by Lisa Unger
She thought of Geneva, shuttling the kids back and forth to school, running all the errands—to the grocery store, the dry cleaners, even getting the car serviced. Such intimate work, to run someone’s daily life.
“She’s here every weekday,” said Selena, musing. “She eats her meals at our place and makes a plate to take home for dinner. I give her cash for errands, groceries, whatever. So she probably doesn’t use her card much during the week.”
“That’s what her sister told us,” said Crowe, nodding.
Had Geneva ever mentioned a sister? A sister who was close enough to know her habits, to become concerned enough to call the police because of a missed breakfast date, with a key to her house. It seemed like Selena would have known about a sister. That she should have known.
“Did you pay her on Friday?”
“I did,” said Selena. “By check. She usually mobile-deposits it, sometimes even before she leaves.” Another nod, another scribble.
“Can you check your account and see if it came through?” he asked.
A light sheen of sweat sprung up on Selena’s forehead. A glance at the clock told her that the boys would be late for school, that she would miss her train. “Of course.”
“Did she mention any plans for the weekend?” he asked.
“No,” said Selena. “In fact, she told me to text her if we needed any help over the weekend, that she’d be around.”
Not we, me, thought Selena. Because she’d said Graham was away on “a boys’ weekend.” Another lie. This one hers.
“And did you?”
“No,” said Graham.
A shift of his weight, a slight leaning forward. “We had a quiet family weekend at home mostly. Oh, and the park. We went to the park.”
A family weekend. How idyllic. You guys are just too cute. Those boys so grown up. Such a good mom! Nothing more important than time with your family! All the comments on her Instagram posts.
“What about boyfriends?”
Graham looked thoughtful, rubbing at his chin, then shook his head. He looked to Selena in warm inquiry. If anything about this was unsettling to him, it did not show. Even a little. He simply struck the perfect posture of concerned employer.
“Not that she mentioned,” said Selena, shaking her head.
Other than my husband?
Who she was fucking while I was working late, supporting my family?
Not that she mentioned.
Honestly, she and Geneva didn’t talk that much. Their conversations were about the boys, the chores, the errands. Selena left when Geneva arrived, and Geneva left when Selena got home. Shift workers, passing each other by. Did Selena know anything really about Geneva’s life? Very little.
Geneva’s father lived nearby, Selena thought she’d heard the other woman mention. Or had. Had he passed on? Embarrassingly, she couldn’t recall. She didn’t remember a sister, friends, stories about how she spent her off time. There was no mention of a boyfriend. In some real sense, Geneva stopped existing for Selena when she was not caring for Oliver and Stephen. But maybe that’s because Geneva was so quiet, so deferential with Selena. And Selena was just so busy, caught up in the day-to-day of it all. She tried to remember what they talked about on the playground, before Selena had hired her. The Tucker boys mostly, childcare stuff, routines, and device and television rules, organic eating, allergies.
“She’s late now,” said Selena, looking at the clock. “She hasn’t called. That’s never happened.”
She walked to the window, half expecting to see Geneva coming up the drive, moving quickly, flustered for being late. So sorry! I went out of town last minute! Lost my phone!
No. There was a cold hollow in her middle.
The boys came tearing down the stairs.
“Aren’t we late? Where’s Geneva?” asked Oliver, always aware of situations. Then to Detective Crowe, a direct, “Who are you?”
“I’m Grady,” he said, easily, offering his hand. Oliver took it and shook. “Nice grip, buddy.”
Oliver seemed pleased by that.
“Running a bit late for school today, boys,” said Graham rising, pushing them back toward the door with a gentle hand on each boy’s back. “Go watch television for a bit.”
They ran off happily. That was a major departure from the no devices, no television before school rule.
“I’ll have to call work,” said Selena. “Let them know I’m running behind.”
Graham seemed about to object, then pressed his mouth closed.
As she went for her phone, she wondered about the videos of Graham and Geneva, which she’d recorded and were saved on her computer for anyone with the password to see. And weren’t they likely in the cloud somewhere, saved by the company that made the camera, designed the app and software?
Even if she deleted them from her computer—weren’t there supposedly all kinds of ways these things could be found? Not that it would come to that. They weren’t going to be searching her computer, of course! That was ridiculous. She’d watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds in her life. Geneva was going to turn up. Of course she was.
She left a message for Beth, called the school. Then she tried Geneva, but the call just went to voice mail.
She logged into their checking account via the app on her phone. Geneva’s check hadn’t cleared—but if she’d deposited late Friday, it might not have. Sometimes the funds didn’t sweep from her account until Tuesday. Back in the living room, she shared this with Detective Crowe. He nodded, then launched into more questions.
“Did she mention anyone she might be having problems with? Someone following her? Calling too often?”
“No,” said Selena. “Nothing like that.”
But would she have? Beth and some of Selena’s other friends were so close with their childcare employees that they seemed more like part of the family. But she didn’t have that with Geneva, even—before. Again, an ugly flash on Geneva and Graham. Selena’s cheeks went hot, and she wondered if anyone noticed.
“Who employed her before you?”
“The Tuckers,” said Selena. “They live a few streets over.”
Crowe flipped back through his notebook. “Her sister said that there were some problems there, that she left abruptly.”
Selena shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think Mrs. Tucker—Eliza—just wanted to stay home with the kids.”
But she didn’t really know. She didn’t know the Tuckers per se, though they were Facebook friends, the kids all went to the same school. They’d provided a reference via email. Maybe it had seemed a bit terse?
“Something to do with the husband, she thought,” said Crowe. “Unwelcome advances.”
Was the room spinning? She heard the boys turn on the television in the playroom.
“Geneva never said anything about that,” said Selena.
But she wouldn’t, would she? She swallowed hard and it seemed like Detective West noticed. She consciously kept her eyes from drifting to Graham.
“What can we do?” asked Graham, the very image of sincere worry. “For you guys? For Geneva?”
Crowe slid a card across the coffee table. “Let us know if you hear from her. Maybe keep trying to call her. It’s possible that she doesn’t want to talk to her sister, but she’ll answer a call from her employer, you know. Call your bank, see if they have any further information on that check.”
“Of course,” said Graham. “Absolutely.”
There was a moment, just a breath, where silence fell between all of them and Selena saw the eyes of both detectives set on Graham.
“Quite the handyman, huh?” said Detective West to Graham.
“How’s that?” asked Graham.
“Working on that wall Friday,” said West. “Then over to your brother’s place for a home repair project.”
&nbs
p; “Oh,” said Graham, with a laugh. He folded his arms across his chest. “I guess? Neither project went very well. But I do try.”
“What were you working on with your brother?”
“Cabinets,” Graham said, clearing his throat. “A cabinet door falling off its hinges.”
“Two-man job, is it?”
“For us, I guess,” said Graham with a grin. “Or maybe just an excuse to spend a little time catching up.”
Again, manly nodding all around. “What time did you get back?”
“On the later side. What would you say, honey?”
“Nine or ten?” she answered. For a second, she wished she was dreaming, that she’d wake up.
The detective asked for Graham’s brother’s name, address, and phone number. Graham provided it without hesitation. For all she knew, he had helped with the cabinet. She hoped for his sake that he had. Or that Joe would know to lie, which he might. Bro code, Graham liked to call it.
“Where’s Geneva?” asked Oliver, slim and small in the doorway, leaning against the wood frame. “What’s wrong?”
The detectives both moved toward the door, and Selena, whose whole body had grown tense, jumped liked a spring to tend to Oliver.
“We’re not sure, honey,” she said, her voice high and way too bright. “Everything’s okay.”
Oliver didn’t look convinced, serious eyes on Selena. She shook her head, just ever so slightly—no one would have noticed but him. And her child knew to be quiet, whatever he was thinking, wanted to ask or say. He knew what his mother wanted him to do, the way all children do without words.
“Go take care of your brother,” said Selena. Oliver disappeared down the hallway.
Graham ushered the detectives into the foyer and out the front door.
“I noticed that you have one of those camera doorbells,” said West on the porch. “Does it turn on with motion? Is it set to record?”
“No. It’s an older one,” said Graham with a regretful wince. “It’s a bit glitchy because our WiFi needs an upgrade. Doesn’t always even work.”
“Technology.”
Was West going to ask to see the app? Would Graham show it to him? Was it set to record? She didn’t even know. What about the other cameras? Were they set to record? They were all visible on the same app.
She knew that they should say no, if they asked to see it. That was their right. She braced herself. What would she say? If they really wanted to help, had nothing to hide, they’d show them the app without question.
But they did want to help. They didn’t have anything to hide. Did they? An affair, no matter how tawdry, wasn’t a crime.
She looked at Graham, who was easily chatting with West now about all the new surveillance technology out there, how it was so cheap, how it made their job a lot easier. People don’t even know. They are eyes everywhere now—these little cameras in their doorbells, in their living rooms, on their phones. They’re everywhere. Privacy. It’s gone. Not taken. But given away.
Selena looked up and down the block. Most people had the camera doorbell now. There was even a neighborhood network. She got the little notices on her phone: Stranger at my door! Package missing! This dog pooping on my lawn!
“We’ll be on the block a while,” said Crowe. “Let us know if you hear from her. Or—you know—if you think of anything else.”
On the block? Asking questions? Talking to neighbors?
“It’s probably nothing, though, right?” asked Selena. “She’s just met someone maybe. Lost track of time.”
“Hard to say,” said Crowe. He looked up at the sky. “It’s one thing to stand your sister up. But I don’t love that she didn’t turn up for work. Someone so responsible.”
It was all there on the tip of her tongue. She imagined it all coming out in a tumble. Confession—it was good for the soul or something. Right? Geneva was sleeping with my husband. I threw something at him; it cut his face. I told him to leave but he came back, late at night. I let him in because of the boys, even though I didn’t want him to come home. I met a strange woman on the train. There were these weird messages on my phone this weekend. The encounter, it was strange. She said something like: Maybe she’ll just disappear.
But it was all so crazy, unrelated to Geneva being missing, right? It was just the chaos of her life at the moment. When had things gotten so out of hand?
“Mrs. Murphy,” said Detective Crowe. “You okay?”
Crowe glanced over at Graham, then back to Selena. She liked the dark honesty of his gaze, the cool seeing of it. Graham’s chuckle rang out over the quiet of the neighborhood, something amusing in his conversation with West. A girl was missing. What the hell was he laughing about? Was her husband really such an accomplished liar?
“I’m just worried,” she said softly, offering the detective a wan smile. “About Geneva. She’s like part of our family.”
TWELVE
Oliver
Grown-ups lied. A lot.
They lied about how things were going to taste. Just try it! It’s yummy.
They lied about how bad shots were going to hurt. Just a little sting. Over before you know it!
Oliver knew he shouldn’t be at the door listening. But he did anyway.
“It’s probably nothing, though, right?” asked his mom. It was her worried voice. “She’s just met someone maybe. Lost track of time.”
“Hard to say,” said the stranger. “It’s one thing to stand your sister up. But I don’t love that she didn’t turn up for work. Someone so responsible.”
Both his mom and dad were frowning. Oliver moved in closer to the door, even though he was supposed to be taking care of Stephen.
“Mrs. Murphy,” said the stranger. “You okay?”
Grown-ups told you things were okay when they weren’t. Mom always said she was fine even when he could see she’d been crying. The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy. All lies. It was Eli at school who’d told him all this. Eli was a year older than everyone else, even Oliver, who’d started kindergarten late. Eli was left back everyone knew but didn’t dare say because Eli was mean and big, and really good at hurting you fast so that teachers didn’t see. And at first, Oliver didn’t believe it.
Go ahead, said Eli, ask your mom about Santa.
So he did.
People who don’t believe in Santa don’t get presents. That was his mom’s answer. Which even Oliver knew was not an answer.
He pressed. Do you swear to god there’s a Santa?
His mom just looked away. We can believe in all sorts of things that we can’t see or touch. Santa isn’t real or not real. He’s magic.
Magic.
Was magic real?
Why so many questions? his mom wanted to know. He told her about Eli and watched her make the face she made when she was really mad about something and was trying to pretend that she wasn’t.
You know what? she said. There is always going to be someone who will try to take the sparkle out of your life. Don’t let him. Okay? Just enjoy the stories, and for now don’t worry about what’s real and isn’t real. Deal?
He took the deal because he liked getting presents and Easter baskets and money from the Tooth Fairy. But it was clear that Eli, even if he was a bully and sparkle stealer, was right.
They lied.
As Oliver hovered outside the door, Stephen in front of the television, he listened to his parents talking to the strangers. His dad lied about the cut on his head. He lied about the wall. He was probably lying about the cabinets—because his dad was not a handyman. And even the wall project was kind of a joke because he really did suck at things like that. Oliver’s pine derby car had been the worst of everyone’s, really bad. But he didn’t care because they had fun doing it. And Stephen put google eyes on it and it was wobbly and really funny. So, no one would call Dad to he
lp with a home repair project.
Mom lied about everything being all right—her voice all high and her smile fake.
She’d lied about Dad’s boys’ weekend.
And Dad lied about the doorbell. He told the police that it didn’t record. But he told Oliver and Stephen that it did, that all the cameras did. That’s how his dad knew every bad thing they were doing—even when he wasn’t there. That’s what he told Oliver and Stephen, anyway.
I’m always watching! he’d say in a scary voice, then monster-chase them down the hall, everyone screaming.
Was he lying then? Or was he lying now?
Oliver moved closer to the door. If he was quiet and still, his parents forgot he was there. Like now.
Geneva hadn’t come to take them to school today. And Mom was still home. And Dad was that way he was when other guys were around—kind of too loud, laughing a lot. And something was wrong.
Oliver had watched Geneva leave the house on Friday, the way he watched her leave every night from his bedroom window. He even recorded it on his iPad, because that’s what he and Stephen had been doing that afternoon in their room when they weren’t fighting. They were taping each other on this app that played your recording in reverse, so that you flew back up on the bed, or ran backward through the door. Then they were doing slow motion videos to make their stuffed animals look like they were flying. So when he watched Geneva, he hit Record.
He wondered where she went when she left them; he tried to imagine where she lived.
He’d asked her: Where do you live? In a house?
In a castle, she told him, high on a hill.
No, you don’t, he said. There are no castles around here.
Aren’t there?
Do you have a pet dragon? asked Stephen.
That’s a stupid question, Oliver told him. She doesn’t live in a castle. She doesn’t have a dragon.
Geneva laughed. Her eyes were glittery, her lips a glistening pink. She had a lot of freckles and her cheeks were always flushed pink. I just live in an apartment, silly boys. About twenty minutes from here.
