Nowhere Girl (13 page)

“I met Dog Breath—I mean Emma—for coffee last week because David is dying to find out why she left him.”

Chandler tilted his head. “And?”

I opened the tinfoil and passed him a piece of naan. I always had the feeling Chandler knew exactly why Emma had bailed. “She said if he wanted to know, he should have asked her.” I took a bite of naan, which was still warm from when I'd heated it in the oven before I left.

Chandler watched me. His cell phone rang on his desk, a snippet from a Lumineers song. He didn't answer it. “So,” he said, sitting in front of his lunch, “she thinks you shouldn't have done his bidding for him?”

I could tell from the tone of his voice that he agreed with her.

“You know what, Chand? Our lives pretty much went to hell 5,974 days ago when our sister got murdered. David not being able to talk to his wife is the least of our problems.”

He dug into his lunch with a plastic fork. “She was your sister too,” he said. “And look at you. You're okay.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm thirty-two years old, fifty pounds overweight, and I hate my husband. What about that screams well adjusted?”

He pointed a manicured finger at me, a contradiction to his appearance. “That, right there. You're still funny and happy.” He paused. “And, honey, fifty pounds is such a fucking overstatement I'm not even going to touch it.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You found a way to live through your pain with your work. David's just living around it.”

“He's a guy,” I said. “That's what guys do, isn't it?”

“Maybe.” Chandler quit eating. “Why don't you ask him?”

“Ask him what?”

He took a sip of wine from his Dixie cup. “Don't you see it would be much easier if you two actually talked?”

“Fuck. Now you sound like Emma.” I realized I wasn't really tasting my chickpeas; I was shoveling them in my mouth hoping the conversation would take a turn for the better. “We talk all the time. Why do you think I spent a morning having coffee with Emma?”

“You talked to Emma,” Chandler pointed out, “not David. And now instead of asking him about his pain, you show up here and ask me.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I'll ask him.” But I was not at all sure I would.

“Speaking of directness,” Chandler said. “How about some total honesty?”

That meant he wanted to ask a question, and I had to tell the truth, no matter what.

“What?”

“Is there something going on with you and Brady?”

I tried to think of something to say. A million lies flashed in my mind, but there was no bullshitting Chandler. He always could see through me. Plus, we weren't allowed to lie during total honesty.

“I'm completely crushed out.” There. I said it.

“Thought so. Odion owes me ten dollars.”

“Oh God. You guys bet on it? Was David in on it?”

“Good lord, no. You know your brother. Dear, sweet boy, but never one to think outside the box.”

“Or someone inside my box.”

“You naughty girl.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Did you two ever?”

“No, I'm married,” I said indignantly. “First Gabby, now you? Am I the only one here with a conscience?”

“Sugar, a conscience only comes into play when you're doing something wrong. And if that man of yours treated you a little better, then we'd have something to talk about. Until then, I think you should do whatever”—he grinned—“or whoever makes you happy.”

“It doesn't matter, anyway. He has a girlfriend.” I thought about Brady coming home from the prison, still in his uniform, and eating dinner with Colette. For the first time, I wondered how much money he made. “Do you think Brady likes me because of my work?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The money.”

Chandler watched me. “No,” he said, and it was so definite it surprised me. “It's something else.”

“What?” I said. “Tell me. You think a guy like that would never be interested in me?”

Chandler stared at me. “It seems like he's trying too hard to make you like him. It's a little, I don't know, desperate.”

I felt heat rise into my neck. “I guess I sort of like it.” I wouldn't have admitted this to anyone but Chandler. Except maybe Gabby. I thought of Greg in bed at night, going through patient files, hardly even noticing me lying right next to him. “Sometimes it feels good not to be ignored.”

Chandler's eyes got soft. “Aw, honey, why stay?”

“Because you're gay.” We laughed. “And I'm fat.”

His laugh disappeared. “You're not fat,” he said. “You're beautiful.”

And for one stinging moment, I thought I might cry. “Thanks, Chand.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand.

When we were done eating and he had fed me some fabulous French chocolates and we'd thrown away all our paper products, Chandler walked me to the door.

“Now go talk to your brother.” He squeezed my neck. “For once.”

“Okay,” I told him, and I kissed him on each cheek.

But when I got to the car, I noticed Patrick had called. Twice. “What's up?” I said when he answered.

“Hello.” He laughed. “How are you?”

It had started to rain, and as I pulled out of the driveway, I put my wipers on. “Sorry,” I said. “My social graces go right out the window when I'm anxious.”

“Fisher's out,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I passed Cookies and the courthouse and was about three blocks from the precinct.

Patrick drew in a quick, hard breath. “It means your sister's case is officially out of cold storage. Caritano and I want to go over it again with you.”

“Does now work? I'm five minutes away.” I pulled over at Stanwich Savings and Loan so I could turn back toward the police station.

“How about a week from Monday?”

“As in ten days from now?” I couldn't stand the thought of having to go that long without knowing exactly what was happening.

“I'm sorry, Cady. I don't mean to leave you hanging.” I could hear a beeping in the background as if his car door were open. “But I'm actually on my way out of town.”

I pictured a tiny blond girl in the passenger seat, bags packed, ready for a vacation in Bermuda or Jamaica. “Oh, sorry. Next Monday is fine.”

“Thanks. I've been signed up for this school safety training seminar for months.”

“No worries.” I caught my smile in the rearview.

Patrick hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “But, Cady?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't think you're going to like what we have to say. It's…” I heard him searching for a word. “Difficult and—”

“I'm okay,” I interrupted. “I'm ready for anything.”

But in fact, driving through Stanwich in the pouring rain, I had that strange feeling I used to get in high school, before they sent me to Sound View, that the earth was spinning at an alarmingly fast rate, and everyone seemed to be able to keep their feet on the ground, and I was the only one who was about to get thrown off.

On my way home, I thought of calling someone and talking about the good news—Gabby or Chandler or David or even my parents. But I knew not everybody approved of the silent vigil I held for Savannah. Gabby occasionally quoted some unknown philosopher about the importance of moving on. Chandler had said once while we were up late watching an '80s movies marathon that maybe it was best to let some things go. But
St. Elmo's Fire
had been on, and all I could think of was that finding Savannah's killer was like what Kirby thought of Dale Biberman. It was the meaning of life. My life. And even though my parents had played like they had moved on, right up until they went to Saint Augustine, there had been five place mats set at their dining room table.

 

CHAPTER

14

My period was late. I lay in bed Wednesday morning feeling achy and wanting to stay there and watch Showtime reruns all day. But because I didn't want to loll around getting my hopes up, I showered. Even if I was pregnant, there wasn't any guarantee it would stay put. “You're perfectly healthy,” Dr. Hansen had said. And so had the two specialists I'd been to for second and third opinions. “It must not be the right time,” one of them told me. And then she put me on a regimen of vitamins that made my breath smell. When none of the experts had an explanation for why I kept miscarrying, I couldn't help thinking it was because the baby was waiting for us to figure out our marriage.

I was thinking about calling Greg on his cell phone at work so there was no chance I'd have to talk to Annika. Maybe I could tell him I was sorry, even though I wasn't, and we could be done with this teenage bullshit of ignoring each other because of some stupid fight about cheese. But it was so much more than that. Just as I found a good place to take a break from
Devils and Dust
, Deanna called.

“I found a serial killer,” I told her.

“Well,” she said briskly. “Hallelujah. But
Vanity Fair
has an assignment, which I already told them you'd take. A feature.”

“What? But you know I'm on deadline. Why would you do this to me?” I actually liked magazines. I loved the short efficiency of knowing I had only a few thousand words to tell what could be a book-length story. I liked the busyness of fact-checking. But I didn't have time for any of that now.

“Relax, Zippy,” she said, dismissing me. “It's a four-thousand-word piece about a hypnotist. You'll be able to bang it out in a day. Besides, it's
Vanity Fair
. It'll be good exposure for
Devils
.”

And there it was, the real reason she was dumping this on me.

It never did me any good to argue with her. She always bullied me into taking on extra work.

“A hypnotist?” I sighed.

“World renowned. He's at Princeton this semester.” Deanna started talking fast like someone had a gun to her head. “He hypnotized celebrities in Europe in the seventies, but his claim to fame is that he was friends with Altman and Steven Meisel and all the other big names. Mainly, he helped directors get their film actors off drugs, so really he knew them all, and now he's settled down with Anita Pallenberg—or so they say. You'll have to find out. I'll send you the assignment, and you can get started. Good luck with your serial killer,” she said. And then she hung up.

I stared at the phone. Hypnosis. I thought about that strange period I had gone through in high school, the razor blades and sharp objects like silent sweet friends that made the pain go away. “What did it feel like?” Dr. Holley at Sound View used to ask me.
Like getting hypnotized
, I'd think, but because I didn't want to sabotage myself with wrong answers, I'd kept my mouth shut.

My e-mail pinged, and there was a message from one of the senior editors at
Vanity Fair
, full of superlatives, how happy they were to have me back, and what a fun assignment this was, and how wonderful this hypnotist was, and as I was scrolling through his pictures with Jane Fonda in the 1970s, I thought how much I never wanted to get hypnotized. I'd rather meet face-to-face with a serial killer than let go of reality in the presence of a stranger.

 

CHAPTER

15

“I think Emma is right.” Gabby's fingernails were painted bright blue. She was smoking a cigarette and trying to maneuver us around town in her tiny MG ragtop she'd bought from a crazy used-parts guy in Trenton.

“Right about what? Jesus, I thought you were going to make me feel better, not take her side.” Stanwich passed by with its striped awnings and town circle.

Gabby ashed her cigarette out the crack in the window. “Maybe you should talk a little more. To David. To your parents. Maybe even to Greg.” She turned down the radio. “Have you ever thought about therapy?”

“Oh God.” I groaned and closed my eyes. “I'm married to a shrink. Doesn't that count?” Greg had tried to get me to go to couples therapy after the miscarriages started. “As far as my brother and parents go, what's there to talk about? We lost someone we loved. And now we're sad. End of story. And you know what Greg's problem is.”

A light in front of us turned from yellow to red. Gabby sped through it. When we were past the intersection, I saw Kate and Missy Turkit, sisters who had gone to our high school, outside of Khaki and Black on Main, and I remembered Missy had been one of Emma's best friends. I couldn't get away from her.

“I guess I do, and that's my point. Your husband isn't supposed to be a dick because you started making more money than he does.” Gabby ran her fingers through her curls. “Maybe a therapist could help him get his head out of his ass and be thankful for such a great girl.”

“Or get his head out of his receptionist's ass.” I smirked. “I know I should want to go to counseling, but I had so much therapy at Sound View, I think I'm set for life.” I watched Emma's friends get smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror. “Anyway, you hate Greg.”

She blew smoke out her nose. “I know, but I love you. And since you won't divorce him, you might as well try to fix him.”

I couldn't talk about Greg anymore. “You do know smoking is bad for you, right?”

She held the cigarette out in front of her. “It helps me not eat, and the lighter I am, the more liable I am to win the Hoka Hey.”

“Eat,” I told her. “Eating keeps you alive. Smoking kills you.”

She honked her horn at a Walmart truck. “Is Brady coming tonight?” she asked. When the truck moved over, she smiled at the driver.

“He only came to that one dinner. I'd feel weird asking him to another.” I wiped steam from the front window. “But he did find a serial killer for me to interview.” I leaned back in my seat. I didn't want to tell her that I'd seen him again, that he'd shown up at Ravenswood and spent an afternoon with Bliss and me. I felt like by keeping it to myself, it made it more intimate, more real.