“Let me show you a great photo of Lily,” I say to Marianna. I pull out my phone and pretend to be scrolling, but actually, I’m taking a picture of the bald guy to text to Metcalf.
I’m trying to stay calm. But the truth is, I’m rattled. It’s like I’m living that great Yeats line: “The center cannot hold.” Suddenly, thereisno center. Things are starting to spin out of control.
Or are they? I look again. The man has disappeared. And the picture I took is blurry. It could be any balding man. If I texted it to Metcalf, I know what he’d say:Lots of men have ponytails. Take a walk around Brooklyn. You’ll see thousands of them.
I make an excuse to Marianna about needing to take a call. Then I half walk, half run back to the Harrison house. Am I being followed? I don’t know. Every time I hear a sound, I turn around. So far, it’s been only chipmunks and squirrels.
So far.
CHAPTER 58
MONDAY MORNING AFTER I drop Hailey off at school, I drive until my phone GPS tells me, “You have arrived at your destination.” Really?
Luis’s address in Stamford, Connecticut, turns out to be an elegant high-rise near Long Island Sound, a tall, lean, stone-and-glass structure with a rooftop pool and a health club just off the lobby. Surely there’s been some mistake.
Thisis where Luis lives?
Luis, who spent the last few months pasting FedEx labels on crates?
Luis, who showed up at the party looking like he was there to fix the air conditioner?
There’s got to be a simple explanation:
He’s dog-sitting. Or plant-sitting. Or something-sitting.
He’s got family money, or he’s dating someone who does.
He’s the super here.
Or, the simplest explanation of all: Luis has made a fortune doing something illegal.
I pull into the building’s circular driveway and try to figure out my next move. I can’t just ring his doorbell the way I was intending to. Nor can I ring the neighbors’ doorbells to dig up some dirt. I need a game plan here, and I need it fast.
A doorman in a silver uniform is walking toward my car and pointing to aNO STANDINGsign on a pillar.
I react with a simple shrug that I hope he understands meansWhere should I go?
“Lot’s around the corner,” he says, gesturing to the right. I pull my car (actually, it’s Amber’s car, which is good—mine would be embarrassed to show its face here) around the block and park in one of the visitor spots between another Lexus and a Tesla. Even the visitors here are way above my tax bracket. Then I go through the marble entrance into the lobby.
There’s no way I can bluff my way into Luis’s apartment. Or is there? I have a sudden flash of brilliance—I wish I was wearing my white nanny uniform. But it might still work.
“May I help you?” asks a second doorman. No. Wait. This man’s not a doorman, even though he’s dressed like one. He’s standing behind a desk. He must be the concierge.
“I’m here to see Luis Escarra,” I say.
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes, but it might have slipped his mind,” I tell him. “I’m the visiting nurse who takes care of his father. I told Luis I’d stop by to give him an update.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?” he asks. I like thewhompart. That’s what separates a concierge from a doorman.
I’m about to use my usual go-to Megan Greer alias when the elevator door opens and a bowlegged man walks out, looking down at his phone and scowling. Oh God. Another face from my past. Mr. Snake Tattoo himself.
It’s Carlos!
I turn sharply, but I miscalculate the space I need for my foam bulk and bump into the concierge desk. Carlos never takes his eyes from his phone. He doesn’t see me. He pushes through the revolving door and heads to the parking lot.
Now what?
