“She doesn’t love me.”
“Ninety-nine percent of the time this happens, it’s because the parents are in love,” Quinn said.
“She never loved me.”
Quinn said, “That’s not an estimate of the frequency. That’s an exact statistic from the database.”
“We’re talking about a one-night stand,” Charlie said.
Quinn stared at the painting hanging over the piano, a massive impressionist landscape that appeared to depict the ruins of a classical temple on a sunny cliff above the sea. Greece. It was the only piece of art in the townhouse. The rest of the walls in the townhouse were bare.
“In all the years that you lived in the system, were you ever mistreated?” Quinn murmured, still gazing at the painting.
“I guess not,” Charlie said.
The brushstrokes had faint shadows.
“I wasn’t born in the system,” Quinn said. “I grew up on a vegetable farm in rural Alaska. A wood stove, a water pump, completely off the grid. My parents were honest, decent people, and worked hard, but my parents were misguided. I had half a dozen brothers and sisters. Whenever a plane flew over the farm we would have to hide in the barn to avoid being seen. I can’t even describe how lonely life was for us, compared to growing up in the system, and how meager of an education that we received there. My parents were anti-vaxxers. None of us had been vaccinated for anything. Hepatitis, meningitis, tetanus, rubella, polio, mumps, nothing. Not even my parents. My grandparents had been anti-vaxxers too.” He frowned. “My grandparents lived in a rest home, an eldercare facility in the city, instead of at the farm, if you can believe the hypocrisy of that.” He hesitated. “One summer my parents made a supply run to Juneau. Along with the rice and sugar, my parents brought back the measles. The outbreak swept through that farm like a fire. I watched the infection spread to each of my brothers and sisters, one by one, coughing and diarrhea and pneumonia and blindness, and then the infection spread to me. My parents were too sick to care for me. I spent a week in the hay on the floor of the barn, covered with rashes, drifting in and out of the fever, drinking water from a bucket meant for the cows. I survived. That fall the government raided the farm. I was the only child left alive.”
Quinn felt a surge of anger.
“That’s the other one percent. Radicals. Political extremists. People fundamentally opposed to universal childcare,” Quinn said.
Quinn turned back from the painting.
“Do you know what’s going to happen to that kid out there?” Quinn said.
“With all due respect, the kid isn’t my responsibility,” Charlie said.
“You’re right,” Quinn said. “He’s not.” Quinn stepped toward him. “He’s mine.” Quinn pointed at him. “I can promise you this. I’m not going to let what happened to me happen to him. I’m going to bring him home.”
Quinn went into the kitchen. Jared was helping the officers search the cupboards for evidence.
“The father isn’t involved,” Quinn said.
Jared popped open the door of the microwave. A laptop was sitting on the turntable.
“I think she might have nuked her computer,” Jared said, sounding amazed.
Her vehicle still hadn’t been found. She drove a baby blue sedan with a rust spot the shape of a star eating into the numbers on the license plate.
“There’s a bakery at the corner. Get me a whole-milk cappuccino. Triple shot. Extra foamy. And find her car,” Quinn said.
* * *
The receptionist wasn’t in the student center. Kyle rang the bell on the counter, but nobody came. How typical. Just classic. The one time that he had an actual emergency. He could hear voices further back. Kyle walked through the student center, past the cluttered desks where the receptionist and the counselor and the dean usually sat, which were all deserted. The voices were coming from the headmaster’s office. Kyle peered in the doorway. The receptionist was in there, along with Ted, the counselor, and even Amy, the dean, all standing behind the desk, looking super concerned. Pops was there too. That was the nickname that all of the kids at the academy used for the headmaster. Pops. Pops was talking to a detective wearing a badge hanging from a chain. The detective had very interesting eyes. A sidekick in an actual cop uniform was searching through a filing cabinet. The sidekick looked like a newb. On the clunky television in the corner, a talk show was playing on mute.
Pops knew that he was standing there.
Kyle tried to interrupt.
“Pops,” Kyle said, knocking on the doorframe.
Pops held up a hand, gesturing at him to wait.
“I just need a new deodorant,” Kyle said.
“You know where to go to get that.”
“I tried going to the janitor office but nobody was there,” Kyle said.
“Then just go into the supply closet and pick out a new deodorant.”
“It was locked for some reason,” Kyle said.
“You’re going to have to wait a second.”
“But,” Kyle said.
“Just hold on.”
Kyle stood there and listened as the detective launched back into a question.
“She worked for a national bank, was working at the executive level, and you weren’t at all suspicious when she said she wanted to leave all of that behind and take a job as an educator?”
“She was personable. She was intelligent. She said that she needed a change. She passed her background check with flying colors. And like we said, she never told us that she had recently had a baby, let alone a baby that had been placed at a nursery in the same district,” Pops said.
“So how long did she actually work here?”
“Technically she was still training.”
“And her keycard gave her access to all of the nurseries in the district too?”
“Once a week instructors visit the nurseries to teach the toddlers brief lessons.”
“Is having keycard access to the nurseries really necessary for that?”
“We’ve never had an issue before.”
“Why are you even still using keycards for door security?”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of government funding. We’re still using a fax machine in the office, if you have any urgent faxes you need to send,” Pops said.
“The kids all get new laptops every year, and we get used computers handed down from the park service,” Ted said.
“Mine came with a sticker of a moose,” Amy said.
Kyle knew who the detective was talking about. He had seen the new instructor taking a tour of the academy. He had known that there was something suspicious about her the moment that he had seen her. He had just been able to tell. Nobody ever listened to him though. What would he know. He was just an eleven-year-old meteorology enthusiast with a life-threatening nut allergy and above-average common sense. He felt bad for the baby who had been kidnapped. Even after the cops finally found the kid and brought the kid home, now the kid was going to be that kid forever. The kid who got kidnapped. He wondered if babies could feel embarrassed.
“Daniela hasn’t been seen around here at all today?” the detective said.
Kyle glanced at the receptionist. The receptionist was staring at the television with an expression of shock. Before anybody could respond to the detective, she reached for the remote and hit the button for the volume. A sudden burst of noise leapt from the speakers. Breaking news. The host of the talk show was pointing at the corner of the screen, where a clip from a security cam was playing on slo-mo, showing a blurry figure in a sweatsuit carrying a baby into a loading dock. Next to the clip was a photo, a professional headshot of a woman in a blouse and a blazer with thick curly hair.
“This is an attack on the American family,” the host proclaimed, looking outraged.
“Look, there she is,” Kyle said.
* * *
Teagan worked for a fragrance corporation, developing avant-garde scents for younger consumers. She was at the showroom, intr
oducing the employees to an assortment of new perfumes, when the news about the kidnapping hit the internet. Teagan wandered over to the waiting area in shock, tried calling Daniela, got sent to voicemail, left a rambling message. Teagan was still over there, skimming the bulletins, texting back and forth with Noelle, talking about how crazy the whole situation was, when a detective in a navy suit and horn-rimmed glasses came strolling into the showroom. He was gorgeous. His eyes were the most striking blue that she had ever seen. She was literally flustered by his beauty. She dropped a folder. He was accompanied by an assistant with a patchy beard, who looked super needy.
“You’re friends with Daniela Ndukwe?” the detective said.
“Yeah, best friends,” Teagan said.
The detective wanted to ask her some questions. Teagan squatted to gather her folder as the detective took out a pen and a pad. Sniffing sample strips, the employees snuck a glance at her, then turned back toward the perfumes.
“I know what everybody’s saying on the news, but it can’t have been her who took the kid. She wouldn’t have done that. That’s not who she is,” Teagan said, smoothing her skirt.
“Have you heard from her yet today?”
“No.”
“How long have you known her for?”
“Since college. Orientation weekend.”
“How would you describe her?”
“She’s happy. Beautiful. Amazing at her job. Insanely successful.”
“Political?”
“Never.”
“What’s important to her?”
“Work. Friends. Sex. Croissants. She does yoga.”
The detective licked the tip of a finger to flip a page in the pad. God he was cute. Teagan fantasized about cuddling with him on the deck of a sailboat, sharing intimate stories, laughing romantically together, exchanging emotionally supportive compliments, holding sparkling flutes of champagne.
“How long had she wanted a kid?”
“She didn’t.”
“Then why wasn’t she on the pill?”
“She was. Daniela took those pills religiously. On the hour, every day, no matter what, without fail. We did a trip a year ago, Hawaii, staying at this resort on the ocean. Daniela takes the pill at nine in the morning. That’s like the middle of the night there. We were all staying in a room together, piled onto a couple of king beds, and every night no matter how drunk we were we’d hear her alarm go off, and she’d roll over, take a pill, and then go back to sleep. That’s how careful she was,” Teagan said. “Last spring she picked up a case of ringworm at the gym. Athlete’s foot. The doctor gave her a prescription for some antifungal meds to kill the ringworm. A couple months later she found out that she was pregnant. The doctor told her the antifungal meds must have interfered with the birth control. Hadn’t mentioned that was a possible side effect. Girl was pissed.”
“Why didn’t she just have an abortion?”
“She wanted to, but she had a medical issue.”
“What medical issue?”
“Hemophilia.”
“Did you know that she recently changed jobs?”
Teagan frowned, getting an uneasy feeling. “To another bank?”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A couple days ago. We got brunch.”
“Did she say anything unusual?” the detective said.
Teagan thought, remembering sitting there in the cafe across from Daniela, how the sunlight flashing off of cutlery and tumblers at other tables had glittered across her, and the pastel succulents in ceramic pots on the wooden shelves, purples and teals and greens. “She told me she loved me,” Teagan realized. “I always make fun of her because of how stoic she is. She doesn’t like to get sentimental. No matter how many times you tell her you love her, she’ll never tell you she loves you back. But that day she told me she loved me as we were saying goodbye.”
* * *
Noelle worked for a shoe brand, designing high-fashion sneakers for affluent consumers. She was in the lab, observing the gaits of testers jogging on treadmills, when the news about the kidnapping hit the internet. Noelle went over to the weight benches for privacy, tried calling Daniela, got sent to voicemail, left a worried message. Noelle was still over there, reading the updates, texting back and forth with Teagan, who had gotten interviewed by some cop, when a detective in a navy suit and horn-rimmed glasses came strolling into the lab. His eyes were the most radiant blue that she had ever seen. He was flawless. She was literally dumbstruck by his beauty. She couldn’t even speak. He was accompanied by an assistant with weak facial hair, who had a clingy vibe.
“You’re friends with Daniela Ndukwe?” the detective said.
“Best friends, yeah,” Noelle said, adjusting her wristwatch.
The detective wanted to ask her some questions. Noelle tried to gather her composure as the detective took out a pad and a pen. Still jogging, some of the testers glanced over at her, then turned back toward the treadmills.
“She didn’t do it. She’s not the type. If that’s her in that video, then somebody else must have forced her to,” Noelle said.
“Has she contacted you at all today?”
“Nothing.”
“How long ago did you meet her?”
“In college. Freshman suitemates.”
“How would you describe her?”
“She’s beautiful. Brilliant. Crazy talented. Dedicated to her career.”
“Political?”
“Nah.”
“What’s important to her?”
“Friends. Exercise. Dating. Work. She likes baking.”
The detective licked the tip of the pen to get the ink flowing. Damn he was fine. Noelle imagined picking a fight with him about a flirtatious concierge, then having makeup sex in a hotel bathtub, clutching each other, murmuring passionate apologies, splashing water over the rim.
“How long had she wanted a kid?”
“She didn’t.”
“But she wasn’t on the pill?”
“She was, but she was on other meds that interfered.”
“Meds for what?”
“Ringworm.”
“Why didn’t she just have an abortion?”
“She couldn’t. I mean, she could’ve, but there would have been risks. Daniela has a blood disorder. Hemophilia. A mild case actually. She’s always been fine with cuts or scrapes. She didn’t even find out that she had hemophilia until she had to have surgery to get a cyst removed. She almost bled out on the operating table. Anyway, the doctors still would have been willing to go through with the abortion, but when she weighed all the options, she decided just to carry the baby to term, rather than risk any complications,” Noelle said. “We took this vacation a couple years ago. Honolulu, this ocean resort, very posh. One night we went to a party on the beach, and we got to talking with this girl who was anemic, who’d had bleeding complications after an abortion and almost died. I think that might have been why she was so paranoid about having an abortion. The story upset her. Daniela had only found out about the hemophilia that winter before.”
“Are you aware that she recently changed jobs?”
Noelle hesitated, suddenly feeling concerned. “At the bank?”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A week ago. We met for dinner.”
“Did she do anything unusual?” the detective said.
Noelle frowned, thinking about sitting in the bistro across from Daniela, how the flames of the candles at other tables had flickered behind her, and the pastel napkins standing in clamshell folds between the wineglasses and the cutlery, yellows and oranges and pinks. “She kept delaying having to leave,” Noelle remembered. “I’d mention how late it was, and she’d change the subject, bring up some old story, start reminiscing about the past. She normally isn’t like that, especially when she has to work in the morning. But that night, I don’t know. It was like she didn’t want to let me go.”
* * *
A cresc
ent moon hung in the sky beyond the windows of the penthouse. Teagan was still at work, Noelle was still working too, but everybody else was there at Ishan’s, sitting on the sectional in the living room, wearing colorful headsets, in a virtual reality. Everybody except Daniela, obviously. The audio played over the surround sound. Chirping birds, crunching snow, a soundtrack of tinkling chimes. Max could hear the music from the kitchen. He couldn’t do virtual reality. Virtual reality made him queasy. Which was fine. He’d rather be making drinks for everybody anyway. Yet again. Without so much as a please or thank-you. Daniela was the only one who had ever appreciated him, and now she might be going to prison, or gone forever. Max wondered where she was at that exact moment. He was dropping olives into the martinis when the doorbell rang.
A detective with intense eyes was standing at the door. A sidekick who looked vaguely feeble was standing there too. Max was crushed. He had thought it might be her.
Max brought the detective and the sidekick into the living room, where everybody on the sectional was making different expressions, gaping and sneering and pouting at the virtual reality.
“Um, there’s some cops here?” Max said.
The detective wanted to talk about Daniela.
“Have a seat, she’s all that we’ve been talking about all night anyway,” Ishan said, ducking something in the virtual reality.
“Is she really a suspect?” Gabrielle said.
“Were you surprised to hear it?” the detective said.
“Yes, actually,” Ishan said.
“What type of person is she?” the detective said.
“Like, the opposite of a criminal,” Gabrielle said.
“She’s a talker, super sociable,” Bryce said.
“She’s into networking, business cards,” Liam said.
“She’s ditzy,” Ishan said.
“She is not,” Gabrielle protested.
“Okay, not ditzy exactly, but she’s shallow.”
“You’re such a jerk.”
“I’m just saying that she’s not the type of person you’d have a deep conversation with, about like metaphysical philosophy or whatever. She’s great. She’s fun. She has impeccable taste in music. Incredible moves on the dance floor. I love her, you all know that,” Ishan said.
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