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Have You Seen Me?

Page 22

by Kate White


  It feels good to hear her say those words, to acknowledge what I’m experiencing. Roger’s in the loop now, and I know he’s in my corner, but I can’t lay it all on him.

  “I think it’s even worse because I never saw it coming,” I say. “I knew there was a strain in our relationship because of the baby discussions, but I thought we could work it out. And I certainly never imagined Hugh cheating on me.”

  Erling nods slightly. Does she relate on a personal level? Her house in Larchmont seems spacious, and though she appears to be single now, my guess is that she once shared the home with a partner. Was she married? Did the relationship end badly?

  “How does staying at your brother’s help you address the issue?”

  I know what she’s thinking now, too, that I’m running away from the problem rather than facing it head-on.

  “It doesn’t help, but I can’t be around Hugh right now. It’s impossible for me to act normal in front of him.”

  “What do you think the harm would be if you raised the issue with him?”

  “He’ll deny there’s anything going on, just like he lied about really knowing her. He might even make the issue about me—claim it’s related to my current mental state. And there’s another reason I don’t want to be in New York. Something really bad happened the other day.”

  “And what is that, Ally?”

  I tell her about Mulroney’s murder, and the chance that his death is connected to the investigation he was doing on my behalf.

  “That was my cover story for leaving first thing this morning,” I add. “I told Hugh I wanted to be someplace safer, and that part is true. I feel really scared in the city right now.”

  “Scared because . . . ?”

  I look off for a second, twisting my hands. “What if when I was missing I saw something I shouldn’t have? And the person who killed Mulroney wants to kill me, too.”

  “If this man had an active business as a private detective, I’m sure there were other cases he was working on that might have been inherently dangerous. It’s possible that his death wasn’t even related to his work. I can see why this may be worrying you, but it feels like a stretch to imagine that his death is connected to you or that your life could be in danger.”

  “But what about me being shoved into the street?”

  “Shoved into the street? This is the first I’m hearing of this, Ally.”

  “Oh gee, that’s right, it happened since I saw you last. Two nights ago, someone pushed me into the street at an intersection, and I’m almost positive it was deliberate. And I had this feeling before then that I was being watched. I just sense that there’s someone after me and it has to be related to the missing days. If only I could remember where I was. . . . The other night, I had this tiny flash of a memory, but it was so elusive, and in a split second it was gone.”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  “My hands were wet with blood. And slippery. And I was dabbing at them with tissues. But that’s all.” And then I voice the fear I haven’t been able to express to anyone besides myself. “God, what if I’m complicit? What if I hurt someone? I can’t stand . . .”

  “What triggered the memory, do you think, Ally?

  “I think—I think it might be because it was raining, and I was wearing the same trench coat I wore when I was gone, and the sleeve was damp from the rain, like it was the day I showed up at Greenbacks. Remember how the same thing happened at the hospital, when I was looking at the white sheet . . . ? Maybe—maybe there are ways to spark more memories. Are there?”

  I start gasping for air, like I did at the last session. It feels as if the oxygen is being squeezed from the room.

  “Can you take a deep breath, Ally, and exhale through your mouth? Good. Two more. That’s better. Now, can you describe your state of mind to me?”

  “Frantic, I guess. I was doing so much better after I hired Kurt Mulroney—I felt in charge of my life again—but now everything feels out of control.”

  “Have you reported the incident in the street to the police?”

  “No, there didn’t seem to be any way they could figure out what happened. But this morning on my Uber ride to New Jersey, I received a call from a police detective in White Plains, near where Kurt was killed. I told him about the shove. He didn’t say much, but I had the feeling he was interested, that maybe the murder could be connected to my case.”

  “Ally, it’s good you were helpful to the police, and I know you want answers, but I’m seriously concerned that if you keep pushing yourself, you’ll dissociate again. What’s the best way for me to help you understand that you need to focus on your health and well-being right now?”

  Is she annoyed? I guess she has the right to be. She’s repeatedly told me to allow my brain to rest, and I’ve repeatedly ignored her advice. She must wonder why I bother to show up and pay for her services.

  “You don’t have to help me understand. I know I need to take better care of myself. And going forward, I will. I promise.”

  She nods in approval, and smiles too.

  “Excellent. Why don’t you use the time away from the city to relax, read, watch TV, and enjoy time with your brother. No experimenting with ways to force memories back. Not right now at least. We can do that all in good time.”

  “All right.”

  “When I see you next, we can talk through possible next steps with Hugh. In the meantime, if you sense over this weekend that you’re dissociating, I want you to call my cell immediately. And of course, you can call me if any memories, or what you call flashes, come back on their own.”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  We say good-bye, and a second later she vanishes from the screen. The only sound now is the popping and crackling from the fire Roger made earlier.

  And the hammering of my heart.

  28

  Shortly after I finish with Erling, Hugh calls my cell. It’s as if his ears are burning.

  “You make it to Roger’s okay?” he asks. There’s concern in his voice, but also a hint of irritation, like I detected after I announced I wanted to escape the city for a few days.

  “Didn’t you get my text?”

  “Yeah, but I just wanted to check in. What are you and Roger going to do today?”

  “Nothing special. Read. Maybe take a walk along the river at some point.”

  I don’t inquire about his weekend plans. If I did, how would I know he was telling the truth?

  “When do you see yourself coming back?” he says.

  “I’m not sure, Hugh. I’m going to have to play it by ear.”

  “Listen, I can understand why you’re shaken about this Mulroney business, but there’s absolutely no proof it’s related to you. I did a quick online search for that park, and it’s definitely a gay pickup spot.”

  “His partner has doubts about that theory. It’s possible he was there to meet someone connected to my case. The killer might have figured out Mulroney was close to discovering stuff that needed to be kept quiet and lured him to that location so that the police would read it wrong.”

  “So does this mean you’re planning to stay with Roger until they arrest someone?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  He sighs. “Ally, what’s really going on?”

  I’m not surprised he’s guessed there’s more at play here. A colleague of his once told me that Hugh’s called “the duke of depositions” because he’s masterful at reading a room, surmising what people are thinking and feeling, and then easing the truth out of them. But I’m not going to confront him about Ashley, at least not yet.

  “I feel safer here for now. Besides, a little R and R isn’t a bad thing, right?”

  “If that’s what you want, fine. Why don’t we check in later in the day?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Ally.”

  “Same here.”

  Does Hugh mean that? If he does, how could he be seeing another woman? Gabby always says that smart women
accept that all men cheat, that they cheat as predictably as the sun comes up in the morning, and that you’re an idiot if you assume your guy is the one exception, and yet I’d thought that was Hugh. I knew there were no guarantees our marriage would last forever, but I never thought he would sneak around. He’s always seemed so upright, a straight-shooting, play-by-the-rules-because-the-rules-keep-things-sane kind of guy. Have I once again been guilty of selective inattention?

  Maybe he is a stand-up guy, and I’m reading this all wrong. But I can’t talk to him about it until I know more.

  I dig my laptop from the tote bag nestled by my feet. After lifting the screen, I pause briefly and then, almost with a mind of their own, my fingers creep around the keyboard until they’ve called up LinkedIn. I make certain my privacy feature is turned on and then slowly type in “Ashley Budd.” With each tap of a key, I feel like I’m six years old and waiting, with my heart in my throat, to give one more crank of the handle to a jack-in-the-box.

  The spelling complete, names materialize, and then additional ones do after I tap “see all results.” One is for a woman who’s a lawyer in Manhattan, so I figure that must be her, and with another click, her profile pops up and her photo enlarges.

  I swallow hard. She’s strikingly attractive, a brown-eyed brunette with thick, dark eyebrows. From the timeline in her profile, I see that unlike Hugh she attended law school immediately following college and is now in her late twenties. Like Sasha.

  I feel a nasty surge of bile in my throat as I imagine Hugh kissing her. Making love to her. Was that the reason for his late-day shower? To wash off any trace of Ashley Budd?

  Mulroney could have helped me answer this question, I’m sure. I could have hired him to investigate Hugh. And now suddenly I’m also imagining Mulroney—lying dead in his car, blood spattered everywhere.

  I jump up from the couch, cross the room to the hearth, and throw a fresh log on the fire that Roger had lit for me earlier. I squeeze my eyes closed, and when I reopen them, I try to simply absorb my surroundings. I’ve always loved this room, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and shades of deep blue. The two windows, framed by silk curtains, offer a view of the side yard, ending with a row of majestic fir trees.

  When I return to the couch, I finally compel myself to work, starting with a scan of the research notes that Sasha has forwarded me for the podcast. These prove to be about as scintillating as a recipe for boiling hot dogs. I shoot an email to thank her and say I have what I need, so there’s no reason to review anything by phone.

  “I’m currently at my brother’s in New Jersey,” I add, “dealing with a small emergency. There’s a slim chance we’ll have to post an old podcast this week and reschedule the upcoming show for the following week.”

  Next, I text Casey and pass along the same news, but flesh it out, asking her to alert the studio and also determine if the designated guest will be available at the same time a week later. I hate the idea of having to cancel the show—I don’t want to take a single chance with this venture—but I can’t imagine going back to the city as soon as Tuesday.

  The door to the den swings all the way open and Roger, dressed in slim tan slacks and a cashmere cardigan, appears bearing a wooden tray.

  “How was the therapy session?” he asks.

  “I didn’t love doing it by Skype, but I guess that’s better than nothing. What’s really helping is being here.”

  “So glad you could come out.”

  “I’m so grateful to you for having me,” I tell him. What I don’t say is that I know Marion wouldn’t want me here for a weekend, and that the only reason I accepted his invitation was that he mentioned she was away.

  “Just so you’re aware,” he says, as if he read my mind, “I’ve realized lately that Marion has been boxing you out in little ways, and I’ve had blinders on about it. I’m not sure why, but she seems slightly threatened by my other relationships. Not only with you. But with Quinn, too. Even Dad. I’m going to address that with her.”

  “I’d love to be back in your life more, Roger. Especially now.” I smile ruefully. “Everything seems to have gone to hell.”

  “It will work out, Button. The cops will find this detective’s killer. And you’ll figure out what’s going on with Hugh. Maybe it’s not what you imagine.”

  He sets the tray on the coffee table, where I see he’s loaded it with a lovely antique teapot, matching cups, starched white napkins, and a small plate of cookies, a superbuttery kind he knows I love.

  “Oh, Rog, this is so sweet of you,” I say, moved by the gesture. “And my, what a tray you set.”

  “My mother always seemed to enjoy laying out a tray of pretty things. I guess she passed the gene down.”

  “I wish I could have met her. She looks so beautiful in her pictures.”

  My own mother had been great about not only displaying photos of Quinn and Roger with their mom but also encouraging the boys to speak about her frequently.

  “Well, that falls firmly into the realm of the impossible, doesn’t it?” he says, pouring a cup of tea.

  There’s nothing about his tone that suggests bitterness, but for the first time in my life, I wonder if Roger harbors any resentment—over his mother’s death, his father’s remarriage, my bursting onto the scene.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” I reply, for lack of anything better to say.

  “You still take a smidgen of milk with your tea?”

  “Please. You know, I’ve been so horribly preoccupied with my own troubles lately, I haven’t asked a single question about you. Everything okay?”

  “Uh, fine. Nothing much to report. And we need to stay focused on you right now.”

  “Fine?” I can’t always read people as well as Hugh can, but I caught the brief hesitation before his response.

  “Ha, have you noticed all my new gray hairs?”

  “Yes, though I admit they give you a very distinguished air.”

  He sighs, passes over my cup of tea, and pours one for himself before settling near me on the couch.

  “In all honesty, I had a bit of a financial concern earlier in the year. Not what you’d call a disaster but more than a hiccup, and it had me worried for a while.”

  “What happened?”

  “Bad investment on my part. I was missing the game, I guess, and I took a risk that was ridiculously stupid—which I feel dumb admitting to you, of all people. The good news is that I contained the situation. There’s no long-term fallout.”

  I’m stunned. Roger has always been the master of the smart, well-calculated risk.

  “You promise?”

  “Absolutely, it’s all good. But it put a damper on my relationship with Marion. I’ve always known she liked my money, but I didn’t know how much until I revealed what was going on and saw the panic in her eyes. She looked like a horse trapped in its stall during a raging barn fire.”

  I’m stunned again, not simply by Marion’s reaction, but by hearing my brother say this, especially after his remark about her boxing me out. I’m relieved she hasn’t totally hoodwinked him, but I’d be sad to see him contend with a second failed marriage.

  “Does this mean you’re having doubts about Marion?”

  “Some, yes. But like you with Hugh, I’m going to see how it plays out.” He glances at his watch. “Why don’t you enjoy your tea while I see to dinner. I thought we’d eat about seven, if that’s fine with you.”

  I manage to flash him a smile. After he heads to the kitchen, I make an attempt to engage with a novel on my iPad, but my gaze slides off the screen and my thoughts are constantly towed back to Mulroney, and Hugh, and Ashley Budd. And what happened to me in this region years ago.

  I’m spared further torture when I see a text from Gabby, saying she’s fully returned to the land of the living and wants to meet tomorrow for coffee or drinks. I text back explaining I’m at Roger’s but that I’ll call her at some point this weekend. I can’t help but wonder whether I’d feel less frantic if I�
��d been able to spend time with her over the past couple of weeks.

  I notice through the window that the sun has sunk low in the sky. I grab a throw blanket from the back of the couch, drape it around my shoulders, and wander out to the flagstone patio on the river side of the house.

  Some days, if the sun is bright, the river tints blue, but today it’s somewhere between brown and pewter gray. When I was a girl, I used to go tubing on the river with my parents every summer, roping our tubes together and drifting lazily down it for hours. There’s nothing inviting about the water I’m staring at now, though. It’s flat and still, but it seems vaguely hostile, like there are dark things slithering beneath the surface.

  I scan the area to the left and right of Roger’s house. I know we’re not as isolated as it feels, but you can’t see the houses on either side of us because of the trees that line the property.

  The wind picks up and I return indoors, where I gather my belongings from the den and lug them upstairs to the large, pale-yellow guest room. I’ve slept here only once before, shortly after Roger restored the house, because Hugh and I always stay with my father when we come out to New Jersey. With more than a twinge of wistfulness, I realize how much I’d love to be in my old bed there tonight, hearing my father puttering around downstairs.

  As I’m changing for dinner, my phone rings, and with a jolt I see Damien’s name on the screen. Ignoring his calls isn’t working, so this time I hit accept.

  “I wanted to follow up after the other night,” he says, his voice disconcertingly soft. “I was really worried about you.”

  I pause, considering how much to share.

  “I’ve recovered, thanks. But . . .”

  And then I do launch in, telling him about Mulroney’s death and my decision to come to Roger’s.

  “This is scary stuff,” Damien says. “Can the cops do anything to help you right now?”

  “Ha, you mean the ones from White Plains? I don’t think they have jurisdiction here.”

  “Can I do anything, then?”

  “I think the best thing you can do, Damien, is stop calling me. I appreciate your concern, but we shouldn’t be in touch.”

 

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