Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  Graham reached for her, and when she screamed, her voice felt like an explosion.

  “Get away from me, Graham!”

  Her voice rang out loud, and her last thought before she reached behind her and found Stephen’s toy robot—a big heavy thing with lots of hard edges—was that she hoped she hadn’t woken the boys.

  SEVEN

  Anne

  Was it her imagination? The air felt electric with bad energy as Anne walked into the office. She sensed it right away, even before Evie, the receptionist who had never once even bothered to hide her naked contempt for Anne, looked up and smiled.

  “Kate wants to see you,” Evie said, a little crinkle to her nose, a glint in her eyes. Malicious glee.

  Evie’s teeth were a dazzling white, a contrast to her olive skin. Her eyes were the same deep black as her hair. Evie’s Instagram feed was ridiculous—a catalog of selfies or posed shots of herself in various locations where she was heavily made-up, provocatively dressed, filtered into cartoonish beauty. Evie pressed out her lips, her cleavage, preened—daily—for her few Instagram followers to a smattering of likes and heart-eyed emojis. What did someone like Evie want? She wanted what everyone wanted these days, to be a star, someone wealthy and lauded for no good reason. She wanted to be perfect. No. She wanted to appear perfect to others.

  But nothing was ever perfect. Nothing real. So it was a losing battle that left her feeling perpetually empty.

  Anne could see all the layers of Evie. And she didn’t like any of them.

  “Okay,” Anne said lightly. “Thanks!”

  She also didn’t like the way Evie looked at her. As if she could see what no one else saw. Maybe she did. There were those people. The people who saw, or felt. The seers—cops often, private detectives. The feelers, sensitive types, empaths who picked up energies, creatives—artists, writers, photographers.

  There’s something about you. When I look into your eyes, I feel like I’m floating into nothing, her first boyfriend had whispered to her one night. This was when she still thought maybe she could love someone.

  But mainly, people were so wrapped up in their own inner hurricane that they never saw anything outside the storm of themselves.

  “Have a nice day,” Evie called after her. But when Anne glanced back the other woman’s eyes were sending another message. Something was definitely off.

  Things are not always within your control. That was something to learn early on. There was a cultural misconception, a particularly American idea, that the individual was the master of her own destiny. Positive thinking, creative visualization, manifestation, vision boards, asking the universe to fulfill your desires. If you can dream it, you can do it. Anne believed this to a certain extent. The idea had taken her far, given her the confidence to achieve things and go places where others might hesitate.

  But there was often a wild card, one element you didn’t expect. Usually it was human frailty. People were totally unpredictable. That was one of the first things Pop had taught her.

  She passed Hugh’s office, but he wasn’t at his desk—which wasn’t unusual. He generally strolled in around 9:45. Kate was always here before anyone else. She rose at 5:00, Hugh had told her, met with her trainer for an hour, had a green smoothie and triple shot of espresso, and was at her desk by 7:30 latest. Fear. People who drove themselves that hard were usually afraid of something. What did people like that want? They wanted to be the best, to have the most. Because being the best meant that they were safe from harm.

  But no one was ever safe from harm. Not really.

  Anne sat at her desk, unpacked her bag. Her Moleskine, her pens. Her sack lunch. Slowly. She wouldn’t go running into Kate’s office before she’d collected herself, assessed the situation. She mentally reviewed her evening with Hugh last night. She thought about texting him, but decided against it.

  The buzzer on her phone rang. She answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, Anne.” Brent, Kate’s assistant. “Kate would like to see you.”

  “On my way,” she said brightly.

  She let five more minutes pass. Delaying, making people wait, was a power play.

  When the phone buzzed again, she didn’t bother to answer. She rose and walked down the hallway to Kate’s office, a big corner space with plush couches and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an enormous desk.

  Anne had imagined herself there one day, before she realized what the balance of power really was at this firm: Kate at the helm, Hugh there but by her good graces. Hugh acted like the boss, and Kate let him, because clearly he needed that. A good marriage was the ultimate long game, everyone happy as long as everyone is getting what he wants.

  Brent was not at his desk, so she walked over the plush carpet to Kate’s office, where the other woman sat at her desk. Anne tried to read the room before she entered.

  Kate sat cool and composed at her desk, her body stiff, eyes alert. Once again, Anne had to admire her beauty. Patrician, slim, blond hair cropped close, Kate had all the money necessary to maintain her considerable physical assets, her dewy skin, her tall, toned body. She didn’t wear her usual kind, open smile.

  Her expression was grim. That was bad. Even worse, Hugh slumped on her couch. He looked like he had food poisoning, greenish, dark circles under his eyes. He glanced over at Anne, and he gave her a nod. A nod.

  “Good morning,” Anne said brightly.

  “Good morning, Anne,” said Kate. “Have a seat.”

  Anne sat, pulling herself up in the chair that seemed small and distant from the desk. She was a child in the principal’s office. A prisoner before the parole board. A suspect in the interrogation room.

  Brent closed the office door, and all the air seemed to leave the room.

  This could be about a number of things.

  Hugh. That was the most likely, of course. Anne had been sleeping with Hugh for months. He was in love with her, or so he’d said, intended to leave Kate so that they could be together. Not that she wanted him to love her, or to leave his wife. Not that she loved him, or had any intention of staying with him.

  Or it could be about the money. Anne had found a way to discreetly siphon funds from various of the firm’s accounts into one of her own. Tiny amounts that were adding up nicely.

  Possibly this was about the client. A has-been pro basketball player who’d been fobbed off on Anne. He’d made a pass last week, and she’d rejected him. He hadn’t taken it well. She wasn’t too worried about that one.

  She kept her face open, innocent, a wondering smile on her lips. It was an expression Pop had helped her to perfect. They don’t know what you’re thinking or what you’re feeling. Keep it off your face, whatever it is.

  “So,” said Kate, her eyes clear, posture straight. “I’ll get straight to the point. Hugh and I have been married a long time, twenty-five years.”

  Kate folded her hands on the desk in front of her, then went on.

  “You’re a young woman, so I don’t expect you understand the nature of such a long relationship. There are good times and bad. There are phases when you’re in love and moments when you’re not. Hugh and I—we’ve both made mistakes, hurt each other.”

  Anne nodded, kept her face open but wrinkled her eyes in a kind of mild confusion as if she couldn’t imagine why Kate would confide such a thing in her.

  “Friendship and the willingness to forgive, that’s the foundation of all long marriages.”

  Better to stay quiet. Always better to say nothing.

  “So,” said Kate with a breath. “Hugh and I had a big row last night, about something else completely, but it led him to confide in me that you two have been having an affair.”

  Anne marveled at the other woman’s calm. It didn’t seem put on at all. There were no tells of a quivering inside—no foot tapping, lip biting, hand wringing. Her gaze was steely
.

  “These things happen. You’re a beautiful woman. And, men—” She cast a glance over at her husband with mild annoyance. “Well.”

  Anne hung her head, an imitation of shame, regret, which she did not feel. It seemed like the right body language, though. Kate kept her eyes levelly on Anne.

  What was going to happen here? The whole “Me Too” thing was really going to work in her favor. They couldn’t exactly fire her; she could claim harassment and would, as loudly as possible. Kate would not want that kind of embarrassment. If it were Anne in Kate’s shoes? She’d fire Hugh, kick him out on his ass, and move on. That wasn’t going to happen, of course. Anne was going to be the one holding the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

  Shit.

  Anne rather liked her job, the office, the money, the travel. She’d really fouled this one up. She would have been better off having an affair with Kate.

  She remained quiet and Kate went on.

  “I don’t imagine that you’re in love with Hugh. And—in spite of what he’s told you—I assure you that he’s not in love with you.”

  Kate looked back and forth between Anne and Hugh. What did the older woman see? Anne wondered. Was Anne just some tramp, an inconvenience in an otherwise very orderly existence? And Hugh? What was he to her, a possession? A showpiece? Did she truly love him? And, if so, why? These questions, they fascinated her. Why did people do the things they did?

  Hugh wouldn’t even look in their direction, a sullen boy deprived of his plaything. He rested his head in his hand, put a foot up on the coffee table. Cleared his throat. The silence expanded, swelled to fill the room. Anne could even hear the very faintest sound of a siren, through the thick glass, far away. She thought about denying the whole thing. But instead she just stayed quiet. Pop always said: It’s better to say nothing. Silence is golden.

  Anne dropped her forehead into her hand, as though she was in a state of despair.

  “If you are.” Kate’s voice was oddly gentle, almost compassionate. “The two of you. Madly, deeply, can’t go on without each other. Feel free to go now. I won’t stand in the way of true love.”

  Anne wondered, would he leap up? Declare his love, take her hand and storm the two of them out. Even though she hadn’t wanted that, didn’t want it, she wished he would, just so that she could see what Kate’s reaction might be. But no. He shifted in his seat, crossed the leg that had lagged on the coffee table over the other and looked out the window.

  Coward.

  Pop always said it and it was true: Cash is king. Kate wore the crown very well.

  “So, the question is, Anne,” Kate went on into the quiet, her voice now firm, practical. “What do you want?”

  That was an interesting thing to ask. It really did cut through all the bullshit. There would be no emotion here, just as it was in the boardroom. Kate was famous for saying, Let’s cut through it, can we? We’re burning daylight.

  Anne looked up at Kate now, and felt a hard, familiar twist of envy. No, it was darker than that, whatever the feeling was. It was the feeling that made her want to key beautiful cars, or slash priceless art, or make happy people cry.

  Their eyes met. Anne felt nothing. Not fear, not anger, not regret, not disappointment, not even shame. All things that might be appropriate here, that other people might feel. It was Kate who looked away first. They always did.

  “What do you want,” Kate said to her folded hands, “to walk away from your job, whatever it is you were doing with my husband, and to sign a nondisclosure agreement for this incident and its resolution?”

  The room shimmered a little and Anne had this feeling she’d had before. As if she’d lifted out of her body, was floating above and looking down at herself, at the imperious Kate, and the defeated and slouching Hugh. She wondered how the scene had played out last night. Not that it mattered. He was never going to leave his wife, his cushy job, their children, the world of wealthy friends and successful colleagues he inhabited.

  Well. Let’s cut through it, can we?

  It was that easy. She named her price. It was a high one, but there was no negotiation. She was given the business card of their lawyer, told that there was an appointment tomorrow at 9:00, that she should not miss it under any circumstances.

  “And that concludes our business,” said Kate. “Allow me to show you out.”

  Anne took the long walk back down the hall, feeling eyes on her, and packed her things; just what she’d carried in that morning in her bag. She’d never had any personal items on her desk—no framed pictures, or pretty knickknacks.

  Hugh stayed in Kate’s office, as Kate discreetly escorted Anne from the building.

  On the street, in the unforgiving light of the bright winter sun, Anne could see the fine lines on the older woman’s face. The skin on her neck was crepey. Anne observed just the very slightest shake in her hands. So, she was human. Not like Anne, who still felt nothing except some vague satisfaction. It wasn’t quite the payout for which she’d hoped. But it would do.

  “Let’s never see each other again,” said Kate, still holding the door handle. She couldn’t step away from the fortress, could she? In a street fight, she could never best Anne and they both knew it.

  Anne nodded, tried to look chastened but couldn’t keep the corner of her mouth from turning up in a smile. The other woman had already disappeared back into the lobby, the darkness swallowing her thin frame.

  It was true. Kate would never see Anne again. Because when she came, she’d come from behind. And Kate? She would never know what hit her.

  * * *

  During the long train ride home, Anne dissected the job—what she’d done right, what she’d done wrong. By the time she got in the car that she had parked at the isolated station, she had a clear list of mistakes, and areas for improvement. Her biggest errors were poor planning—she’d actually started the job wanting to work. She’d fallen into the other thing. So, there hadn’t been enough recon. Then, she’d let things drag on too long. The truth was that she enjoyed Hugh, the luxuries of being his mistress. She’d lost control of the situation. Still, the score was good. A bit messy. But Pop would be happy enough with the outcome.

  She drove, out into the woods, down the long winding drive that led to the house. The sky was a bruised purple-gray, the trees winter-black, some snow still clinging to the ground, to the branches. She hated winter, the quiet of it, the emptiness, the waiting of it. Hugh had promised her sunshine and cocktails, a tropical escape. She could feel the warm salt water on her skin, taste the tang of a fruity drink. She’d have let him take her away. It was all part of it, let it ride until it ran out.

  The house sat low and dark, nestled into the trees, as she brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. She sat in the gloaming, let all traces of Anne fall away. Then she exited the vehicle and walked up the stairs to the porch, unlocking and pushing in the front door.

  “I’m home,” she said as she stepped through the front door. The wood floor creaked beneath her feet.

  “You’re early. What happened?”

  “Things didn’t go as planned.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t worry, Pop,” she said, shedding her coat, dropping her bag. “It was a decent score. And I already have something else going.”

  “I never worry about you, kitten. It’s the other guy who’d better be watching his back.”

  “You know me better than anyone.”

  “That’s true. That’s very true.”

  Her phone pinged and, when she saw who it was, she felt an intense wave of annoyance. The missives that came through were typically whiny, panicky.

  I don’t want to do this anymore.

  It’s wrong.

  Don’t you ever get tired?

  I think things have gone south here. I want to leave.

  She didn’t even bother answering
, just went upstairs and changed out of her work clothes into more comfortable attire—jeans, a soft long-sleeved T-shirt, her leather jacket, boots.

  “You seem angry,” said Pop when she came back down. He was sitting on the couch, the back of his balding head to her. “It’s never a good idea to act out of anger. That’s when we make mistakes.”

  “I’m not angry,” she said.

  Don’t you ever get tired?

  She did. Sometimes she got very tired.

  EIGHT

  Geneva

  Geneva hated the way winter afternoons started to darken around three. As the light leaked out of the sky, a kind of heaviness descended on her spirit. She turned on the lights in the kitchen, and loaded the dishwasher. The boys, sitting at the table with their snacks, were always a little cranky after school, but more so today. Stephen was sulking. Oliver, as usual, was bent over his book. Something about the energy of the house was just—off.

  When she’d arrived that morning, the Murphy family was already gone. She’d used her keys to get in, found a note in the kitchen.

  “We all had to leave early this morning,” it read in a scrawling hand—Selena’s or Graham’s, she couldn’t tell. “Please pick up the boys at the usual time.”

  The house had been a mess, with breakfast dishes still on the table, the boys’ beds unmade. Not the usual state of affairs. Usually, the boys were eating their eggs and toast at the kitchen table when she arrived. She’d find them dressed in their uniforms, hair brushed, bags and lunch sacks waiting neatly by the door.

  Selena liked to do all of those things before work; Geneva knew it made her feel like she’d taken care of things before she headed out for the day. She put notes in the boys’ lunchboxes, special treats sometimes—not too sugary. She was plugged in during the day, always calling right as the boys got home. Available if they wanted her.