by Aimee Molloy
“And?”
“It was her third day back at work after her mom died. He was waiting for her on the corner, after she got off the subway. I wasn’t sure it was him at first, but I stayed close. He followed her inside, and then he grabbed her and forced her into the stairwell. I was on him in a second. He didn’t even see me. Banged his head into the ground so hard I cracked his skull. He was in the hospital for weeks.”
“Did you go to jail?”
“Nine months. I pled guilty to a misdemeanor assault in exchange for a lighter sentence. One year in prison, got out early for good behavior. The judge sealed the case, at the request of Winnie’s lawyers, and we were able to keep the whole thing out of the press. Winnie quit the show after that. Did everything she could to fade from the public eye.”
“He recovered? Archie Andersen?”
“Long enough to move to West Virginia, where he killed an elderly couple in a botched robbery attempt. He’s been in prison for eleven years.”
Francie shakes her head. “That wasn’t reported.”
Token glances at her. “No?”
Francie’s mouth goes dry as she presses her lips to Will’s forehead. He’s in jail. “Why didn’t you just tell us that you and Winnie are friends?”
“Winnie’s very private.” Token sits on the sofa. “You may have noticed? After our kids were born, she encouraged me to come to a May Mothers meeting. But she asked me not to share our history. It would just force questions. She doesn’t like to talk about those years.”
“I can’t believe this. You went to jail for her.”
“I did.” His face is darkened by a passing shadow. “And I’d do it again in a second. I’d do anything to protect her.” He lowers his eyes to the floor. “And Midas.”
Francie watches him for a few moments. “Listen,” she says, taking the seat beside him on the couch. “I have an idea. Something that occurred to me yesterday. Something I believe can help.”
He keeps his eyes on the floor but Francie thinks she detects a change in his expression. When he finally looks up, he’s smiling. “Something to help her?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Day Thirteen
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 17
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 64
When you have a baby, everyone in the world seems to have an opinion (Ha! Who are we to talk?). How to deal? First, take what you hear with a grain (or six) of salt. Nothing’s going to undermine your confidence more than listening to every shred of advice. Also, realize it’s well-intentioned. While we love our babies more than anything in the world, a lot of other people (We’re looking at you, Grandma!) want to play a role in making sure the little one is safe.
Colette traces the shards of sunlight on Charlie’s cheek. His hand is on her waist.
“Do you know how rarely, in fifteen years together, you’ve cried in front of me?”
She nods and closes her eyes, seeing the image of Winnie being led into the police station yesterday. Another wave of grief hits her.
“I wish we’d talked about this sooner,” Charlie says, drawing her closer. Last night, after watching the news about Winnie, Colette broke down, admitting everything. About making copies of the police file and taking the flash drive. About how she’s been struggling to stay afloat, and her concern about Poppy, how fiercely she’s been watching her, searching for any sign of improvement. How hard it’s been to try to balance everything: being a good partner, a good mother, a competent writer.
“What do you want to do?” Charlie asks her now.
“I don’t know.” Poppy whimpers over the monitor, and Colette rises to get her, but Charlie places a hand on her back.
“Let’s give her a second to work it out on her own.”
Colette relaxes back into him.
“Actually, that’s a lie. I do know what I want to do. I want to make sure she’s okay. I want to just be a mom for a while. And at some point I’ll return to writing. My own writing.” She wipes her tears on the pillowcase. “Even though my brain no longer works and I have nothing to write about.”
Charlie smiles. “Do what every new mother does. Write about having a baby.”
“I need to get her,” Colette says, as Poppy cries out again.
“I’ll do it.” He sits up, searching the floor around the bed for his boxer shorts. “It’s Saturday. Stay in bed. Get some more sleep.”
Colette clicks off the monitor and sinks back under the sheet, breathing in Charlie’s scent on her pillow. Outside the window, the European starlings gather on the fire escape, eating from the bird feeder she set out a few days ago. She closes her eyes, wishing she could remain here all day, shutting out her grief and the images of Winnie being led into jail, expecting that at any moment she’ll hear the news that they’ve found Midas’s body.
Her phone rings on the table beside her. She wants to ignore it, but she knows she can’t.
She sits up and reaches for it. “Hi.”
“Are you on your way?”
Colette pauses. “No.”
“It’s almost nine. You’re still coming, right?”
Colette rubs her eyes. “Nell, I’m not sure. I—”
“Colette, no,” Nell says. “Don’t do that. You said you’d be there. We both did.” Nell pauses. “I’m serious, Colette. We have to do this. We promised her we would.”
Charlie is making coffee, Poppy cooing cheerfully in the bouncy chair at his feet, when Colette walks into the kitchen, wearing her yellow sundress. “I need to go out for a little while,” she says.
“You didn’t tell me that. Where to?”
“I have to do one quick thing.” She kisses him. “I’ll be back soon. And guess what we’re doing tonight?”
He wraps his arms around her waist and presses her hips to his. “I have one idea.”
She laughs. “That. And I made us a reservation for dinner.”
“The three of us?”
“No. I got a sitter.”
“You’re kidding. Who?”
“Sonya, from downstairs. Do you know she was a nanny to twins for two years?”
He cocks his head. “Of course I know that. And thank you. That’ll be nice.” He takes his time kissing her. “Take an umbrella, it’s starting to rain. And hurry home.”
Nell is waiting in front of The Spot, a dripping newspaper held over her head against the rain, an iced coffee in her hand.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Colette says.
“Come on.” Nell sips the last of the coffee and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. “Francie’s called me three times already.”
Colette picks up her pace to keep in step with Nell, knowing this is the right thing to do. Francie showed up at Colette’s late last night, her eyes swollen, her words coming out in a flurry: Token had come to her apartment, saying he and Winnie dated in high school. Francie told him what Scarlett had said at the last May Mothers meeting, about Winnie being depressed, and her growing certainty that Scarlett was the woman she’d seen from Winnie’s building.
“He thinks I should talk to Scarlett,” Francie told Colette. “He thinks it’s a really good idea. But I’ve e-mailed her several times and she’s not responding. Token said I should trust my instincts and keep trying. I want to track her down. We both think this might be our last hope to find Midas and help Winnie.”
“Francie, that is a crazy idea,” Colette said.
“No, it’s not. We didn’t even realize Winnie was depressed. Plus, she’s one of those women. She always knows what to do. I’m telling you. We need to talk to her.”
Colette hasn’t been able to shake the desperate look in Francie’s eyes, and it’s still with her as she hurries alongside Nell down the hill. “Okay, so what’s the plan?” Nell asks.
“We’ll let her drop off this letter. And then I’ll suggest we go get coffee. We’ll talk to Francie there, tell her how concerned
we are about her.”
“I wish we could skip this part and go right to the coffee. Imagine what Scarlett is going to think when she reads this letter?”
“I know, it’s ridiculous, but it’s the best I could do.” A clap of thunder echoes around them as the rain begins to fall harder. Colette moves closer to Nell, shielding her with her umbrella. “I talked to Charlie’s editor. She went through this after her first was born. She gave me the names of three therapists.”
“Good,” Nell says. “If Francie says she won’t make an appointment, we’ll call Lowell. He needs to understand there’s something larger going on here.”
They turn the corner, and Colette sees Francie waiting in front of a building at the end of the block. Someone is standing with her under her umbrella.
“Is that Lowell?” Colette asks.
Nell squints. “That’s Token. Did she tell you he was coming?”
“No. I thought it was just going to be the three of us.”
“You’re late,” Francie says as they approach. She holds up the envelope. “You guys want to read it? Token”—she looks at him—“sorry, Daniel thinks it sounds okay.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Colette says. “What did you write?”
Francie licks the envelope and seals it. “Just what I told you last night. That we’re wondering if she knows something that might help.”
“Great,” Colette says.
Francie takes a deep breath and walks up the stoop. Token steps closer to Colette.
“You mind?” he asks, nodding at her umbrella. Colette and Nell move aside to make room for him. His shoulder is against Colette’s, and she can feel his breath on her neck as they watch Francie bend under her umbrella to look at the names on the mailboxes. “I was right! It is her apartment,” she says, just as a woman opens the front door from inside, knocking Francie’s hip.
“Sorry,” the woman says. She holds the door open. “You coming in?”
Francie glances back at them, and Colette shakes her head. “No,” Colette says. “Just leave it—”
Francie reaches for the door. “Yes, thanks.”
“Goddammit,” Nell says, under her breath.
“Come on,” Colette says, watching Francie disappear inside the building. She runs up the stoop, Nell following, and catches the door before it closes. “You coming?” she calls to Token.
“No,” he says, pulling up his hood. “I think it’s probably better if I stay here. Just in case.”
“Yes, keep watch,” Nell says, and then lowers her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “If we’re not back in three days, call the police.”
Colette and Nell enter the foyer. “Francie,” Colette calls up the carpeted stairway. “Drop off the letter and let’s go.”
“I seriously don’t have time for this,” Nell says, heading up the stairs. “My mom is leaving today.”
Colette follows Nell to the third floor, where she sees Francie’s wet umbrella leaning against the wall next to an open door at the top of the stairs. Colette steps inside the apartment, entering a small kitchen. Neatly stacked packing boxes line the hallway, marked in bold letters: Pots and Pans. Linens. Dishes. The counter is crowded with baby bottles, prenatal vitamins, Chinese herbs, and boxes of lactation tea.
Francie is standing in the living room, separated from the kitchen by a white tiled island, examining the room. “How did you get in?” Nell asks her.
“The door—it just opened.”
Colette looks at the doorknob, which is battered and loose, noticing a screw on the floor. “Francie, did you force your way in?”
“No. The knob was loose.”
“This has officially gone too far,” Colette says. “Leave the note outside.”
“I will.” Francie’s voice is distant as she walks past Colette, down the hallway, sliding past the boxes, toward the bedroom. “Just give me a minute.”
Colette sighs and then notices Nell, who is paging through a notebook on the kitchen counter. “Check this out,” Nell says. “It’s a chart, tracking the baby’s feeding and diaper changes.” She turns another page. “God, she even writes down every time she hears a burp.”
“You don’t?” Colette asks.
“I do, yes,” Nell says. “But only for Sebastian’s burps. I have an entire storage unit of these things.”
Francie walks back into the kitchen and continues past them. Without saying a word, she opens the glass door and steps onto the small terrace. The railing is lined with potted flowers and herbs, and the beginnings of a tomato plant. She looks out across the yard for a few moments and then walks back inside, her curls misty with rain, and peeks inside a closet just off the kitchen. “You think it’s possible she had a video monitor, or a nanny cam?”
“No,” Colette says. She walks to the closet and shuts the door. “That is definitely not possible.” Colette places her hands on Francie’s shoulders. “Leave the note. It’s all you can do.”
Nell walks closer. “Colette’s right, France. Let’s go to The Spot. It’s been a rough few days. Muffins are on me.” Nell pinches the extra fat at her waist. “See?”
Francie wipes her nose. “You think she’ll call when she gets the letter?”
“I do,” Colette says. “You’re doing the right thing. But it’s time to go.”
Francie nods. “I left my bag in the bedroom.” She walks down the hall toward the back of the apartment as Colette goes into the living room to close the terrace door.
Nell peers down the hall. “Would it be weird if I use her bathroom? I shouldn’t have had that coffee.” But then her expression changes, and she walks closer to the door.
“What’s wrong?” Colette asks.
Nell holds up her hand. “Listen.” Colette hears it then: a baby crying.
“That can’t be her,” Colette whispers.
“I know. She’s away, right?”
“Shhhhhh, baby. Shhhhh.” Footsteps jog up the stairs. “We’re almost home.”
“Oh my god,” Nell whispers, grasping Colette’s arm. “It is her. She’s back.”
Colette follows Nell down the hall to the bedroom and closes the door behind them. They hear Scarlett entering the kitchen. “What are we going to do now?” Nell asks.
“I don’t know.”
Nell rushes to the window. “Is there a fire escape or something?”
“Francie,” Colette says. “Are you paying attention? She’s here.”
But Francie doesn’t seem to hear her. She’s standing in front of a desk in the corner of the room, rifling through a drawer, her expression vacant. Scarlett sings in the kitchen.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry. Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby. Okay, my darling,” she says. “It’s time for lunch. Shhhh now. Mama’s here. Let me get out of these wet clothes first.”
The door opens, and the bedroom fills with the piercing sound of Scarlett’s scream.
“Colette.” Scarlett’s hair is damp down her back, her face stricken with fear. She looks at Nell and Francie, her arms wrapped protectively around her baby, who is squirming at her chest under the rain hood of his carrier. “What are you doing here?”
Colette laughs nervously. “Scarlett. My god, how awkward is this? We’re so sorry. This is—”
Francie steps forward. “We’re here about Winnie.”
“Winnie? I don’t understand. Is this about the e-mails you’ve been sending me?”
“Yes. You didn’t write back. You left me no choice but to come here.” There’s an alarming edge to Francie’s voice and a wild look in her eyes, and then the thought strikes Colette. Where is Token? Why didn’t he alert them that Scarlett had come home?
“To be honest, Francie, if I was going to write back, it would have been to ask you to stop. The number of e-mails you’re sending me. It’s a little disturbing.”
“I saw you the other day, on your balcony, when I was at Winnie’s.”
“On my balcony? What do you mean? We’ve been away.”<
br />
“No, I saw you,” Francie says. “You had a watering can.”
Scarlett is shaking her head. “Okay—”
“Winnie confided in you,” Francie says. “That’s what you told us, at the last meeting. She admitted she was depressed.”
Scarlett’s baby releases a soft cry of hunger, and she begins to bounce him. “Yes, and—”
“And you were home that night, right?” Her voice is rigid. “With your in-laws?”
“I spoke to the detectives about everything I know.” Scarlett shifts her gaze from Francie to Colette and Nell. “I’m sorry, but whatever it is you’re doing—the incessant e-mails. And now this, coming here, breaking into my apartment—it’s completely out of line.” Her voice is taut with anger. “Not to mention against the law.”
Colette feels the heat of embarrassment at her neck. “Scarlett, we’re sorry. We were going to just leave a letter—”
“How did you even get in here?”
“Your door—it was unlocked,” Francie says.
“My door was unlocked?” Her face flushes. “How stupid of me.”
“We didn’t plan to—” Colette tries to steady her voice. “We—”
“It wasn’t our intention to come inside,” Nell says, walking to place a hand on Francie’s elbow. “How about we just go and leave you to your day?”
Scarlett’s baby cries louder. She turns to walk down the hall toward the kitchen. “Good idea.”
Colette lets out her breath. “Come on.”
Nell leads Francie toward the door, but Francie wrests her arm from Nell’s grip and walks back toward the desk.
“Francie,” Nell hisses. “This is no longer funny. Come on.”
Francie silently takes a stack of papers from the top drawer of the desk and holds them up.
“Natural Remedies for Clogged Ducts.” “Six Sleep Cues You Can’t Miss.”
“Francie, come on—”
