The Dollhouse

by Fiona Davis

  “Who?” The receptionist looked down at a list on her desk. “Is she a student?”

  “Yes, she began studying here this fall.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Darby spelled it out and waited.

  “No, I’m not familiar with that name. Hank, you heard of her?”

  The man was handsome in a Hollywood way, with thick, wavy hair. He seemed to enjoy being looked at and took his time answering. “No, can’t say that I have. Are you sure you have the right school?”

  “AADA. I know I do. She tried out last month. She’s been taking classes each week.”

  The receptionist giggled and the man named Hank smiled. “We call them auditions, not tryouts.”

  “Right. Auditions.”

  “Wait a minute.” The man froze, one hand lifted, mouth parted, as if he was teasing her or playing some kind of acting game, but then his concentration broke. “Esme Castillo?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, with so many students, it would be hard to keep track. Particularly if you were as self-aggrandizing as this guy. “Yes. That’s her.”

  “Does she have an accent?”

  “Yes. She’s from Puerto Rico.”

  The secretary bit her lip and looked confused. “Huh.”

  Hank cut in. “I do remember her. I can’t believe I ever forgot this.” He held his hand in front of him, palm facing outward, setting the scene. “I wasn’t scheduled to be on the panel that day, but Mr. Peterson was ill. This woman came in, lipstick the color of blood, shiny brown hair.”

  “That’s Esme, yes.”

  “She was arresting, I’ll give you that. She stood in the center of the room, wearing a dress that was quite revealing, and launched into a monologue from Romeo and Juliet. I tell you, I could barely understand a word the girl said. We sat there with our mouths agape.”

  “We don’t take people with accents,” said the secretary, by way of explanation.

  Romeo and Juliet. Esme had left a copy of the book in her room soon after they’d met, saying she didn’t need it anymore now that she’d been accepted. “She’s not enrolled, then?”

  Hank laughed. “No, of course not. But she certainly perked us all up after a long day. I remember her well.”

  Anger surged at his offhand dismissal. Esme had spent weeks preparing her speech. Only to be cut down by these buffoons. “Would she have studied with someone from the school, or anything like that?”

  “No, there’s no room in the industry for girls who don’t know how to speak properly. Sorry, but you won’t find your friend here.”

  Back in her room, with Mother’s condemnation still echoing in her head, Darby was surprised to learn she had another visitor. Had Mother returned to drag her back to Ohio? Or maybe she regretted their harsh exchange?

  Instead, Sam stood in the lobby of the hotel. Darby checked herself from running into his arms, as Mrs. Eustis was greeting some new arrivals near the front door.

  “I’m so glad to see you. I was just about to head downtown to find you.”

  He looked around, pulled her close, his voice low. “We need to talk.”

  Darby requested a visitor’s pass from the registration desk clerk, and led Sam up the stairs to the public lounge on the mezzanine level. A couple of the models giggled when they walked by, but Darby shot them a look that, to her surprise, sent them scampering away. To her relief, Sam didn’t gawk at their long limbs and silky hair as she expected him to. He pulled her down onto the tufted leather sofa.

  “My God, it’s good to see you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Sam ran his hand through his hair. “We’re in trouble.”

  “We are?”

  “Well, I am. The club, me, Esme. Big trouble.”

  “I went looking for Esme at her acting school earlier, but they said she never enrolled.”

  He straightened up. “Look, Darby. I think she’s run off.”

  “What do you mean, run off? We have plans.”

  “I know this will be hard to hear, but your plans mean nothing now. I don’t think she’ll ever show up here again.”

  What was he talking about? Darby didn’t like his grave tone. “What’s going on?”

  He reached out to touch her, but his hand fell back to his lap, as if it didn’t have the energy to finish the movement.

  “Sam, tell me.”

  “An article came out in the Herald Tribune today.” He pulled out the paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Esme did something really stupid.”

  Darby glanced down. Sam pointed to the lead column and she began reading. The words swam on the page: Puerto Rican hatcheck girl, Detective Quigley, heroin, and the names of musicians she knew well. The Flatted Fifth.

  She swallowed hard.

  Sam ran his hands through his hair. “Esme had another side to her, one she didn’t want you to see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s worked for Kalai for the past year.”

  Darby tried to understand why this would be a problem, but it didn’t add up. “Esme sold spices?”

  “Mr. Kalai has another kind of import business. He brings in heroin, other drugs on the side. He’s mentioned later in the article.”

  “My God, Sam! Did you know all along?”

  “Yes, but I stayed out of that part entirely. Kalai’s a brilliant man, and he was willing to pass down his knowledge of spices to me. His sons think spices are a waste of time—they only care about the money from the drugs. So they leave me alone and manage the heroin sales under their father’s watch.”

  If she had been on shaky footing when she woke up this morning, now the ground was crumbling under her feet. “How did you get mixed up with a man like Mr. Kalai?”

  “I met him through Esme. Part of her job as hatcheck girl was to act as a go-between for Kalai and his clients.”

  “Why would she agree to do such a thing?”

  “Money.”

  Darby remembered the heaps of makeup that Esme had, the dresses that materialized out of nowhere. The strange encounter at Hector’s Cafeteria. “I think I saw her once, actually. Uptown at lunch. She passed off something to a man in a suit. She said he was in her acting class.” She looked up at Sam. “Obviously not.”

  “She double-crossed Kalai, gave info to the undercover cop at the club.”

  “She couldn’t have. She hated that guy.”

  “This article includes a full transcript of an informant, an ‘Esme C.,’ spilling secrets. Which means Kalai knows everything. He’ll be after her; that’s certain.”

  Why hadn’t Esme ever confided in her? All the lies and cover-ups. Still, she deserved a chance to defend herself. Darby owed her that much at least.

  “I’m sure she can explain everything, Sam. Or I hope she can, anyway—there has to be a good reason why she’d do this.”

  Sam blinked a couple of times. “Don’t you understand, Darby? She’s gone, and if she’s smart, she’ll stay that way. She’s in serious danger now. And, by extension, so am I.”

  “But why are you in danger?”

  “My father told me Kalai is out of control, in a complete rage. He has his sons out looking for anyone else involved.”

  “But you weren’t involved. You just said so.”

  “Except that it was me who convinced Kalai we couldn’t toss the cops out of the club night after night. I thought it made us look too suspicious and would end badly for my dad. But now Kalai thinks I was secretly working with the undercovers all along, that I convinced Esme to rat him out. He thinks the sting was my doing.”

  “I don’t understand. Can’t you just explain to him that it wasn’t you?”

  “Kalai is paranoid. He’s decided I’m to blame and so I am. My father wants me to leave right now, go out to
California where my brother is.”

  Darby’s world was collapsing. Esme was a police informant and involved in the drug trade. Sam was fleeing New York City. Mother’s harsh words echoed in her brain. She’d been blinded by her hopes and didn’t see the danger they were all in.

  Sam reached out and took her hands. A slight tremor shook his fingers.

  “You’re shaking,” she said.

  “I’m angry. I’m angry at Esme for screwing everything up for me. For us.”

  Darby’s heart pounded in her chest, heavy with dread. “I think Esme did this for me.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s probably a scheme she came up with to take care of me, until we’re on our feet. If she got money for snitching, it was to support me. She couldn’t have known that it would be leaked in the papers.”

  “She should have talked to me first. I could have helped. Now I have to leave and go where no one knows me. I’ll have to start as a line cook somewhere, begin all over again.”

  She couldn’t bear to see him go. “Maybe it’s only for a month or two. Mr. Kalai will end up in jail, and you’ll be able to come back.”

  “His sons won’t give up the business. The money involved is too enormous. The police may get Kalai, but the organization will carry on. That’s why I want you to go with me.”

  Her heart stopped for a moment as she processed his words. “To California?”

  “Why not? We’ll take the train out tonight. I have some money saved, and we’ll find my brother and start a new life together.”

  “The two of us?”

  “Yes. I hear California’s great, no freezing winters and you can eat figs right off the tree.”

  “But what about New York City?”

  “It’ll always be here. We’ll come back in ten years, when the coast is clear and I’m a successful chef and you’re a famous writer. We’ll be married with a couple of kids and we’ll show them where we first met and fell in love.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, Darby.”

  The room closed in around her. If she chose to go with Sam, she’d be a single girl, traveling with a bachelor. No chaperone.

  And no more gloves. No clunky typewriter with the x key that always stuck. No giraffes.

  But no Esme.

  “I love you, too. I’ll go with you. But I have to say good-bye to Esme first.”

  “You won’t find her.” He spoke firmly, calmly. “I’m telling you, Darby, I promise you, she’s gone.”

  She thought of Daddy, what he might have revealed to her if she’d known to give him the chance. Esme deserved that as well. “I have to try. Can you give me some time? Not much. Just enough to nose around here a little bit. Her shift starts in twenty minutes. If she doesn’t turn up, I’ll leave a note for her at the front desk.”

  “Fine, but be careful. I’ll head downtown to get my things and meet you under the clock at Grand Central in two hours. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” He brought his hand to Darby’s cheek and smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  New York City, 2016

  After packing her personal possessions from her desk into a canvas bag—there weren’t many, a mug, an umbrella, and an extra pair of high heels—Rose walked out of the WordMerge offices for the last time. The rest of the staff had no idea what had occurred with Tyler. She’d collected her things and left, as if she were only popping out to the gym.

  Five years ago she’d been a rising star, groomed to take over a national anchor position one day. And now she couldn’t even hold a job at a start-up. But with her father so ill, the trajectory of her career seemed an inconsequential thing, like a burned-out lightbulb you kept meaning to fix. She’d get back to it and figure it out soon enough. For now she had to focus on her dad.

  Bird was eager to get outside when she returned to Darby’s apartment. Or maybe Esme’s apartment, really. But once they walked out the service entrance, the rain began falling in sheets. She tucked Bird under one arm, strode into the park, and planted him beneath one of the giant elm trees. The leaves acted as a de facto umbrella: large drops broke through the foliage every so often, but the worst of the weather was kept at bay. Bird found a patch of dirt of which he approved and took a long pee, glaring up at Rose for invading his privacy by watching him. She looked away. How had she got to this point, where a ten-pound dog bossed her around?

  As Rose approached the Barbizon, a figure caught her eye. Jason stood underneath the awning that led to the lobby, looking down at his phone. In a smooth movement, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, and her stomach did a flip. His every move breathed of sex to her now; she couldn’t help it. But she didn’t want him going inside.

  “Jason!”

  She called out and crossed the street, almost getting hit by a cab that had veered suddenly into the left-hand lane.

  Jason looked up. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Sorry, I left my phone in the apartment.” She glanced back at the lobby. Patrick saw her and waved. “We’ve got to go around the side. Come this way.”

  “Wait a minute.” Jason stood firm. “I just went inside and they said you don’t live here anymore.”

  “Well, not officially. I dog-sit for another tenant.”

  “Then let’s go in; this rain’s a disaster. And we have to talk about what happened today. Tyler said you quit.”

  “I did. If I stayed, he would’ve made my life more miserable than it already is. But we have the story still, so that’s good news. Come around this way and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He still didn’t budge. “Why don’t we just go in the front?”

  The answer came to her in a flash. “Dogs aren’t allowed in the lobby. Management rules.”

  “Rose!”

  The deep voice was instantly recognizable. She begged silently for it to be only Griff, not Connie, but her luck had run out. The two were unfolding themselves from a black town car, wearing matching Burberry raincoats.

  “Griff, hi.”

  “What are you doing here?” His eyes darted back and forth between her and Jason.

  “This is Jason.” She was unsure what else to do. She nodded at Connie, who glared back. They’d met a couple of times when the kids were dropped off, but never exchanged more than a few words.

  Griff shook Jason’s hand like the politician he was, firmly and with great sincerity. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m going inside.” Connie disappeared, leaving behind the faint whiff of Chanel No. 5.

  Jason dug his hands into his pockets. “I’ll leave you two for a minute.”

  “Don’t,” Rose insisted. “Griff, I’m not here to see you; you don’t have to get all bent out of shape.”

  “I’m not bent out of shape. Simply surprised. Did you leave something behind?”

  Jason looked at Rose, confused.

  “I didn’t leave anything behind. I’m visiting a friend in the building.”

  Relief crossed Griff’s fine features. “Right. The woman on the fourth floor. In that case, after you.” He gestured inside.

  “No, you go ahead. I have to speak with Jason.”

  “All right. And maybe we can make an arrangement to talk, in a week or two. Would that be possible?”

  An unmistakable heat came from his eyes. Maybe it was the fact that Jason was standing close to her, ever so slightly possessive, that got his competitive juices flowing. Or maybe he’d actually missed her.

  Two weeks ago, she would have loved the opportunity to bring him back into her life, in whatever way. To find their connection again. But not anymore. And her change of heart had nothing to do with Jason. Her father’s decline, Stella’s painfully honest rant, and the ladies’ stories had made her see her life in a new light. She would be in charge from now on. A
s a result, the chemical attraction, the aura that encircled Griff and made him the focus of her world, had dissipated. Just like that.

  “Sorry. I’m too busy.”

  “I see. I guess I’ll see you around. Jason, it was nice meeting you.”

  Jason grunted in return, and when she turned to face him, she could see he was pissed.

  “What exactly is going on?”

  “Well, that’s Griff, my ex-boyfriend. And his wife. I mean his ex-wife.”

  “We were introduced.”

  Patrick was making his way outside, and she didn’t want to have to speak with him. “Follow me and I’ll explain.”

  The walk to the service entrance and up the stairs seemed endless. Once in the apartment, she dried off Bird with a towel before he skittered over to his usual place on the couch. He stared at Rose expectantly, as if he were a tiny bearded spectator at a boxing match.

  “Who lives here?” Jason asked.

  The time had come to tell the truth. Now that the story had been killed, maybe Jason wouldn’t be too horrified. Rose grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dried off her hair, avoiding his gaze. “This is Darby’s apartment. Or Esme’s. I can’t quite wrap my head around who she is anymore, to tell the truth.”

  “You appear to be quite comfortable here.”

  “I’ve been taking care of her dog.”

  “Whoa. Back up a minute.” He lowered himself onto the couch and exchanged glares with Bird. “First of all, why did you quit?”

  She sat cross-legged on the chair. “I don’t want to make stupid lists. That’s not why I signed on with Tyler.”

  “I can understand that. But we could have convinced him to do the Barbizon piece at least.”

  “No, he was done with it, and done with me. I’m tired of playing games and being played.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I’ll pitch the story to someone else. The New York Times Magazine, that kind of thing.”

  “And what about all this?” He gestured around the room. “How will you explain to your editors that you’re living in a source’s apartment? The Times doesn’t like that type of thing, you know. No good news source does.”