Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

  As I’m talking, I feel a trickle of sweat roll down the back of my neck and realize I’ve started to hyperventilate.

  “I just wish I could figure it out,” I add. “And that things were better with Hugh, and that I could share some of this with my dad. To make everything worse, my friend Gabby has gone MIA on me. It’s like—”

  “Ally,” Erling interrupts, leaning forward. “I want you to take a couple of deep breaths right now. Would you like me to go through the process again?”

  “No, I remember . . .”

  I do as she says, inhaling, holding, letting each breath out slowly. It definitely calms me down a little.

  “Good,” Erling says, reading my expression. “I know it’s important for you to figure out the truth, Ally, but I’d like you to consider taking the rest of the day to relax. You mentioned once how much you enjoy going to the café near your home. Take some time alone there before dinner, have a cup of tea, bring a book with you if you want.”

  “Right. I can do that.” Of course, I’m behind on my own book and the column, too, but those will have to wait.

  “I also want you to put a temporary halt on any data gathering. I know information seems extremely valuable right now, but it’s clearly distressing you, and I’m afraid it might trigger another dissociative state. For the time being, I think you should stay offline.”

  “Okay,” I say, silently swearing that this time I mean it. “I just wish it wasn’t so long until my next appointment.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m fully booked tomorrow, but what if we plan to speak on Saturday? I don’t have office hours on weekends, but I could do a session with you over the phone or via Skype? Do you use Skype?”

  “Yes, of course,” I tell her. “I’d really like to talk this weekend.” It’s a relief to know I won’t have to wait until Monday.

  “Let’s say two P.M. Email me your Skype handle when you have a moment.”

  She rises, signaling the session is over.

  “Thanks,” I say, rising, too. “Then I only have to get through tomorrow.”

  “One last thing, Ally,” she says as we walk toward the door. “You asked what you should do if the police in Millerstown want to see you again. If that happens, I think it’s important that you take an attorney with you.”

  My heart lunges forward. “You think I need an attorney?”

  “Simply as a safeguard, Ally. You don’t want to say anything you don’t mean to. We can talk about that more on Saturday.”

  She walks me to the waiting room, says good-bye, and closes the door behind me. The next patient isn’t here yet and I have the space to myself. I lean against one of the walls, trying to catch my breath.

  It will be all right, I promise myself. It’s going to get better. I’m going to get better.

  But I don’t know if I really believe that.

  22

  I grab a cab home and as I’m turning my phone off silent, it rings in my hands. Gabby.

  “I’d nearly given you up for dead,” I say. I don’t mean for it to come out bitchily, but I notice my frustration over not hearing from her leak into my voice.

  “Well, I practically am,” she says, her voice froggy.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  “I came down with the worst fucking cold. I think I must have picked it up from this guy who was in my row on the plane, hacking his brains out.”

  “Oh gosh, that’s terrible, Gab.” I now feel more than a twinge of guilt for being dismayed by her radio silence. “Can I do anything?”

  “No, no, I’m just sorry to be out of touch. I wanted to call you, but I haven’t been able to lift my head off the pillow.”

  “Have you checked in with your doctor?”

  “Yeah, and she said it’s probably viral so antibiotics won’t help. What’s happening with you? Tell me.”

  “Still trying to figure things out,” I say, lowering my voice. “I hired a private eye, like you suggested—an ex-cop named Mulroney—and he’s turned up some interesting stuff.”

  I hear her cough into a tissue, a mean, dry cough that must really hurt.

  “Wow, what kind of stuff?” she asks.

  I want to tell her everything, but it doesn’t seem fair when she’s so sick.

  “Why don’t we talk in a day or two—once you’re better. Can I at least bring you food? I’m planning to run out for a cup of tea later.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want you anywhere near this thing. And I’m okay in the food department. Right now, I’m living on DayQuil and can’t bear the thought of anything else.”

  “Okay, I’ll text you later to see how you are.”

  “Sounds good. And please, let me know if anything happens with you, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  Poor Gabby. But I can’t help but wallow for a moment. I need her right now, especially since I haven’t been able to rely on Hugh as much as I hoped.

  With my phone out, I notice I have two voice mails from when I was in session with Erling, one from Derek Kane, my point person at the company that sponsors the podcast. He asks simply that I give him a ring. The other’s from Sasha, who’s finally deigned to return my call from yesterday and a follow-up I made today. I’m sure she’s been sulking about my less-than-glowing feedback.

  I start with Derek, since the sponsorship is coming up for renewal at the end of the year, and I want to be certain I’m keeping everybody happy.

  “Hey, thanks for calling back,” he says. “You doin’ okay?”

  Is he making small talk, I wonder, or has Sasha mentioned that I was under the weather?

  “Yes, great, thanks.”

  “Nice podcast this week. The company is planning to launch a new tagline any day now, and I’ll get it over to you once I have the green light.”

  “How exciting.”

  “By the way, I thought Sasha hit it out of the park on the show this week.”

  How can he possibly think that?

  “She worked really hard on the segment,” I say, as diplomatic as I can be.

  “Would you consider having her do it regularly until she finishes up the internship? She sounded a bit more—I don’t know, a bit more of an expert than that gal you usually use.”

  I take a few seconds, then choose my words carefully.

  “It’s actually Casey’s job as my producer to do the last segment with me, so I’m afraid it wouldn’t be fair to bump her. And the chat at the end is meant to be a conversation with an ordinary person, not an expert.”

  “Well, you know best. It was simply a thought.”

  “I appreciate the input. And just so you know, Casey’s going on vacation in a few weeks and Sasha will have another chance to handle the segment.”

  That seems to mollify him, at least temporarily, and he soon hustles me off the phone to take another call. Once again, I wonder why he’s such a superfan of Sasha’s.

  I return her call next.

  “Sorry to be out of touch yesterday,” she says. “I’ve been crazy busy. But I’ve done all the research for next week’s podcast. Do you want me to drop by your place again so we can review it?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, Sasha,” I say. The last thing I need is her stopping by with more pops of color and sly-seeming comments about my husband. “Why don’t you email me what you have, and I’ll read through it. . . . And if I have any questions, I can give you a call.”

  “Okay, let me know.”

  “Before you go, there’s something else I’d like to discuss. Do you have an extra minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you call the PR person at Greenbacks and ask if you could arrange an interview with someone there?”

  She hesitates briefly before speaking.

  “Yes, actually, I did.”

  “I never suggested you call anyone there for the podcast. I—”

  “It actually wasn’t for the podcast.”

  “Then what was it for?”

  “
I’m exploring an idea for a piece on Greenbacks, and if it pans out, I’ll pitch it to a major website.”

  “But you used my name. That’s not kosher, Sasha. Not when it doesn’t involve me.”

  “Sorry, but I was hoping you’d understand because the piece is going to be important.”

  “Important how?”

  “To be perfectly blunt, there may be something sketchy going on at Greenbacks—on the business side. I’ve gotten to know someone who works there and he tipped me off.”

  My stomach tightens.

  “Something sketchy how?”

  “Are we speaking confidentially? I know you used to work there.”

  “Yes, you have my word I’ll keep it to myself.”

  “I hear they might have really inflated the number of accounts they have on the advisory side. Meaning they misled their investors.”

  I’m stunned by this. It can’t be true. I was involved only on the content side, but I worked extensively with employees on the business team at Greenbacks, and I never heard so much as a hint of anything unethical.

  But then again, that was five years ago.

  “You’re basing this on the word of one person?” I ask.

  “Yes, but he’s very reliable.”

  “Sasha, I know you want to do more writing, but it seems it would be smarter to focus on pitching solid personal finance pieces,” I say, unable to resist giving her some unsolicited advice. “And save the muckraking until you have more experience as a reporter. But whatever you decide, please don’t use my name again.”

  “Fine,” she says curtly.

  I sign off feeling flustered by her revelation. Damien’s a rule bender, sometimes a rule breaker, but he’s got scruples. Or at least I always thought he did.

  I bite my lip, staring out the window. I’d toyed earlier with going down to the East Village later this afternoon, but I need to put that on hold for now. I have to do what Erling suggested—relax, pause my search for answers, and sit in a café with a hot cup of tea. This also means skipping a promised trip to WorkSpace to discuss book research with Nicole. I shoot her an email apologizing for not making it in today. I add that I spoke to Sasha about not tossing my name around in the future. Before I can change my mind, I ask her if she’s heard any buzz about Greenbacks lately.

  We reach my building and as I dash into the lobby, I notice it’s begun to drizzle. It hasn’t rained, I realized, since the day I resurfaced at Greenbacks. Autumn’s rushing by and I’ve barely had a moment to savor it.

  I can tell something’s off the moment I step into the foyer of my apartment. There’s a light coming from deep inside, seeping into the dimness of the great room. It means a lamp’s on in the bedroom or den, but I’m positive I turned all the lights off before I left.

  Then I hear movement, and the click of a closet door closing. Footsteps. Is a maintenance person here? We haven’t put in a request, as far as I know.

  I lurch backward and grab the front door handle, ready to bolt. But before I can spin around and flee, I see Hugh saunter into the great room, cell phone in one hand and a water glass in the other. He’s headed toward the island but stops short in surprise when he sees me.

  “Oh god, you scared me,” he says, setting his stuff on the island top. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “And I thought you were a burglar,” I say, after exhaling in relief. “Why are you home so early?”

  I slip out of my sweater coat, hang it in the closet, and stride into the great room.

  “I’m not here yet for the evening,” Hugh says. He’s in a dress shirt, tie, and pinstriped suit pants. “Tonight’s when we have that toast for the partner who’s retiring. I ended up spilling an entire cup of coffee into my lap this afternoon, and there was no way I could show up in those damn pants.”

  “Oh, gosh, that must have hurt.”

  He grins, a Hugh grin that I haven’t seen in a while. “It wasn’t fun, but fortunately my manhood was spared.”

  “Good to know,” I say.

  “How was Dr. Erling?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. I’m sure you need to go. Who is it that’s retiring?”

  “J. P. Ross. I mentioned it a few weeks ago, but maybe it’s one of those things that, you know, slipped away.”

  “No, I remember now that you say the name.” The words sound more defensive than I intended. “The only things I don’t recall, Hugh, are those two days.”

  He nods, lips pressed together. “Okay, let me grab my jacket. I should be home no later than eight. I wish I could whisk you someplace nice for dinner tonight, but I’m going to have to work again.”

  “I’ll figure something out for us. Do you want me to drop your pants at the cleaner?”

  “No, don’t bother. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  While he heads back to the bedroom, I move over to the kitchen island. I feel restless, still on edge from my appointment. My gaze wanders onto the countertop and is dragged by a gravitational-like pull to Hugh’s phone. I almost never have occasion to touch it, but my fingers move in that direction, seemingly of their own volition.

  Before I can think about it, I snatch his phone from the counter. I press the four keys for his password—for practical reasons we’ve shared ours with each other—and check the last number in the call log. It’s an outgoing one to his office, eight minutes ago. Then I proceed to the address book, where I search for Sasha’s name, and exhale in relief when it’s not there.

  “Speaking of the cleaner, your trench coat is back,” he calls from the bedroom, making me jump. “I sent it out last week.”

  “Um, okay, thanks,” I call back. “I’m going to run out for a while and it will be good to have it in the rain.”

  Next, with jerky fingers, I search for one more name. And with a jolt, I spot it there. Ashley Budd. Before I can determine if he’s called the number lately, Hugh comes striding down the corridor. I’m still holding his phone in my hand.

  “Here, don’t forget this,” I say, thrusting it in his direction.

  “I won’t,” he responds, eyes curious. He leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips. “See you soon.”

  Okay, I tell myself as soon as he closes the door. It might not mean anything. She could have easily thrust her number on him when he bumped into her a few weeks ago at the Yale Club. Or he may have had it since law school.

  Anyway, I can’t think about it right now. I have to relax, let go. Instead of tea, I decide, I’ll head to the bistro where I met with Roger and have a glass of wine.

  My phone rings as I’m tearing off the dry-cleaning plastic on my trench coat. It’s Roger. Please, I think, don’t let him be calling to tell me that Corbet wants to see me again.

  “Ally, hi,” he says when I answer. “Everything okay?”

  “Pretty much. I’m sorry I haven’t called you yet. I so appreciate everything you did yesterday.”

  “Don’t be silly, you’ve got a ton on your mind. I just wanted to check in, make sure you weren’t fretting.”

  I sigh. “Unfortunately, it’s been hard to keep the fretting at bay. Any luck with Nowak?”

  “No, you were right. He told me he wasn’t at liberty to discuss the case. Even managed to sound a little blunt with me, which isn’t his usual style.”

  Is the bluntness a sign that he’s suspicious of me?

  “Seems like the best course of action is to leave well enough alone,” Roger continues. “You did your part. And if they decide to open up the investigation again, you’ll know soon enough. No need to worry.”

  “I appreciate the advice, Rog.” I just wish I could follow it.

  “Any more news from your private detective? What’s his name—Mulroney?”

  I take a minute to fill him in on the latest bread crumbs Mulroney’s provided, and we sign off afterward, promising to check in with each other again soon.

  I try not to let the news about Nowak’s bluntness agitate me, but it does regardless. Plus, I’m
still in the dark about the early days of the case. If I want details, I’m going to have to hightail it back to New Jersey and go through microfilm archives. I honestly don’t feel up to it in my current state, however, and I consider my options.

  Nicole doesn’t have a car, and I wouldn’t want her to wonder why I was looking into a decades-old murder, anyway. But there’s another researcher I’ve used in the past, a married mom of two named Jennifer who lives in Madison, New Jersey, which is probably less than an hour from Millerstown. I shoot her a quick email asking if she’s available to go to a nearby library and photocopy everything from the Hunterdon County Gazette on the murder of Jaycee Long.

  I know this sounds a little off-brand for me, I add in a P.S. But I’m helping an author friend who writes true crime.

  Just thinking about tracking down those articles is adding to my agitation. It’s time to go. I grab my iPad and stuff it into my purse. Glimpsing through the windows, I see that the rain is coming down harder now. That’s okay, I think. It’s a perfect night for sipping wine in a cozy bistro.

  But by the time I’m one block away from my building, I’m experiencing a flutter of foreboding and wishing I hadn’t left. I feel as if I’ve heard my name whispered in a darkened hallway when I thought I was the only one present.

  And then, once again, I have that strange sense that someone is watching me. I freeze, one foot arched in a half step.

  Slowly I turn and scan my eyes over the people streaming around me, umbrellas bobbing and dripping with rain. No one seems out of place or even to notice me.

  I resume walking, but I can’t shake my unease. I turn again, glancing quickly behind me, and as I swing back around, my gaze falls on the sleeve of my trench coat, where beads of water have begun to gather on the outer edge.

  Suddenly, a memory surfaces, unbidden. Me grabbing tissues. Wiping off fingers smeared with blood. My own fingers.