. Ha-ha.
“Of course. I’m just sorry you have all this to contend with.”
He flashes me a rueful smile. “Nobody said this kind of job would be a picnic. So the podcast went well?”
“Yes. The show wasn’t a home run, but at least I felt comfortable doing it.” I tell him about the interesting comment that my author guest made regarding executive presence, and I also share Sasha’s provocative remark—and how it bordered on a dig.
“Sounds like she’s best ignored. . . . How about your book? Have you been able to catch up on that?”
“I’m behind where I want to be, but I’m going to go over notes with Nicole this week, and I’ll gear up from there.”
“Is that who you were talking to?”
“Talking to?”
“On the phone when I came in.”
“No, Nicole’s on vacation until tomorrow. . . . That was actually a private investigator. I hired him this afternoon.”
Hugh opens his mouth and immediately closes it. I sense he’s biting his tongue. What part does he mind? That I closed the deal without running the terms by him? That I did it at all?
“I know you weren’t exactly wild about the idea,” I say, “but I really think it’ll help. When I was at Dr. Erling’s yesterday, she said that my memory might never come back, and this could be the only way for me to find out where I was those two days.”
“Well, it’s your call, Ally.”
I’m about to add that Mulroney has already turned up something worthwhile—the blood type on the tissues—but decide to save it for later. I sense the topic is only adding to Hugh’s stress. It also doesn’t seem like the right moment to raise my recovered memory.
“Hey, I’ve got a surprise,” I say, switching gears. “I picked up a delicious cheese when I was out. I figured we could both do with something decadent.”
He leans back in his chair, twisting his mouth a little in protest. “That was nice, but I don’t think I could enjoy it tonight, considering how much work I’m facing. Can you save some for me for tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say, but I feel vaguely defeated. I rise from the table, collecting both plates. “Why don’t you pull out your work and I�
��ll make you an espresso?”
“Thanks. This way I’ll be ahead of the curve and I can take all the time I need tomorrow to go with you to the neurologist.”
I’d almost forgotten.
“Hugh, there’s absolutely no reason at all for you to go. I was out and about today and I’m sure I can handle it alone.”
“But I’ve already—”
“Say no more. I’ll call you as soon as I’m through and fill you in.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, just let me know.”
Despite my insistence on handling cleanup, Hugh helps load the dishwasher. I make an espresso for him and carry it to the table as he’s laying out his work.
“Oh, by the way. Sasha said to tell you she remembers where she met you. At the Yale Club a couple of weeks ago.”
He sips the espresso, his back to me.
“That lecture I went to?” he says after a moment. “If she says so.”
“She apparently went with a friend of hers. Ashley Budd.”
He half turns, his face in profile, and wrinkles his smooth, high brow in thought.
“Yeah, I bumped into Ashley that night. She’s someone I knew back in law school. Well, please offer Sasha my profuse apologies for not remembering her.”
He grabs a stack of papers and begins thumbing through it.
Quietly, I make a cup of herbal tea and take it to the alcove off the master bedroom, where I answer current emails, including one from Casey. She’s in the process of editing and rendering the podcast, which will be posted tomorrow.
“Want me to shorten the chat segment in editing?” she asks. “The author interview was so strong, we could even let it run a little long.”
“No, better not,” I reply. “I’m sure Sasha will count her on-air minutes and complain if we’re ten seconds shy of what it should be.”
I also email Nicole, asking her to call me tomorrow so we can touch base about my book. In addition, I mention that I’m curious why she wanted to speak to someone at Greenbacks.
As I’m about to snap the laptop closed, I feel my phone vibrate on the desk. A text from Roger.
Hope u r good. Too late to talk tonight? If not, pls call me.
There’s an urgency to the last line that makes me nervous, and I phone him back immediately.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“First, tell me how you are.”
“Okay, I guess. No reoccurrences at least.”
“That’s great, Button. So glad to hear it.”
“Were you able to talk to your police chief friend?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I let him know first thing Monday and he dropped by the house a little while ago to discuss the matter. His name’s Ted Nowak, and you should definitely start with him.”
“Okay, if you give me his number, I’ll call and fill him in.”
“I’ve already provided the broad strokes, and he says the next step is actually for you to come in. Says he’d like to meet with you tomorrow if possible.”
My stomach drops.
“Tomorrow? Why such a rush?”
“Nothing to worry about. It turns out that, coincidentally, they recently decided to do one of those cold case investigations of the girl’s murder. I’m sure Nowak is simply eager for whatever he can get his hands on to finally nail the mother or boyfriend—or both.”
This full-court press is not what I’d anticipated for a case that’s twenty-five years old. I thought it might take days or weeks for the police to even call me back, and that I’d eventually be interviewed, and a few notes would be added to the file.
“Okay, but I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to get out there tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t feel comfortable driving yet, or even taking a bus by myself.”
“Would Hugh be able to leave work a little early and drive you? I could see if the chief could meet late in the day.”
“No, he’s in the middle of a case. . . . I suppose I could take an Uber out there after my appointment with the neurologist. It shouldn’t be too expensive.”
“Sounds like a plan. Oh, and just so you’re aware, Marion was here when the chief came by, and I had to fill her in, though only in the vaguest way.”
“What does she know?” I can’t blame Roger, but I hate the idea she’s in the loop.
“Nothing about what you’ve been going through, or what you remembered. I simply told her that the case might be reopened and you were going to do a follow-up interview with the authorities.”
“Okay, thanks. I think I can probably make it out there by one or two and could meet with the chief after that.”
“I’ll let him know and get back to you with details. And Button, like I said, there’s nothing to worry about.”
We say our good-byes, and a long sigh escapes from my lips as I disconnect. Though I tell myself that Roger’s right, there’s no reason for concern, my heart’s racing. At least it will be better to have the interview behind me instead of hanging over my head. And maybe the reopening of the case means that the killer will finally be caught.
I wander into the bathroom, set my cup of lukewarm tea on the stool, and fill the tub with water. I sink in and relish the slight shock of the heat on my skin. The room is dark now, except for the candles I’ve lit, their flames dancing while their woodsy scent seeps through the air.
I do my best to hold all my troubled thoughts at bay, to make my mind a total blank, but it doesn’t work. My fears spill over, as insistently as water gushing from a tear in a hose.
I was missing for two days and still have no clue where I was.
I came home with tissues coated with someone else’s blood.
I lied to the police as a child and now they want to meet with me pronto.
My husband seems awkward around me and I can’t manage to connect with him in our usual way, no matter how hard I try.
My husband wants a baby and I don’t.
I met with my old lover today and my insides are still roiling.
And there’s no guarantee that what happened to me last week won’t happen again.
18
The appointment with the neurologist, at a medical office building in the East Sixties, turns out to be as anticlimactic as I anticipated. He’s in his fifties, I guess, and while not a gold medal winner in the bedside manner category, he’s cordial. He examines me, asks a slew of questions—when I tell him what I do professionally, he chuckles softly and says, “Where were you when I needed you?”—and finally says he doesn’t suspect a physical cause of what he calls my “TGA,” aka “transient global amnesia.”
He does, however, prescribe an MRI to rule out any tissue abnormality or a vascular, strokelike event as the cause.
I leave his office as frustrated as ever, though grateful that at least there doesn’t appear to be something seriously wrong on the physical front. Lucky me: the problem’s all in my head, not in my brain.
Ten minutes later, the Uber I’ve scheduled pulls up in front of the building, and I hop in, bound for Millerstown, New Jersey.
Hugh had been taken aback this morning when I’d announced my plans for the day over breakfast.
“You’re going to Jersey?”
“Uh-huh. Roger and I are having lunch at his house since we had so little time to talk the other day.”
I was whitewashing the reason for the excursion, but, yet again, it didn’t feel like the moment to tell him about the possible reopening of the investigation—and my past deception. Though I’d looked for opportunities later last night, Hugh had kept his nose close to the grindstone and crawled into bed hours after me, staying entirely on his side. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding physical contact with me.
The driver encounters only a few snarls of traffic leaving the city, and before long we’re barreling west on I-78. I text Hugh an update on the appointment, then call the facility recommended by the neurologist and schedule an MRI on Friday. With that out of the way, I open my laptop and begin dr
afting my next personal finance column. I’m now a full week behind schedule, but the topic—applying for a mortgage—is one I’m comfortable with, and passionate about. Despite the 2008 financial disaster, people still don’t seem to grasp that the mortgage their bank approves for them isn’t necessarily one they can afford, and I feel obligated to keep shouting that through a megaphone.
For an hour or so, the work does a decent job of distracting me, though my thoughts are eventually dragged back to the interview ahead. I glance out the window to see that the bleak, industrial stretches of New Jersey have now given way to farmland, with distant silver silos gleaming in the sun.
The plan, which Roger and I worked out this morning, is for me to stop by his house for lunch, and then he’ll drive me to the police station and wait until I’m finished. He apparently lobbied to sit in but was told family members are never allowed unless the subject is underage. Though I wondered at moments whether I should have postponed the interview until I found an attorney to bring along, I’ve finally decided it’s okay that I didn’t. It might signal that I have a cause for concern.
By noon, we’ve reached Millerstown. We turn down a narrow, paved road near the river and bump along past modest houses nestled in trees until we reach my brother’s gorgeous home, set high on an embankment. It’s part stone, part clapboard, with a widow’s walk perched on top.
“Welcome!” Roger calls out as I unfold myself from the Uber and step out onto the driveway at the rear of the house.
The trees, I notice, haven’t changed colors here, either, though there’s an autumnal scent to the air—a mix of woodsmoke, sour apples, and the sweet scent of decaying leaves.
We hug tightly.
“So happy see you, Button,” he says.
“It’s good to be here. Thanks for all your help on this.”
He swings open the large wooden door and gestures for me to enter first. Though it’s called a manor house, his home isn’t ridiculously big—only five large rooms on the ground floor and four bedrooms and an office above. But it has what they call great bones, and Roger has exquisitely renovated and decorated every inch. As usual, the river beckons me to the front of the house. Because of the sunny sky, I’m expecting a serene vista, but the water looks high and vexed today, and it’s moving fast.