“I admit, part of me wants to set eyes on Damien again,” I say, back on the couch. “The old touching-a-bruise thing. But if it wasn’t for the chance of getting information from him, I wouldn’t have responded to his text.”
“Have you told Hugh?”
I glance away. “No, but not because I’m trying to deceive him. I’m just having a hard time slipping back into a groove with Hugh again, and I don’t want to make it worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we’re together, it feels like we’re on one of those awkward third dates—you know, the kind when, despite the fact that everything seemed great on dates one and two, you can’t recapture the rhythm.”
“Have you slept together already?”
“What?” Her question catches me off guard. Is she asking if I’ve had sex with Hugh since this happened? The answer, of course, is no.
“I’m asking about this imaginary third date you’re on. Have you already fucked?”
“Gabby, it was just a dumb analogy.”
“I’m trying to determine what made those first two dates so good. Maybe you need to figure out whatever it was.”
“Okay, I see what you mean. Of course, there’s still the kid issue. I bet he’s terrified about bringing it up again.”
“Well, he’s going to have to chill on the topic for now.”
Gabby untucks her legs and reaches for her boots.
“You’re leaving?” I moan.
“I hate to bail, but if I don’t beat it home soon, I’m afraid I’ll pass out on your couch.”
“But I haven’t even asked about you yet. About London...”
“I’ll call you tomorrow and fill you in,” she says, stuffing her feet back into her boots. “And let’s have dinner soon—whenever you’re up to it.”
“What’s happening with that new guy you’re seeing—Jake? Any potential there?”
She shrugs. “Reply hazy. Ask again later.”
We rise and I thank Gabby profusely for coming by. After seeing her to the door and hugging her good-bye, I retreat back to the couch and further contemplate her theory: that I might haveobserveda traumatic event. That I was a witness rather than a victim.
I should have come up with that myself. I’ve always been intrigued with behavioral finance, the study of the influence of psychology on investors, including selective inattention, how we don’t always notice what’s going on around us and instead see only what weexpector want to see. I’ve been sofocused on myself, on trying to figure out what happened tome, that I’ve failed to imagine a different scenario.
I quickly grab the pad on the coffee table and add a note about Gabby’s theory to the timeline I’ve drafted.
After traipsing down to the bedroom alcove, I open my laptop and do another online search for detective agencies, narrowing it to smaller operations, most of which promise a range of services—like determining the whereabouts of a loved one, digging for possible dirt on a new boyfriend met via the internet, verifying a potential employee’s references, or proving whether or not your spouse is shagging someone else. All the agencies promise discretion, a guarantee that no one will have to know you’ve hired an investigator.
There’s one agency I keep coming back to: Mulroney and Williams Private Investigations. Two mid-fortysomething-looking partners, one a former New York City police detective, the other a former Navy SEAL.Ha, surf and turf, I think. Their bios highlight their long records and commendations, which I have absolutely no way of completely verifying—unless, of course, I hire them to do it.
A tab on their website says Missing Persons and I click there next—because that’s what this is really about, right? I’m looking for a missing person: me during those two days.
The resulting page spells out their approach: they interview, gather physical evidence, do surveillance, in certain instances using wiretaps and global positioning devices. I love the final line: “Sometimes just having a professional outsider ask questions and look in different places is the key.” God, that’s what I need. Not the wiretaps or a GPD (too late forthat!), but rather someone asking questions and looking in different places. And coming up with the truth.
Returning to the home page, I find a contact form, requesting a few personal details as well as information about the case. I type in a brief summary of the situation, bite my lip, and then hit send. It’s not as if I’ve actually hired them. I’m simply making inquiries.
I return to the living area and clear the coffee table. The sun has set, and the city is beginning to sparkle. My mind circles back to another theory of Gabby’s, about the way back into my usual groove with Hugh. Dr. Erling seemed to be encouraging that as well.
After setting the wineglasses in the dishwasher, I swing open the door to the pantry cupboard and scan its contents. Hugh is due home at seven—I told him there was no rush since Gabby was stopping by—and it would be really nice, I realize, to have dinner waiting, a homemade dish since we’ve been subsisting on takeout. The larder’s close to bare, but I spot two cans of green olives and a box of penne.
What I’ll make, I decide, is a simple meal my mother discovered on a trip with my dad to France a couple of years before she died. Pasta with a sauce made of mashed olives, extra virgin olive oil, a dash of cream, and grated parmesan. I check the fridge and see we have a small carton of cream that, miraculously, has not yet expired. And there’s even a baguette in the freezer.
