“What in the world are you doing?” he’d demanded.
“I—I was looking for your pants.” Inside, a little voice had warned me against accusing him of anything. Not without proof. “I was going to take them to the cleaners—before the stain set in.”
“I told you I’d do it, Ally. Besides, I doubt they’re open now.”
I glanced at my watch, feigning surprise. “Oh wow. I hadn’t realized how late it was.”
“That was nice of you, though,” he said, his voice gentler then. “If you really want to drop them off tomorrow morning, they’re in the hall closet.”
So thereisno bizarre Mystery of the Missing Pants, I told myself. My husband hadn’t deceived me, at least not about that. I rose, trying to make my movements seem casual, and began restacking his dirty clothes, setting them back in his closet.
“Sorry to seem so frazzled,” I told him, “but something upsetting happened tonight.”
I told him then about my fall, and the idea that it might be related to my missing days. To me as a possible witness.
“Ally, look,” he’d said, putting an arm around me. “I know you trust this Mulroney guy, but his theory seems far-fetched. It was probably nothing more than a jerk whowanted to get across the intersection ahead of everyone else. Or a nutjob.”
How could he be so sure? I wondered.
Later, after we’d picked at a pizza we’d had delivered, Hugh set to work again at the dining table, and I tried to read on the couch. From time to time, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him lifting his gaze and studying me, his pen poised in midair. Was he worried I was making things up, slowly losing my mind?
Shortly afterward I’d headed to the bedroom, but before crawling between the sheets, I checked my phone and saw a message from Jennifer, the New Jersey researcher I’d contacted. She had a pocket of time available the next morning, she said, and would photocopy the microfilm I requested.
Now I lean back against the taxi seat and try to focus on the people and buildings flying by, a blur of gray and black and silver punctuated by small smudges of color. My arms, I notice, still ache from the fall last night.Stay in the present, I command myself, but my thoughts keep getting tugged ahead, wondering what I’ll find in my office. I root around in my purse for a cinnamon Altoid and shove it into my mouth. At the rate I’m going, I should invest in the company.
Once I arrive at the building where WorkSpace is located, I stop at the front desk and ask for my new key card. Hugh had submitted a support ticket for me last Thursday, deactivating the old card and requesting a new one. As I accept the card from the manager, I notice him glance briefly at mypalm, which is still crisscrossed with scrape marks. I wonder briefly if he’s the one who spilled to Mulroney, but I don’t have time to dwell on that.
Stepping away, I scan the space around me—the boldly colored, mod-style community lounge, the rows of sleek wooden tables, and the offices behind them. The last time I remember being here was a week ago Monday, and yet it actually feelslonger.That’s normal, I tell myself.So much has happened in between.
After grabbing a water from the lounge, I make my way to the two-person office I rent, unlock the door, and—holding my breath—flick on the light.
My eyes go straight to the sleek wooden desk, where Nicole and I sit side by side. I pull back a little in surprise. Her area is neat as a pin, as usual; mine is messy, not at all the way I ever leave it.
I move closer. At the end of the day I like to line up my desk accessories—pen holder, stapler, tape dispenser, a tray of hot-pink Post-it pads—but they’re haphazardly scattered around at the moment, as if I couldn’t be bothered. There’s also a used paper coffee cup on the desktop, along with a couple of grease-stained paper napkins, suggesting I ate a meal or a snack here.
Nowhere in sight, however, are any receipts or notes or Post-its scribbled with words, nothing that might offer a hint to what sent me on the lam from myself. I glance down at the trash can, hoping to find the bag the food came in, but it’s empty, of course. The cleaning staff would have dumped out any contents the morning after I was here.
I text Mulroney to let him know that I’ve come upempty, and with a sigh I straighten my desk accessories, toss the napkins and cup in the trash, and pull my laptop from my tote bag. Nicole won’t be in until around ten, so I have a little while to prep. I open the most recent research file Nicole sent me for the chapter I’ll be writing on credit cards and credit card debt and finally begin to peruse it. Research is the clay I craft my columns and books from, and usually I love diving in and having ideas sparked by what I read, but today it seems nothing short of tedious. My eyes keep bouncing off the computer screen, eager for anyplace else to alight.
Thinking caffeine might help, I traipse down the hall to the community lounge for a cup of coffee. A couple of familiar faces smile or nod at me from the couches. One guy, who’s sitting farther away, at one of the desks in the open seating area, gazes at me. He’s wearing a dark blue sport jacket over an orange hoodie. I’ve never seen him before, but his attention settles on me, his expression curious. Was he around when I spent the whole night here? Does he know something? When I return the stare, he quickly looks back to his screen.
Returning to my office with a coffee, I find that Nicole has arrived and is parked at her desk, laptop open, and staring intently at the screen. Hearing me enter, she glances up. She’s twenty-six, pretty, and petite, with curly light brown hair just below her chin.
“Oh, hi, good morning,” she says. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am, thanks,” I say, forcing myself to get out of my own head for a minute. “You look so refreshed. I take it the trip was fun for you.”
“Fun enough, I guess. I wore SPF 50 every second, but I still ended up getting burned.... You want to go over what I sent you last week?”
Nicole is a terrific assistant and researcher and we get along well, but unlike Casey, she’s fairly reserved and no-nonsense, never much of a gabber.
“Um, yeah,” I say, sitting back at my desk. “And then I have a list of topics I’d like you to explore next.”
She rolls her chair closer to mine, dragging her laptop across the polished wood. Though I absorbed little from reading her notes, I’m able to fake it by skimming a few sentences ahead as we talk. I manage to ask several questions and request that she flesh out a few of her notes. But I’m still having trouble concentrating.
“You want to take a break?” Nicole says after we’ve been at it for about forty minutes. “I know you said you’d been under the weather.”
“I’m better now, but I didn’t sleep very well last night. So yes, let’s take a break.”
