“Ma’am—ma’am!” the kid shouted after her. The older woman stopped to watch her pass.
“What the hell’s she—” she heard the man say as she pushed through the door. She passed through a small, messy office, then out another door to the parking lot. Sarah looked around the lot: two empty cars, a broken basket, a dumpster with a few bags of trash beside it.
There was no one there.
By late afternoon the sun was low on the horizon. Sarah and Lawrence walked around her property, the green hills soothing and the air soft against their faces. It was a large piece of land, and he took her hand as they continued through a wooded area, the trees surrounded by drifts of fallen leaves.
She had kept the sighting of Juliette to herself. It had been a jarring experience, not quite reconcilable with reality; she could have sworn she’d seen the girl, but the others in the deli had confirmed that there was no one there. How had she been so wildly mistaken?
Could her grief from the run-in with Jason really have blinded her so completely? Eric’s words came back to her: “unstable,” “unreasonable.” Had she been wrong about Juliette all along? Surely not; the pieces were all there, too tightly fitting to go together in any other way. But what exactly had she seen, if not her?
She looked at Lawrence, willing herself to concentrate on him instead. Being with him again had dispelled some part of the misery and confusion she felt; he seemed the only light spot in this darkness. The time she’d spent away from him today had been disappointing and disorienting. He was strong, gentle, patient, beautiful—all the things she felt she wasn’t. The thought of parting filled her with despair.
“I wish we could stay here longer together,” she said.
“Agreed,” he replied, holding her closer.
“What happens now?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
He stopped and kissed her. “You’re not getting out of this so easy. The park, Monday?”
She laughed. “I’ll be there, same old bench.”
“Our bench,” he corrected her.
They walked on, and soon a thought struck her. “Come this way,” she said, pulling him behind her. “I want to show you something.”
She led him through the trees to a pond. The water was still, a mirror reflecting the dark sky. A rowboat was tethered by the dock; swans floated serenely by.
“This is amazing,” he said, gazing across the water.
“I know. I love this place, especially here.” Sarah smiled, remembering. She pointed to the water. “Swans are so majestic. It’s one of the reasons I loved this house so much. I’ve always found them very romantic. You know they find a mate and stick together?”
“They can be cruel, too,” he said.
“Cruel? Why?”
“They kill to protect their nests.”
Sarah laughed uncertainly. “I never heard that before.”
“It’s only when they feel threatened,” he clarified. “I’ve heard they attack people pretty often, though it’s usually in response to something.”
Just then, two of the swans flapped their wings and, with much effort, skidded forward on the surface of the water, lifted and flew off. They watched the birds disappear.
“Beautiful things are often the most dangerous,” Lawrence said, pulling her closer. “You have dangerous taste. I’d better be careful.”
She punched him playfully on the arm. “Me too,” she said.
Later, after nighttime had engulfed the day, they played with danger together. He’d taken a silk scarf and tied it around her wrists, tethering her to the bedposts. He’d licked her body slowly and deliberately, bringing her to orgasm easily, then had kept her tied up. She succumbed to him in ways she’d never thought she could.
She enjoyed the total loss of control; she relished the trust she felt for him, the courage it required to give over her body and mind so completely. She’d never felt more confident in her nakedness. Even her misgivings were exciting. That their return home might mark the end of what they’d shared—and the affair would bring ruin to her marriage—were part of what she relinquished to him, what she sacrificed for this momentary pleasure.
Leaving her panting, Lawrence sat up to look at her. In the haloed moonlight shining around his muscular body he was almost featureless, a man of shadow.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
“I love you, too,” she heard herself whisper back. In that moment, her hands bound above her and her body enveloped in darkness, her future as uncertain as it had ever been. She knew it was true.
PART TWO
REALITY
The world, or the state of things, as it actually exists
CHAPTER 12
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2018
Sometimes she had hallucinations, she imagined herself buried at the bottom of a tomb, in company with mechanical corpses, who, when the strings were pulled, moved their heads, and agitated their legs and arms.
THÉRÈSE RAQUIN
“Mrs. Rock, are you all right?”
It was the older detective, Detective Duke, who was asking now. His voice was calm, quieter than his younger partner’s. He studied Sarah, his head slightly turned to one side. “Is this woman someone you know?”
She stared dully at the photograph in her hand, her vision coming back into focus.
“No,” she finally managed. “I, uh—I don’t know her.”
“Are you positive?” Detective Schmidt asked. He gestured toward the photo. “Take another look if you need to.”
She paused, pretending to study the picture as her mind whirled. Surely, she could tell them she’d been to the park? She’d been there every day this week after returning home, after all—after yoga, while running, before another guarded get-together with Laura. She had done so much to distract herself from Lawrence’s absence; she’d come up with every excuse she could to look for him there.
“I mean, I may have seen her,” she lied. “She looks like one of the other moms I’ve seen at the park. But I can’t be sure. There are so many people who come through that park.” Sarah realized that the mom with the blond child was the woman in the photograph they were showing her. She panicked.
“So you do know her,” Detective Duke said.
“No—I don’t know her. I said I may have seen her, but I don’t know. If it’s the woman I’ve seen, I saw her in the playground with her kids,” she added quickly.
“When would the last time be? When you may have seen her?” Detective Duke probed.
“I really couldn’t say,” she said. That was certainly true; even this week, with all its expectation and disappointment, had passed in a blur. If she hadn’t rescheduled her appointment with Dr. Robin for today, she probably wouldn’t even know it was a Monday. She seized on the idea. “It probably would have been before one of my sessions, maybe a few weeks ago.”
“Sessions?” Detective Schmidt repeated.
“I visit a therapist on Tuesdays, sometimes Thursdays.”
“Where in the park would you have seen her?”
“The playground. The one on Ninety-sixth Street, off of Fifth.”
“Do you go there often?”
“Not too often,” she lied again.
“Do you remember seeing this woman there alone?”
“No, with her kids,” she said. “Like I said. I mean, I assumed they were her kids. I don’t know anything about her.” She looked uncertainly at Eric.
“You have children yourselves?” the older detective asked, looking down at his notebook.
“Yes,” she said. “Two, a boy and a girl.”
“How old?”
“Darcy’s twelve and Jason’s fourteen—almost fifteen.”
“And they were with you in the park? When you may or may not have seen this woman?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Where are they now?”
“They’re both at boarding school upstate. Cole Manor.”
“Were you with someone else at the playg
round, Mrs. Rock?” Detective Duke asked.
Her mouth went dry. “No. I was reading a book, by myself. Thérèse Raquin. You know, Zola, the French writer.” Why was she telling them this? “Sometimes I chat with people there, but I usually just sit there to be outside.”
“At the playground?” the detective said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” she said. “Just outside it. I find it calming, watching the kids play.” Eric stared at her, his eyes narrowing, and she felt her face redden. “Why are you asking me all this?” she said, trying to stay calm.
The detectives both shook their heads. “We can’t really say, Mrs. Rock,” the younger one said.
“Why not? Did someone tell you I knew her?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation,” said Detective Schmidt.
“This woman’s been missing for almost a week now,” Detective Duke said, his voice more relaxed. “Her family’s worried. We’re just trying to collect as much information as possible.” He took the photo back from her. “Her name’s Hannah Marie Turner. She has two kids and a husband, Ben Turner. Those names mean anything to you?”
Sarah shook her head numbly.
B&H. Amor vincit omnia.
“Do you mind taking a look at one more picture for us?” the detective was asking, still friendly. “Just in case a different one might jog your memory.” He handed another photo to her. Her fingers trembled, and she almost dropped it.
It was the woman again, this time on a hike with her kids and husband. Her husband was handsome with stormy blue eyes.
The husband was Lawrence.
Sarah’s legs turned weak, and the room became very warm. She looked at the photo again. Same smile, same piercing eyes—same gray jacket he’d had on in the park and at her house. It was him. But how?
“Anything?” Detective Duke asked.
“No,” she answered quickly. Had she said it a bit too loudly? “I don’t recall seeing them.” A thought, cold and horrid, crept into her mind. “When was the last time she was seen?” she asked.
“About a week ago,” the younger detective said.
Her heart beat louder.
“Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“No problem,” said Detective Duke. For a moment his eyes seemed to sparkle, then they softened again into a smile. “We’re going to be on our way, but we’ll be in touch,” he said. He reached into his breast pocket for a card and passed it across the table to her. “If you remember anything else, or see Hannah again at the park—even if you just think it might be her—give me a call. Okay?”
“Of course,” Eric said.
“I will,” Sarah managed.
“We appreciate you taking the time.”
As they left Detective Duke looked back through the doorway at her for an instant, his eyes penetrating.
She found it easy enough to explain herself to Eric afterward. She only had to tell him that she was lonely and spent time at the park to vary her routine a bit.
Harder to explain was where the police had gotten her name from. Even if someone had seen her at the park, how would they have known to report her? She knew that it could have only come from Lawrence. Ben. Whatever his name was.
Amor vincit omnia.
Had she seen Hannah and Lawrence together? Had they ever been at the park at the same time? She couldn’t remember; anyway, she felt she couldn’t trust the memories she had. Every question Eric asked her felt like hazardous terrain, somewhere her own lack of clarity might trip her up.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to explain herself to him for long. Even after a visit from the police, he was soon on his way out, leaving his wife alone again. Today, she could hardly even pretend to care.
Once left alone, she opened her computer, the pressure in her chest almost unbearable. She searched online for Ben Turner New York, Hannah Turner New York, mothers’ groups, writers, writing groups, book clubs. Amor vincit omnia. She parsed through thousands of results, hundreds of false starts. Published Turners, hiking Turners, Turner sisters in Paris. No one came up who looked even remotely like Lawrence. She tried to remember if he’d said anything that could help her pinpoint him but could come up with nothing.
It was as though he’d never been there at all.
She crossed the room in a panic, found her bag, plunged a hand in. Meeting a soft resistance there, she withdrew the object from it and clutched it to her chest, feeling her panic give way to relief.
It was Lawrence’s scarf, the gray scarf he’d shown up in in the elevator. Manuel had found it in the lobby and given it to her a few days after she’d returned, the very picture of discretion. Never mind that it was thick with Lawrence’s masculine smell; never mind the intensity of Sarah’s blush as she’d taken it, remembering the other scarf he’d tied her hands with during their last night together. The doorman really was good at his job; it had been impossible to tell what he was thinking. Thinking she was going to see Lawrence the following day, she’d kept it in her bag all week. Its weight seemed to increase along with her anxiety as the days passed with no sign of him.
Now it turned out it was his wife who was missing. Had he gone off somewhere with her? No; there would be more than a single missing-persons report in that case. She remembered the argument she’d overheard between the two of them, up at the country house; could he have done something to get rid of his wife and fled? Sarah couldn’t imagine him going on the run or doing anything even remotely like that.
Her knowledge of him was ridiculously scant—limited to what he’d told her and what she felt for him. Her euphoria from their trip together had been so strong, she would have accepted anything from him. Without understanding why, she had already lied to the police about him. With a cringe she realized that in the hours she’d spent waiting for him, it had never once occurred to her that she might not be the reason for his absence.
Outside the window a thick fog had rolled in, as if someone had pulled a curtain down over the outside of the building. A few lights shone faintly through it. She saw stirring in the fog, as though a figure was walking past the window, impossibly high.
She pulled the curtains shut and waited in the darkness for time to pass.
CHAPTER 13
When they seated themselves in their carriage, they seemed to be greater strangers than before.
THÉRÈSE RAQUIN
Dr. Robin was dressed in a Prussian blue suit with a new pin on her jacket: a gold peacock with blue-and-green feathers. Sarah was more eager than ever to see her. The call to reschedule had been mercifully easier than she’d anticipated, and she was looking forward to telling the therapist all about everything that had transpired the day before. She needed to make sense of everything; if she came clean to Dr. Robin, surely everything else would fall into place.
But Sarah had hardly gotten settled before the therapist spoke.
“Sarah, I should tell you that I know about the police visit,” she said.
Sarah sat in stunned silence.
“They came to visit me yesterday,” the therapist continued.
“Why would they do that?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling.
“They wanted to ask me about you.”
“But how did they know anything about me?”
Dr. Robin looked down at her notes.
“I’m afraid I don’t know that,” she said. “Our conversation was not a long one.”
“Christ, I don’t even know this woman!” Sarah exploded. “She was just some lady I’d see in the park sometimes. I have absolutely nothing to do with her!”
“Had you ever spoken to her?”
“No. I mean, maybe I nodded hello—I don’t remember.” In her mind she saw flashes of Lawrence and Hannah Turner, arguing. “It wasn’t important enough for me to remember!”
The therapist looked concerned. “What about the man you spoke with in the park? Lawrence? Did he know the woman?”
Sarah’s stomach knotted, a heavy lump dragging on her heart. She sat up a
little straighter. Her hand went for the nameplate on her necklace.
“How the hell should I know?” she said. “I don’t know much about him at all, much less who he knows and doesn’t know.”
“Think, Sarah,” Dr. Robin insisted. “You know the answers.”
Sarah stared at her. The silence was deafening. “What?” she asked.
The peacock pin glinted as the therapist leaned in closer, expectant. “Sarah, I know this is hard for you,” she said gently. To Sarah’s amazement, she abruptly got up and sat beside Sarah on the couch. She’d never done it before. “But I want you to tell me honestly. Really think.”
“About what?” Sarah said. She could barely hear over the throbbing in her ears.
Dr. Robin placed a hand on her shoulder. “That man in the park,” she said quietly. “Sarah, are you sure that he’s real?”
The tension ran out of her with a laugh. “Real?” she asked, incredulous.
The therapist’s face was deadly serious. “Yes, real.”
Sarah laughed again, shaking her head. “Of course he was real. Why would you ask that?”
Dr. Robin stared at her, doubtful. She felt herself gripping the nameplate like a lifeline. High waves. Have to hold on. She relaxed her grip, sat up a bit straighter.
“Yes,” she said again. “He’s real.”
“And your relationship?” Dr. Robin asked. “Is that real?”
Sarah shook her head. She couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. “Do you think I’m making this up?” she asked.
The therapist leaned back a bit. “Sarah, we’ve been here before,” she suggested gently. “Remember?”
The room closed in. Was she dreaming?
“Remember what?” Sarah whispered.
“I’ve given you every opportunity,” the therapist said, a pained expression on her face. “And you’d stopped for a while. But a month ago, he started coming up again.”
“He?” Sarah shook her head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Dr. Robin got up and crossed to her desk. Reaching into a drawer, she pulled out a CD and passed it to Sarah. It was labeled LAWRENCE in neat block handwriting. Sarah traced the name with her fingers, unable to speak. She realized that her hands were trembling.
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