by Kate White
I nod.
“Any idea how he might have found out you’d come to us with new information?”
“None whatsoever.” I take a moment to choose both the words and tone I’m going to use next. “What about from your end? Any thoughts on how he gained access to what was in my statement?”
“Both Detective Corbet and I have been very discreet, so no, I don’t know. But I’m going to make it my business to find out.”
As he’s tucking his notebook back into his coat pocket, I briefly deliberate telling him about Mulroney’s death but decide against it. As I’d pointed out to Roger, there doesn’t seem to be a connection. Nowak summons the female officer from the other room and she takes shots of my face with her smartphone camera.
By the time all the police have departed, daylight is seeping through the trees beyond the house. My feet still sting, my head aches from having my hair yanked hard, and though I’ve been keeping my face iced, it’s practically pulsing with pain now, as if it has its own heartbeat.
Roger and I take turns recapping our interviews, and I find that my anxiety has started to subside a little now that we finally have the house to ourselves.
“Are you going to call Marion and let her know what happened?” I ask.
“Yes, I don’t want her to hear it first from someone else, but I thought I’d wait until at least eight. Are you thinking of going back to bed?”
I massage my temples, considering. “Yeah, if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll sleep for an hour or two.”
“Me, too. Feel free to knock on my door if you need anything.”
“Yup. And thank you again, Roger. With all my heart.”
I hobble upstairs, close the drapes in my room, and collapse onto the bed. Unanswerable questions drift across my mind and then, before I can give them any attention, they drift away. Finally, I feel sleep overtake me.
When I awake, sunlight is creeping into the room from the edges of the drapes. Almost instantly the events of last night stampede into my consciousness: the frigid river water rushing up my nose, my lungs ready to burst, the fear that I had only seconds more to live. Both my head and face are throbbing.
I close my eyes again. Erling’s warnings about stress echo in my mind. I can’t let last night overwhelm me. I force myself to breathe deeply and then roll out of bed.
The clock says ten thirty, I discover to my shock. I dress quickly, grabbing jeans and a fresh sweater, and then steel myself for a glimpse in the bathroom mirror. My face looks even worse. The swelling hasn’t subsided, there’s now purple bruising on my left cheek, and I’m sporting half a black eye.
After brushing my teeth and popping three ibuprofen tablets, I head downstairs, where welcoming scents waft from the kitchen. As I enter, I discover Roger setting a platter of french toast on the table.
“Morning, Button. I heard you moving around so I figured it was time for food. How are you feeling?”
“Achy, exhausted, but I’ll live.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to see someone about your face?”
“Thanks, but I think it’s all about icing it and trying not to laugh, which fortunately won’t be hard this week.”
“Help yourself to breakfast.”
I plop into a chair and take in the spread on the table: slices of melon, a bowl of raspberries, a jug of orange juice. “How is it that even in a crisis, you can still cook up a storm? It’s very reassuring.”
“Some might call it fiddling while Rome burns.”
Though I don’t have much appetite, I help myself to a slice of the toast and a spoonful of berries. Roger takes a seat across from me and pours us each a cup of coffee from a French press.
“Did you reach Marion yet?” I ask.
“Yes, she managed to snag a reservation on a two o’clock flight to Newark.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he chokes back a sob.
“Roger, what is it?”
“I have more news. I think I know how Wargo got wind of you going to the cops.”
I hold my breath.
“Remember when I told you I needed to offer Marion an explanation for your visit this past week, and I gave her a totally watered-down version—that you were simply being interviewed for the cold case investigation? Well, when I spoke to her this morning, she admitted that she mentioned it to her brother Adam when he stopped by—she’s a world-class gossip, as I’ve come to learn.”
I stare at him across the table, horrified. “Adam was in school with Wargo, right? You think he’s the one who told him?”
“Not necessarily. She thinks he probably told some other people he knows from school, and it worked its way back to Wargo. He apparently doesn’t live all that far from here, just over the river in Pennsylvania. I have no idea if he still has any contact with Audrey.”
“But even if he’d heard I was being reinterviewed, why would he feel the need to kill me?”
Roger looks away. “I think Marion told her brother more than she’s letting on right now. My guess is that she’d been eavesdropping on my calls to you—and the ones I made to the chief. And she probably told Adam that you had new information that could come out at a trial.”
I shake my head, furious. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
“Also, Adam is probably aware of your address from Marion, and he might have shared that with someone as well.”
“So that’s how Wargo knew where to find me in the city.”
“I’m so ashamed, Button. I want to strangle her.”
So do I, I think.
“I can’t believe she had the nerve to admit it to you.”
“I’m sure it was purely strategic on her part. Better to lay her cards on the table now and manage the fallout, rather than having me learn about it later from a third party.”
“Of course.” Trying to protect her assets as best she can.
“Something else to consider,” Roger says, grimacing. “You and I spoke about Mulroney last week on the phone, and like I said, I think Marion’s been eavesdropping.”
“Okay, but if Marion blabbed about that, too, and it got back to Wargo, it still doesn’t give him a reason to kill Mulroney. I hired the guy solely to deal with my disappearance.”
“What if Wargo didn’t realize Mulroney’s true purpose? What if he thought you’d hired a PI to investigate Jaycee’s death?”
I nod dully. Maybe he’s right.
“I should call the police here and in White Plains, then,” I say. “Let them know the possible connection.”
“Absolutely.”
I have even less appetite than a few minutes before, but because of the effort Roger’s mustered, I manage to finish my french toast and coffee. We use the time to strategize how to inform my father about the attack before the news makes its way to him and decide that Roger will call him as soon as it’s a decent hour in California, and I’ll follow up later.
When I return to the guest bedroom after breakfast, my phone’s ringing from the top of the dresser. Hugh, probably. I need to loop him in, of course, no matter what our status is.
But to my surprise, it’s Derek, my contact at the company sponsoring the podcast. Odd. He’s never once called me on a weekend.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” he announces. “Got a minute?”
“Of course. Is everything all right?”
“I was told you were dealing with an emergency—which, by the way, I’m sorry to hear—and that you might not be able to host the podcast this week.”
I groan inwardly. This has Sasha written all over it.
“May I ask who told you that?”
“I don’t recall exactly; I had a phone message from my assistant. But I’m thinking that rather than simply posting an old podcast, it would be great to give Sasha a crack at hosting the show. And that way we can introduce our new tagline rather than having to hold off another week.”
My blood is boiling.
“There must be a bit of confusion, Derek,”
I say. “There was a slim chance I wasn’t going to make it, but I’ve sorted it all out. I have every intention of being there on Tuesday. Should I call Bob and reassure him?”
Bob’s one of the top dogs at the company, and the one I made the sponsorship deal with. The time has come to finally invoke his name.
“No, not necessary,” Derek says, his upbeat tone fading. “Sorry if I misunderstood, and sorry, as well, for interrupting your Sunday. Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
Call ended and phone in hand, I collapse on the bed and study the ceiling, looking for answers that can’t be found in endless feet of perfect dentil molding.
I need to go back to New York, I realize. For starters, I can’t be in this house when Marion returns, especially after what she’s done. And if Roger’s theory is right—that Wargo killed Kurt Mulroney—I don’t have any reason to be afraid in the city.
Plus, I need to host the podcast. Derek’s aware that he’s crossed a line, but I know he could find a way to outsmart me, paint a false picture of me to Bob as someone who’s suddenly lost interest or is unwilling to be a team player.
And it’s essential for me to talk to Hugh. Not only about the attack but also about us. Dr. Erling’s right. I’m not going to find any answers sitting out here, trolling through LinkedIn.
I prop myself on one elbow and call him. When he answers on the second ring, we exchange awkward pleasantries and then I recount last night’s events to him, the emotion drained from my voice.
“Ally, this is horrible. Do you want me to drive out and pick you up?”
“No, I’ll take a car back. In the next hour. But . . . but I’m only coming if you’ll be honest with me.”
“Honest?”
“I think you have something to tell me, Hugh.”
I hold my breath, praying he’ll say, Ally, what do you mean? There’s nothing I haven’t been truthful about.
But he doesn’t.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be honest with you.”
30
While I wait for the car to take me back to the city, I sit in the kitchen with Roger, both of us quiet, lost in our thoughts. Once it finally arrives, Roger and I briefly cling to each other in the driveway.
“Thank you again, Rog. For everything.”
“Just promise me you’ll stay strong, Button.”
I can’t help but ache for him. Given what he’s discovered about his wife, his marriage troubles have now intensified.
Minutes later I’m off, on my way to learn what’s really going on in my own marriage. I want the truth from Hugh, and yet I’m scared it might break my heart. What if he’s really sleeping with Ashley Budd?
I’m scared for another reason, too. If Roger’s wrong and Wargo isn’t the one who pushed me and killed Kurt, I might still be in danger. But there are no other easy places outside the city for me to hole up in.
The Uber driver’s GPS thankfully takes us around Millerstown rather than through it. A couple of times I notice his eyes in the rearview mirror, and I assume he’s wondering what collided with my face, but he doesn’t ask. That’s not Uber-driver style.
While we snake along rural roads, I place a call to Nowak and then another to the White Plains detective I spoke to yesterday morning. Neither answers so I leave voice mails saying I have information I want to pass along. By the time we reach I-78, I feel my eyes drooping from fatigue.
When I wake over an hour later, the road signs indicate we’re approaching the George Washington Bridge. I check my phone and see a text from Jay Williams.
You doing OK? he asks.
Some stuff to share, I reply. Might be relevant. Or not. Can you talk?
Yes, but later today, OK? Any ideas about those initials, G.C.?
I realize that I’ve been so preoccupied and worried since I last spoke to him, I’ve completely forgotten the small task he assigned me. I tap on the contacts icon on my phone and search through the last names beginning with “C,” but the only person with the initials I’m looking for is an old college friend named Ginger Colefax. Haven’t talked to her in ages.
Sorry. Just checked. Nothing yet.
Okay, cul.
I drop the phone in my lap and stare out the window. We’re traversing the upper deck of the bridge, and the silver-gray Hudson River blooms out to my right, bound for the sea at the tip of Manhattan. I’ve crossed this bridge on so many occasions. Not only after I moved to the city, on trips home to see my parents—and later just my dad—but also before that, when I was a girl and my mother and I would drive in to see a play or a museum exhibit. How I loved those afternoons.
And suddenly, as I gaze at the bridge beams, and the water, and the skyline of the city, I lose track of the moment. The day even. Of why I’m here right now, crossing a river. I jerk my neck to the front. I see the back of the driver’s head, his shaggy black hair. Who is he? Where is he taking me?
And then just as quickly, I remember. I’m in an Uber. Coming from Roger’s. Going to my apartment on the West Side. I almost weep in relief. After desperately fishing through my purse, I locate one of the Altoids and quickly place it on my tongue.
For the last few miles of the trip, as we barrel down the West Side Highway, I force myself to focus on every detail I see and feel. The warmth of the car, the bumps in the road, the brash messages on billboards, the river still on my right, sailboats bobbing on its surface.
“Yes, here,” I announce to the driver as we finally approach my building. I scour the area with my eyes, not even sure what I’m looking for anymore. After mumbling a quick thank-you, I grab my roller bag, which I’ve kept next to me in the backseat for quick access, and swing open the car door.
To my total surprise, Gabby, red hair piled on top of her head, has just darted from the lobby of my building onto the sidewalk.
“Gabby,” I call out. She freezes in her tracks, clearly startled, and spots me.
“Oh wow,” she says, striding over. She’s in a poncho, jeans, and short black boots. “I thought you were still away.”
We embrace in a hug. As I pull back, I see that her eyes are strained from being ill, and she may have even lost a couple of pounds.
“I came home sooner than planned. What are you doing here?”
“I—my god, your face. Ally, what the fuck happened?”
“I was attacked last night—at Roger’s. It’s this crazy nightmare story. But I’m fine, and they caught the guy.”
“This is horrible. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was going to, but I’ve got to get upstairs and talk to Hugh. Something’s come up.”
“Are things okay with you guys?”
I glance down. “I don’t think so.”
When I look up, she’s shaking her head so that her earrings, long gold ones of her own design, swing back and forth. “I’m so sorry, Ally. I’ve been a terrible friend when you needed me the most.”
“Gabby, don’t worry about it, I know how sick you’ve been. Can we talk later today or tomorrow? I’ll bring you up to speed on everything, I promise.”
“Of course. In the meantime, is there anything I can do?”
“No, but I should really go. I— Wait, so why were you here?”
“Oh, I was dropping something off for you. Um, a little gift.” She seems to read the confusion in my eyes. “I mean, I knew you wouldn’t be able to get it for a few days, but I was in the neighborhood, so I left it with the concierge.”
“That’s really nice, Gabby, thank you.” I hug her again. “Talk later.”
After leaving her behind, I hurry into the lobby, my legs still aching from last night. The doorman, it turns out, is behind the front desk, filling in while the concierge’s on break.
“Do you have a package for me?” I ask. “Something that my friend just dropped off?”
He smiles, steps through the open doorway to the storage area, and returns a minute later.
“I don’t see it, Ally,” he tells me. “So
it must have been picked up already.”
Which means Hugh is upstairs. At least he hasn’t fled the premises, too nervous or ashamed to come clean as promised. As I head toward the elevator, I can feel the dread swelling in me.
I enter the apartment and find the foyer dark and the great room empty. After parking my roller bag in the great room, I grab a small bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and make my way down the corridor to the bedroom. It’s empty, too, and the drapes have been pulled closed. I drop my purse on the bed and reach for a lamp, but before I have a chance to turn the switch, I hear a noise behind me and spin around. Hugh’s in the doorway, standing motionless.
“You made good time,” he says. His voice sounds joyless.
“Yup. Where were you just now?”
“In the den, working.”
He fumbles along the wall for the overhead light switch and taps it on.
“Ally, your face!” he exclaims, as shocked as Gabby was. He steps closer. “Do the police know any more since we spoke?”
“Not that Roger or I have heard.”
“You really should see a doctor, Ally.”
“I don’t want to see a doctor, Hugh. I want to talk to you.”
His shoulders sag, an ominous sign. “Why don’t we go to the other room?”
I follow him to the great room, where I perch on the edge of the armchair as he plops onto the sofa across from me. My breath feels trapped in my chest, unable to escape.
“I don’t know where to start, exactly,” he says.
Ah, so there are layers.
“Why don’t you start with Ashley Budd,” I manage to say. “Are you having an affair with her?”
I nearly cringe, waiting for the worst.
“No,” he says. “I’m not having an affair with Ashley.”
“With someone else, then?”
He shakes his head. “No, Ally. I’m not having an affair. I swear.”
I exhale. Was Roger right, that it’s not what I’ve been imagining? It’s been hard for me to meet Hugh’s eyes, but I force my attention there. His expression is bleak, at odds with his seemingly reassuring words. Is he in trouble at work? I wonder. Has he gambled away all our money? Been going to see hookers?