When that obsessed paralegal had shown up on his Sagaponack doorstep, he’d considered hiring someone to get rid of her, permanently. There were professionals who could make it look like a break-in, or a random mugging gone wrong, make sure it would never be traced back to him. He knew people, men who made problems go away. Like that kid, Cole Doberinsky. The boy had been beaten and traumatized, and he had disappeared. But it would take more than that to get rid of Natalie. If Gabe asked, and if he paid, he could have his sugar baby erased. All it would take was a phone call.
He had to do it. He had no choice. Digging in his glove box, he found a napkin and wiped the tears from his face, blew his nose into the crisp paper. With trembling hands, he placed the call.
40
* * *
Double Vodka Cranberry
It was 8:30 P.M. when Nat finally arrived in Midtown. A passenger had been sick on the bus, necessitating an unscheduled stop and an ad hoc cleaning crew, turning the two-and-a-half-hour journey into almost four. She was walking toward the subway that would take her back downtown to Chelsea, when she decided to go for a drink. The events of the day had taken a toll, and she needed to relax. And going back to her empty apartment was not appealing. She knew she looked a mess, but there were plenty of venues that would be indifferent to her bedraggled appearance. She located one quickly and found a seat at the bar.
The bartender inspected her ID, then asked, “What can I get you?”
“Double vodka and cranberry,” she said, a nod to the day’s events. There had been about a teaspoon of vodka in that punch. Violet’s mom had tricked those silly kids into thinking they were having a boozy party. Nat had had five glasses at least and felt completely sober. Of course, she was a more seasoned drinker than a bunch of high school kids. Maybe Violet and her friends had gotten a buzz? Perhaps that’s why Violet had been brave enough to kiss her?
She reflected on the intimate moment in Violet’s bedroom. The girl’s lips had been so soft, gentle, tentative. Before today, Nat had not been attracted to girls, and she still wasn’t. But she was attracted to Violet. The girl was vulnerable, beautiful, and sexy. And she was Gabe’s daughter.
The drink arrived, and she downed half of it in one long swallow. As the vodka soothed her tension, relaxed her muscles, and muddled her thoughts, she considered a relationship with Violet Turnmill. Maybe she and the pretty girl could have something real? Nat would be close to Gabe in a different way. She would have a role in his life as Violet’s partner. They’d spend weekends at the Hamptons house, eating breakfast together, swimming in the pool. At night, they’d have dinner, drink wine, talk and laugh. Maybe that would be enough?
But it wouldn’t be. Because at the end of that perfect day, Gabe would go to bed with Celeste, and it would tear Nat apart.
Violet was not the answer. Nat had to fix her relationship with Gabe. They had made a deal: she would stay away from Violet and he would open the lines of communication between them. Finishing her drink and ordering another, she decided to put their agreement to the test. It had been only a few hours since she left him, but she sent him a text.
Made it back to the city
She waited for his response. He’d be with his family now. Celeste would be home, they’d be discussing the disastrous party over a bottle of wine. Gabe preferred Scotch, though. Did his wife drink spirits with him like Nat had? Nat had never really liked Scotch, but she’d liked sharing it with him. Violet would be locked in her room, thinking about Natalie, maybe even touching herself as she did. The thought gave Nat a perverse thrill.
If Gabe planned on honoring their deal, he’d have his phone on hand. It would be safe in his pocket, away from Celeste’s prying eyes. He’d have it set on vibrate so he’d know when she summoned him but wouldn’t alert his wife. He’d have to excuse himself—go to the bathroom, or for a walk or a drive. And then he’d write back.
I’m glad you’re home safe.
It was good to see you.
See you Monday!
She smirked as she took a sip of her second drink. He wouldn’t mean it, of course, but he would say something along those lines. Gabe had to appease her, had to play along, or she would take his daughter away from him. She’d arrange to meet the girl in the city, where they’d talk, flirt, maybe even more. Gabe would never risk it. Nat had the power now.
But when the second drink was gone, and Gabe still hadn’t replied, she felt a combination of panic and anger. He was breaking their deal, going back on his promise. Why was she surprised? He was a liar and an adulterer and a heartless piece of shit. Her inhibitions lowered by the alcohol, she texted him again.
We had an agreement
Answer me, or I’ll text Violet
She gave him a chance to respond as she paid the bill and left a generous tip. She didn’t even look at her phone until she was outside on the sidewalk. When she did, there was a text. But it wasn’t from Gabe. It was from Violet.
I need to see you
The girl missed her, cared about her. It was a crush, of course, an infatuation, but it was better than the utter disregard, even disdain, with which Gabe treated her. Nat could respond to Violet if she wanted to. And she did. She wanted to keep the girl on the line in case she needed her.
Nat was about to reply when the phone vibrated again. It was Gabe, his timing impeccable.
See you Monday.
It was not what she’d hoped for, but it was something. It was enough. She blocked Violet’s calls and messages, removing the temptation to engage. She was not ready to betray Gabe. Not yet, anyway. Shoving the phone into the pocket of her shorts, she stumbled toward the subway.
41
* * *
The Footprint
As Nat emerged from the underground station and shambled toward her apartment, exhaustion threatened to overtake her. She had traveled to Sagaponack and back in a day. She’d met Gabe’s wife, kissed his daughter, and nearly had sex with him . . . twice. She’d had a drink and the word whore thrown in her face. And she’d had several cocktails—even if most of them were ridiculously weak. Her eyes were heavy as she let herself into her building, squinting in the bright lights of the lobby.
She rode the tiny elevator up to her second-floor apartment and unlocked the door. Flicking on the lamp, she went straight to the freezer. One more slug of vodka would ensure a deep, dreamless sleep. The bottle was alarmingly low, and she’d forgotten to fill the ice cube tray. But she poured a couple of inches of liquor into a glass and added a splash of orange juice. She had just swallowed the first mouthful, when she noticed something wasn’t right.
Nat’s apartment was a mess, but it was her mess. She knew the stack of unopened mail (mostly bills), the paper coffee cups, the empty take-out containers, and the packaging from a new mascara that littered her coffee table. The dresser with its drawers perpetually ajar, the sofa with its jumble of pillows and jackets and blankets, those were all familiar to her. In fact, it was a new sense of order that shook her. Someone had tidied the throw pillows. Someone had closed the dresser drawers and her laptop. It hadn’t been her.
She took another drink and moved into the tiny living area. Nothing else seemed amiss. Gabe’s patterned tie was still on her bed, next to her pillow. The window was open a crack, just as she’d left it. There was a flimsy locking mechanism meant to block further access. It wasn’t the most secure system, but the apartment was on the second floor. A thief would have to be pretty determined to scale the fire escape and break into her studio. And for what? Her laptop was still sitting on her desk, the diamond pendant was still around her neck.
Her double bed was pressed up against the window, and she looked down at the covers pulled back to reveal the fitted sheet. And there it was, in the center of the pink cotton. Faint, but there. A footprint.
It was from a sneaker, not a huge foot but much larger than Nat’s. A man had come through her window, had stepped on her bed, and riffled through her belongings. What was he searching for? Nat spun around, catalogin
g her possessions. Everything seemed to be present and accounted for. And then she remembered the gun.
The weapon was stored in the back of her wardrobe, wrapped in a T-shirt, and concealed in an old purse. Oleg had never asked for it back, and Nat had never offered. Setting down her vodka and orange juice, Nat dived into the closet, rummaging for the bag and its dangerous contents. She found the large, fake-leather purse and stuck her hand inside. It was empty.
Maybe she’d moved the nine-millimeter? She wasn’t sure she could trust her memory after all the emotional turmoil she’d experienced. Nat scoured the closet and came up empty. Moving to her dresser, she tore through its contents and found no weapon. Panic rising, she looked under her bed, under the sofa, behind the flat-screen TV, through the kitchen cupboards. And then she remembered the hall closet. On the top shelf she had three shoeboxes filled with knickknacks and trinkets. She pulled one down and opened it. The pistol was there, still wrapped in a plain white T-shirt.
She stared at the weapon with fresh eyes. Oleg had given it to her months ago, when she was weak and frightened and helpless. She was different now. Gabe’s betrayal had changed her, hardened her. Nat had experienced rage and hatred and it had blackened her core. Once, she’d been unsure if she could even point a gun at Cole. Now, she knew she could fire it. If she needed to, she could insert the magazine, rack the slide, and pull the trigger.
Putting the gun back on the shelf, she polished off the vodka and orange juice, contemplating the possibilities. Someone had been in her apartment; she knew it. A random break-in was implausible. A thief would have taken the electronics and the gun. But the footprint was there on the bed, the pillows were tidied, the drawers closed. Who would gain entry to her home only to tidy up? What did they want? Just to rummage through her belongings? Just to be in her space? And then a culprit occurred to her. . . .
Cole.
Grabbing her phone, she called her mom. It was still early on the West Coast, and Allana answered after the first ring.
“Natalie. Finally. I’ve been trying you for weeks.”
Nat ignored the irritation in her mom’s voice. “Is Cole in Blaine?”
“I think so. Why?”
“I think he’s here. In New York. I think he’s been in my apartment.”
“What makes you say that?” She heard her mom’s skepticism.
“Because someone broke in and went through my stuff.”
“Is anything missing?”
Nat couldn’t tell her mom the truth. Allana would think her daughter was delusional. And maybe Nat was? So she lied. “My laptop’s gone.”
“Why would Cole want your laptop?” her mom asked. And then, “Have you been drinking?”
“I was at a party. I had a few drinks,” Nat snapped.
“I can send you some money to help replace it,” her mom offered, sounding scolded. “I just sold a little house in Birch Bay. My commission will clear next week.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just call Trish and find out where Cole is.” Nat hung up.
Moving to the freezer, she dumped the remains of the vodka bottle into her glass, splashed in some more orange juice. Passing out was her only hope of sleeping tonight. How could she rest knowing someone had been in her apartment? That he could come back at any time?
And then an idea struck her. The break-in could be used to her advantage. She would contact Gabe, tell him how frightened she was, how vulnerable. Gabe would probably be in bed, snuggled up with his age-appropriate wife. But she had to reach out to him. She texted:
Someone broke in. I’m scared.
She waited, drinking her cocktail, anticipating the three shivering dots that prefaced his response. Nothing. She could call and wake him up. But his phone would be silenced for the night. She could text Violet, tell her to go get her father, to have him call Nat immediately. It would alert the girl and her mother to Nat and Gabe’s connection. It would require a creative explanation. But Gabe was sharp and articulate; he was a lawyer. He’d be able to concoct an excuse. This was an emergency. She was reaching for her phone when it dinged.
Is anything missing?
Just knowing he was there sent relief coursing through her. Relief and adoration and love. Nat’s thumbs stumbled over the letters as she typed another lie. She was getting used to this.
He took the necklace you gave me
He didn’t respond right away, and she wondered if he remembered the pendant sparkling at her throat when she’d removed her wet T-shirt before him. But men didn’t notice things like that, and his gaze had been locked on her breasts. And she could have come home, removed the pendant, and then gone out again. She sent another text.
I think it was Cole
Should I call the police?
His response came promptly.
No. Lock the windows and the door. I’ll come tomorrow. Try to get some sleep.
The words were like a warm blanket, comforting, reassuring. Swallowing the remnants of her drink, she fell on the bed, on top of the intruder’s footprint. She hated lying to Gabe, but it had worked. Tomorrow, he would come and make everything right.
She slept.
42
* * *
The Zoo
It was almost 11:00 A.M. by the time Gabe was on the highway back into the city. He’d wanted to leave earlier, but Celeste needed him to move the folding tables from the pool area back into the garage. And then she’d insisted on packing several plastic containers of leftover party food into a cooler bag for him to eat during the week. He’d stood by impatiently, anxious to leave. He’d told his wife he had a desperate client, an urgent Sunday meeting. It wasn’t entirely a lie. This meeting would save his marriage, his daughter, his life. It would take care of Natalie Murphy, for good.
She had already texted him this morning.
When are you coming?
He’d apologized for his tardiness, blamed traffic, though he hadn’t even left, suggested they could have dinner and talk.
Dinner? I was hoping for lunch.
He would see what he could do, he’d promised, depositing his weekend bag and a cooler full of hummus and marinated tofu into the trunk of the Mercedes. As he was climbing into the front seat, his phone buzzed with her response.
What if Violet texts me? What should I say?
His daughter had left last night, gone to stay with a friend—Sarah? Or Sonja? Gabe couldn’t recall. When he’d returned from dropping Natalie at the bus, all the guests were gone. And so was his daughter.
“Violet’s upset,” his wife explained, her voice weary, her face haggard. “This was supposed to be a celebration, and it turned into a fiasco.”
Was there something pointed in his spouse’s tone? A hint of accusation, perhaps? No, he was being paranoid. There was no way Celeste could know that Violet’s girl-crush had been Gabe’s lover. Because, if Celeste had known, there would be no subtle jab, no annoyed insinuation. His wife would have exploded. She would have confronted him, raged at him, and then divorced him. She could never find out.
“She’s gone to Sonja’s,” Celeste continued. “I wanted her to stay home, to talk about how she’s feeling, but she said she wanted to be with her friends.”
“It’s normal,” Gabe assured her, “they get off on drama at this age.”
He, too, would have preferred his daughter remain under the same roof, so he could keep an eye on her. And on her phone. He had no way of knowing if Violet had reached out to Natalie. But Natalie’s recent text asking his advice on how to respond to a potential message from Violet indicated that his lover had not heard from the younger girl. Not yet, anyway. So he responded to her:
Tell Violet you’re sick, tell her you need space, tell her you’re not interested.
I’m coming.
And then he hopped in his car and sped off.
Near Bridgehampton, he pulled over to get gas. As he filled the tank, he scanned his phone, saw a slew of texts from Natalie.
Where are you?
Can’t wait to see you xoxoxo
God, the girl was so needy, so clingy, so obsessed.
Hopping back in the Mercedes, he muted his phone and dropped it into the console. Soon, he merged onto the Long Island Expressway and hurtled toward the Bronx Zoo. He was meeting the man, the handler of problems, there at two thirty. The location had been Gabe’s idea. It was easily accessible off his route to the Upper East Side and, on the slim chance that he was spotted, he could blame his presence on nostalgia. He and Celeste had taken Violet to the zoo when she was little, when they’d all lived together in the city. Now, his girl was graduating, launching into her adult life. It was completely normal for a father to revisit the childhood haunt.
Gabe had a mind for such details. His personal and professional life had long been a study in discretion. In his line of work, it was de rigueur to cover one’s tracks, to erase the paper trail. The firm had an IT department that would wipe the phones of lawyers upon request. Every few months, Gabe would have his e-mails, his texts, and his phone calls permanently deleted. He wasn’t exactly a Luddite, but he preferred to leave such matters to the professionals. He’d hand the device over as soon as Natalie was dealt with.
Shortly after their breakup in the Italian restaurant, Gabe had deleted his sugar-dating profile. He had chosen the site because of its privacy guarantees. When a member deactivated his account, his record was immediately and irrevocably expunged. No one would ever see Gabe’s impressive profile or read the flirtatious messages he’d exchanged with several women. And there would be no trace of his connection to Natalie Murphy. So no one would suspect him.
The night before, as he lay next to his sleeping wife, he’d come up with a plan. A break-in gone wrong would cover all the bases. It would get rid of Natalie, along with her laptop, phone, the necklace (he was pretty sure she was lying about the break-in), and any other traces of Gabe’s presence in her life. He had not been present when she signed the lease on the apartment, so the landlord could not ID him. And the real estate agent, Calvin, would never betray him. Gabe had always given Natalie envelopes of cash to cover rent and expenses. He had not made love to her in her bed for over two weeks. Hopefully, the girl had washed her sheets since then.
The Arrangement Page 18