The soft black leather hobo bag that’s been missing for days. It’s crouched toward the very back of the drawer, like a little kid who’s been hiding in a game of Sardines.
I spin around and stare through the glass wall of the office. Across the hall, three people are gathered around a drawing table in a slightly larger office, their backs to me.
Swiveling back, I grab the bag and tear it open. My wallet’s inside, holding my license and the now-canceled bank card and credit cards, minus the one I used at Eastside Eats; my Metro card; and my WorkSpace key card. Rooting through the bag, I also find my apartment keys; rollerball pens; tiny Moleskine notebook; a comb; my makeup bag with blush, lipstick, and a Bobbi Brown foundation stick; a small Ziploc bag containing Claritin and Advil. There’s no cash, I notice, other than twenty cents in the change purse.
No receipts either, or scraps of paper teasing me with hints.
And no phone, which seems to confirm that my purse and phone disappeared at separate times.
I peer farther into the drawer and pat my hand around in there. Nothing else. I yank out the bottom drawer next but it’s entirely empty.
Nicole will be back any minute, I realize, and I don’t want her to find me stupidly holding two full handbags. I stuff the hobo purse into my tote bag and quickly exit the premises. Once I’m on the street, I hurry down the block and duck into a Walgreens. I have no intention of buying anything but I drag one of the wheeled plastic baskets up and down the aisles with me, trying to pull my frayed thoughts together.
It seems that I must have purposely left my bag at WorkSpace when I left that Wednesday morning, taking only cash and one credit card, which I no longer seem to possess. It also means that my early theory that I was mugged is definitely dead in the water.
But why would I have left my bag behind—and my keys? It’s as if I’d made a decision to travel light, unburdened, like someone on the run.
I tuck into a corner of the store and call Mulroney. I notice that he hasn’t responded to my previous texts, but he may not have seen them yet.
“I ended up finding something at WorkSpace,” I say when I reach his voice mail. “Can you call me as soon as possible?”
It’s almost an hour and a half until my MRI appointment, but after exiting the drugstore and scouring the immediate area with my eyes, I hail a cab to the East Side. When the driver starts to turn onto the side street where the medical building’s located, I ask him to drop me off at the corner of First Avenue instead, where I spot a small Italian restaurant.
Though it’s breezy and crisp outside, there’s a row of tables on the sidewalk, their blue-and-white-checked tablecloths snapping in the wind. I opt to sit inside, and a waiter in white shirt and black pants leads me to a table along the wall. The room is dimly lit but in a soothing rather than gloomy way, and music’s playing in the background, a tenor singing an aria. Surprisingly there are already two other tables with diners, both groups of older women who have the look of regulars.
I take my phone from my purse and leave it on the table, so I won’t miss Mulroney returning my call, and glance quickly at the menu. I order a bowl of spaghetti alle vongole, a dish I haven’t had in ages, and a glass of Pellegrino.
There, that’s better, I think. In the years before I met Hugh, when I was single and dating very little, I often wentout to dinner alone at little restaurants in my Upper East Side neighborhood. New York is one of those cities where you can do that unself-consciously, and I loved those evenings. They were a chance to think and be a little dreamy and imagine all the good things the future might hold.
Itdidhold good things for me.And it will again, I tell myself.It will, it will, it will.I’m going to learn where I went those two days andwhy, and once I have all the pieces back, I’m going to address the situation with Hugh and find a way to sort through our issues as a team.
My phone rings, and I grab it quickly. Not Mulroney calling. It’s Jennifer, the researcher.
“Hi, Ally,” she says. “I got that material for you.”
“Already?” I say.
“The library opened at nine, and there were only about twelve stories over a period of a month and a half.”
“Great,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“They had a scanner I could use, so I’ve already emailed you the file.”
“That’s fantastic, thanks. Just shoot me the invoice when you have a chance.”
“Will do.... God, what a horrible case. Your friend’s going to write about it?”
“My friend?”
“The author friend you’re helping out.”
“Oh, um, yeah, maybe. Thanks again, Jen.”
We sign off and I quickly go to her email, opening the file. My fingers, I notice, are trembling slightly. Besides the fact that the microfilmed pages make me feel like I’m back in the twentieth century, they’re tough to read this way. Isquint, holding the phone closer to the window, and quickly scan the articles until finally I see the line I’m hunting for.
“According to Jaycee’s mother, Audrey Long, her daughter was abducted sometime Wednesday morning, possibly around eight-thirtyA.M.”
Liar, I think. Because Jaycee had already been dead for hours.
