by Merry Jones
In the seconds before she emerged, I rehearsed. “Molly, you look magical, like a fairy princess.” No, not convincing enough. And Molly would hate looking like a fairy princess. “Molly. Oh my God. You look like a supermodel.” Better.
Emily peeked out the side, between the curtain and the wall. Then, slowly, the curtains parted, and out stepped not Molly but a dream. A delicate vision in lace and silk. A porcelain doll with flowing golden hair, moving as gracefully as if she were real and alive. A small, radiant angel, glowing, with questions in her eyes.
“Mom?” the angel asked. “How do I look?”
I tried to answer, but my throat was choked. All I could do was dab my eyes.
The angel blinked, confused.
“Gorgeous!” Susan exclaimed. “Molly, you’re gorgeous. Like a princess. Better than a princess. Just beautiful. Your mother can’t even talk, she’s so overcome. Tell her, Emily. Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
From the edge of the curtain, Emily glowered.
“Come out and take a look, Em.”
“I already saw.”
“Turn around, Molly. Show them the back.” Anna fussed. Susan oohed and aahed.
“Isn’t she just perfect?” Anna bragged.
“Nobody’s perfect.” Emily stomped off, disappearing behind the curtain.
“Okay. She’s jealous.” Susan got up and went after Emily.
“Emily’s jealous? Of what? My dress?” Molly clearly didn’t understand. Her eyebrows rose. “Does that mean we can’t have a sleepover?”
Finally, I found my voice. “She’ll be all right. She just wants to be beautiful like you, Molls.”
“But she is. Emily’s more beautifuller than me.”
She was not.
“Okay, ladies. Let’s get the dress off and hung before it gets damaged.” Anna ushered Molly away.
From inside the fitting rooms, Susan’s voice rose, scolding Emily. My cell phone rang. Damn. Bryce Edmond’s name showed up on the screen. Again. What the hell? Why was he calling me every day? I was on leave. Didn’t he understand the words maternity leave? I turned the ringer to silent, letting it go.
Susan emerged, fuming. “I don’t know what to do. She won’t come out. She’s just standing there, pouting. What a prima donna.”
I kept my mouth shut, unable to pretend that I disagreed. Anna rushed around with a hanger, bagging the dress, and Susan and I sat silently waiting for Molly, wondering how long it would take for Emily to thaw out. After a few minutes, from behind the fitting room curtain we heard Molly’s hushed voice. “Emily, I have to tell you. Out of all the girls I know, you’re my most prettiest friend.”
And so there was a sleepover, after all.
THIRTEEN
MOLLY WENT HOME WITH Susan and Emily, and I came home alone in plenty of time to feed Luke. As I came in, I heard the brothers’ animated conversation coming from the family room.
“…clothes pulled off…but no evidence of rape…” Whose voice was that? Nick’s? Those guys all sounded alike.
I crept down the hall, trying to hear what they were saying.
“…inferred that she was carrying drugs …but other than the condition of the body …no actual evidence…” That was definitely Nick.
I stopped near the doorway where I could hear them. I could see Tony gliding around the living room, apparently looking for something. He picked up cushions, peered under the sofa, while Nick talked.
“But it’s got to be drugs. Why else would they slice her? Wait— are you saying somebody got his kicks out of that? Like the paper suggested—you know, Jack the Ripper?” Sam’s voice was husky, strained.
“No. I’m not suggesting anything yet—”
I hadn’t made a noise. At least, I hadn’t been aware of making a noise. But suddenly, in unison, three heads twisted to face me.
“Zoe?” Nick bounded to his feet to greet me. “I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?”
Why would he ask that? Obviously, he wanted to know how much I’d heard. Sam rubbed his chin nervously. Tony stood up too quickly, as if afraid I’d caught him looking under the sofa.
“Where’s Molly?” Nick looked around, kept asking questions.
“At Susan’s. Sleepover.” I came into the living room and sat on my sofa, beside the spot Tony had occupied. “Where’s Luke?”
“Still napping.”
“Well, I’d better get back to work.” Clearing his throat, Tony grabbed his laptop and fled to my office.
“Tony,” I stopped him. “Were you looking for something?”
“Oh.” His eyes traveled back to the sofa. “Just—I lost some change. I had a bunch of quarters, but they must have fallen out of my pocket. No big deal.” He hurried past me down the hall.
Sam pulled himself to his feet, checking his watch. “Well, look at that. It’s almost five. Happy hour. Anybody for a brew? Nick?”
Nick shook his head. “Not yet, thanks.”
As soon as I’d come in, the conversation had abruptly ended, and Nick’s brothers had practically run out of the room. For the second time in two days, they’d avoided including me.
“What was that about?”
“What was what about?”
“Why did you guys stop talking when I came in?”
“What?” Nick fumbled. “We didn’t—”
“Oh, please, Nick. I heard you talking about the murder. What are you trying to hide?”
He walked over and put an arm around me, half his face attempting a casual smile. “Zoe, don’t be so sensitive. Nobody’s hiding anything.”
“No?”
“No. Sam and Tony are just not used to you yet. They’re not really secretive. They’re just shy.”
Shy? Was he kidding? The word didn’t fit either of them. Sam was pushy, Tony flamboyant. “Right. They’re shy Like Donald Trump—”
“I mean with you. They’re shy with you.”
“Uh-huh. And yet, they use my office. Sam has a room at the Four Seasons, but he sleeps here, half the time on my carpet. Tony’s made a nest out of my sofa. They help themselves to whatever’s in my refrigerator—”
“They bother you.” Nick tried to change the subject, to put me on the defensive. “I’ll tell them not to use your office or eat anything without your permission—”
“Stop it, Nick.”
“You said they bother you—”
“What bothers me isn’t the point. The point is that every time I come into the room, you guys stop talking or change the subject or run out of the room. Do not try to deny it.”
Nick sighed and pulled me to him, hugging me. “Sorry, Zoe. I didn’t realize it. Your feelings are hurt. We’re just worried about you. You seem—I don’t know. Fragile.”
Fragile? Me? Hardly. I stiffened, backing out of his hug. “Don’t patronize me, Nick. This is not about me or my state of mind.” Why was he dodging my questions? What was going on? And then, suddenly, I knew. “You think they’re involved.” Of course, that had to be it. “You think one of them might have something to do with it.”
“With what? One of whom?” Nick pretended not to know what I meant. He backed away, but I kept after him, asking questions. Did he think Tony or Sam was involved in the murder? After all, it happened during their visit, two days after their arrival. And Nick hadn’t seen them in years, couldn’t really know what they were up to, and, face it, they were both kind of shady. Sam claimed to be involved in big international business deals. Maybe those deals were illegal—like maybe drug smuggling? And Tony. He said he’d seen the victim the morning she was killed. But how did we know that had been the first time he’d seen her? How did we know he hadn’t been the one she’d been looking for?
“Enough.” It was the same flat tone Nick had used when he’d chastised his brothers. “Stop.”
I stopped.
Nick’s face was stony, and when he spoke again, so was his voice. “Let’s make sure I understand you, Zoe. You’re saying that you suspect Sam o
r Tony or both of them of being criminals. Even murderers. Is that right?”
Warily, I met his eyes. “Is it wrong?”
“Are you serious? Of course it is. Completely and positively wrong.” His face softened a little. “Look, Zoe. I know this is a stressful time, what with the wedding coming up. And this murder has pushed all of us—especially you—over the top. But sweetheart, please try to relax.”
Sweetheart? What? Nick never called me names like that. He took my hand again.
“Look, my brothers are good-hearted. Probably, they don’t talk about the murder in front of you because they want to protect you from it.”
“Protect me?” I wasn’t buying it. “Nick. I found the damned body. It’s too late to protect me. Besides which, it’s not their job to—”
“I said they’re good-hearted, Zoe. I didn’t say they’re geniuses.” Half his mouth smirked and he shook his head. “Fact is, from your point of view, I can see how they look suspicious. But when you get to know them, you’ll see they’re decent people. They’re all bluster. Of the four of us, Eli’s the only tough one. Sam and Tony are like me. Pussycats.”
Wait. Nick was calling himself a pussycat? I winced. Then again, panthers were pussycats.
“In time, I hope you’ll like them. But even if you don’t, take my word for it. They may not be angels, but my brothers aren’t killers.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at our hands, so I couldn’t read his expression. I wondered if I could believe him. After all, Sam and Tony were Nick’s blood. If Nick knew that one of them was involved in a murder, would he tell anyone, even me? I had no idea.
But, for now anyway, the discussion of homicide was over. Sam came back to the living room with a couple of beers and a bag of tortilla chips. He handed a beer to Nick, deciding for him that it was time to have one, as Tony, finished for now on his computer, emerged from my office and joined us, looking jittery. I excused myself to go feed Luke but lingered at the bottom of the steps, listening, wondering what they’d talk about after I left the room. But though I waited for an uncomfortably long time, all I heard was Sam’s hoarse rendition of his profitable investment in some time- shares.
FOURTEEN
SUNDAY MORNING, WHATEVER I did, wherever I turned, one or more of the brothers were there. Sam and Tony, apparently committed to protecting me, stayed within a five-foot perimeter at all times. Finally, desperate to breathe, I bundled Luke into his puffy down snowsuit, put on my jacket and, fending off questions about where we were going, adamantly refusing three offers to keep us company, escaped my bodyguards and fled into the cool, damp air. Luke and I were going for a walk, by ourselves.
Being outside felt glorious. Invigorating. Pushing the carriage, I almost bounced with freedom as we walked two blocks along Fourth Street, taking a smelling tour of the city. The garlic of corned beef haloed Famous Deli. The sweet and buttery scent of fresh scones hung outside the Pink Rose Cafe. Then, suddenly, the stench of rotting trash and stale urine assaulted us at the alley, and, a few steps later, the roasting of burgers already grilling at Copabanana. An overwhelming assault of frying onions in front of Jim’s, the cheesesteak place. Every three steps, the air changed, stunning the senses.
We turned onto South Street, where a lone shopkeeper hosed down the sidewalk, washing away remnants of last night’s partying. South Street, with its restaurants, bars and funky shops, attracted a crowd each night, especially Saturdays. But before noon, especially on Sundays, South Street was deathly quiet, as if the street itself was hungover, sleeping it off. The emptiness felt disturbing, the gray sidewalks matched the sky, and trash lining the curb lay dirty with soot. No cars passed; nobody else walked by. And even though we were outside in the open air, I began to feel the presence of another person, close by.
Stop it, I told myself. You’re just tired of being surrounded by Nick’s brothers. You’re jangled by the murder and suffering a tad of postpartum blues. But the feeling that someone was watching, closing in on us, wouldn’t go away. As we passed Eye’s Gallery, I paused and looked into the glass, pretending to window-shop while checking our reflection, almost certain that I’d see someone following us. But no one was there.
I kept walking. Kept telling myself to relax. Yet my thoughts and my pulse sped along. The street was too quiet. Crime was increasing in the area. Ivy’s car had been stolen in daylight right outside my house. A woman had been murdered on my patio. Every window I passed was covered with bars; every door was gated. Somewhere, not far away, a car alarm blared. Was another car thief striking in the middle of the morning? On Sunday? And then, from nowhere, police sirens wailed. Flashing lights came our way, racing along the empty street, screaming so loudly I stopped to cover Luke’s ears until they faded away. Luke watched me placidly, lulled by motion and the out-of-doors, unconcerned that the city was festering with killers, car thieves, burglars and drug dealers. I lifted him, squeezing his tiny bulk, inhaling his sweet scent to mask the harsh urban reek engulfing us. His velvet face brushed mine, and he rooted around, began to suck my cheek. Lord, I loved this boy. Without hesitation, I would give my life, throw myself in front of a train, for him. The sirens faded away and, not for the first time, it occurred to me that this neighborhood might not be the best place to raise children. But then, I rationalized, this planet might not be, either. If I really wanted to keep my children safe, I’d need to take them away from Earth. No living creature was truly safe here—in fact, life itself was fraught with danger. The only absolute guarantee of peace was death.
Wait, whoa—what was I thinking? I stopped walking, scared of myself. These thoughts—where had they come from? They didn’t seem like my own. I thought of what I knew about postpartum depression. That had to be it. It was my hormonal imbalance, a temporary phase that made the world seem bleaker than it really was. As Susan said, I could tough it out. Life wasn’t as bad as it looked right now. It was precious. And, in a matter of weeks, summer would arrive. With daylight savings time, days would be longer. The gray skies would clear. Luke would sleep all the way through the night, so I could, too, and maybe Oliver would be housebroken. Meantime, pushing the empty carriage, I held Luke close, comforted by the warmth of his small body and the casual ease with which he observed the passing scene.
FIFTEEN
AT THE CORNER OF Fifth Street, I stopped and turned around, almost positive that someone was following us. Seeing no one, I put Luke back into his carriage and, even though no cars were coming, waited for the light to change before crossing the street.
“Zoe—Zoe, wait.”
I looked around, certain that I heard someone calling my name.
“Zoe Hayes! Wait!”
Yes, definitely. Someone was calling. The voice came from across the street; my gaze followed the sound, spotted its source. Oh damn. I squinted, not believing what I saw. Bryce Edmond? Here? Why? Well, whatever the reason, it was too late to escape. The man had definitely seen me. He kept calling my name, repeating it as he ran toward us down Fifth Street. But his presence here made no sense. Bryce Edmond lived out in the suburbs somewhere. Haverford? Havertown? Haver-something. And then it occurred to me—had Bryce Edmond been following me? Maybe that was why I’d felt someone watching me all morning—because someone had been.
“Zoe—” He raced past Johnny Rockets, approaching the intersection, waving both arms, breathless, shouting. “Zoe—I’ve been trying to reach you. Didn’t you get my messages? We have to talk—”
I stood still, holding on to the carriage, wishing I could disappear, contemplating how awkward it would be to make a run for it, envisioning a woman with a baby buggy barreling through parked cars, the bespectacled, hollering Bryce at our heels. The fact was, I was in no mood, no frame of mind, to discuss work or the policies of the Institute. What was wrong with the man? Why couldn’t he wait at least until after the wedding? But my thoughts were useless; there was no escape. Bryce had already started across the street. I was trapped.
“It’s important—” Bryce kept yelling.
Behind him, on Fifth Street, a car suddenly screeched, accelerating, engine racing, drowning out his voice. And without warning, it veered, swerving sharply, turning to cross South Street right behind Bryce.
I tried to call out to him but couldn’t make words. In a heartbeat, I saw Bryce coming up onto the curb, the car careening behind him, lurching forward, closing in. Tons of steel charged right at us, and though I wanted to, I simply couldn’t move.
SIXTEEN
BRYCE COULD, THOUGH. HE leapt, actually flying off the ground. Arms extended, he hit me full force, knocking me sideways through the air. My body smacked the carriage, shoving it away, and I landed hard on cement where, banging my hip and hitting my head, I lay flat, breathless, unable to move, watching Luke’s buggy roll away. For an immeasurable moment, my body seemed disconnected; messages would not travel from my brain to my limbs, even to my voice. I heard a heavy thud, an unbearable grunt. A series of harsh scrapes and bangs, and then the frantic revving of an engine, a painful grinding of metal and the roaring of an engine speeding away.
How long did I lie there, not moving, unable to make a sound? I remember straining to turn my head, blinking at the carriage a few yards away where it had rolled to a stop against a storefront window. And wailing with a stab of fear—Luke. Oh God. Was he all right? I struggled to my knees, crawled over to the carriage, desperate, afraid to look inside. But Luke was intact. He glanced my way, gurgling, completely unfazed. A miracle. I cupped his cheeks, clutched his little hands, making sure he was really all right. But touching him, I noticed that my hands were covered with grime. I shouldn’t touch the baby with such dirty hands. I released him, began searching for baby wipes to clean my fingers. Where were they? The back of my head pulsed with pain, and I reached back to it, felt a tender bump, but no blood. I opened the diaper bag, rifled through diapers and teething toys, finally found the wipes, began rubbing my hands with one, realizing only then that someone was talking to me. A woman with spiked dark hair, a tattoo on her neck. A stranger, asking questions. She put her hand on my arm “…all right? How about the baby?”
