“Honest?”
“I think you have something to tell me, Hugh.”
I hold my breath, praying he’ll say,Ally, what do you mean? There’s nothing I haven’t been truthful about.
But he doesn’t.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be honest with you.”
30
While I wait for the car to take me back to the city, I sit in the kitchen with Roger, both of us quiet, lost in our thoughts. Once it finally arrives, Roger and I briefly cling to each other in the driveway.
“Thank you again, Rog. For everything.”
“Just promise me you’ll stay strong, Button.”
I can’t help but ache for him. Given what he’s discovered about his wife, his marriage troubles have now intensified.
Minutes later I’m off, on my way to learn what’s really going on in myownmarriage. I want the truth from Hugh, and yet I’m scared it might break my heart. What if he’s really sleeping with Ashley Budd?
I’m scared for another reason, too. If Roger’s wrong and Wargo isn’t the one who pushed me and killed Kurt, I might still be in danger. But there are no other easy places outside the city for me to hole up in.
The Uber driver’s GPS thankfully takes us around Millerstown rather than through it. A couple of times I notice his eyes in the rearview mirror, and I assume he’s wonderingwhat collided with my face, but he doesn’t ask. That’s not Uber-driver style.
While we snake along rural roads, I place a call to Nowak and then another to the White Plains detective I spoke to yesterday morning. Neither answers so I leave voice mails saying I have information I want to pass along. By the time we reach I-78, I feel my eyes drooping from fatigue.
When I wake over an hour later, the road signs indicate we’re approaching the George Washington Bridge. I check my phone and see a text from Jay Williams.
You doing OK?he asks.
Some stuff to share,I reply.Might be relevant. Or not. Can you talk?
Yes, but later today, OK? Any ideas about those initials, G.C.?
I realize that I’ve been so preoccupied and worried since I last spoke to him, I’ve completely forgotten the small task he assigned me. I tap on the contacts icon on my phone and search through the last names beginning with “C,” but the only person with the initials I’m looking for is an old college friend named Ginger Colefax. Haven’t talked to her in ages.
Sorry. Just checked. Nothing yet.
Okay, cul.
I drop the phone in my lap and stare out the window. We’re traversing the upper deck of the bridge, and the silver-gray Hudson River blooms out to my right, bound for the sea at the tip of Manhattan. I’ve crossed this bridge on so many occasions. Not only after I moved to the city, on trips home to see my parents—and later just my dad—but also before that, when I was a girl and my mother and I woulddrive in to see a play or a museum exhibit. How I loved those afternoons.
And suddenly, as I gaze at the bridge beams, and the water, and the skyline of the city, I lose track of the moment. The day even. Of why I’m here right now, crossing a river. I jerk my neck to the front. I see the back of the driver’s head, his shaggy black hair. Whoishe? Where is he taking me?
And then just as quickly, I remember. I’m in an Uber. Coming from Roger’s. Going to my apartment on the West Side. I almost weep in relief. After desperately fishing through my purse, I locate one of the Altoids and quickly place it on my tongue.
For the last few miles of the trip, as we barrel down the West Side Highway, I force myself to focus on every detail I see and feel. The warmth of the car, the bumps in the road, the brash messages on billboards, the river still on my right, sailboats bobbing on its surface.
“Yes, here,” I announce to the driver as we finally approach my building. I scour the area with my eyes, not even sure what I’m looking for anymore. After mumbling a quick thank-you, I grab my roller bag, which I’ve kept next to me in the backseat for quick access, and swing open the car door.
To my total surprise, Gabby, red hair piled on top of her head, has just darted from the lobby of my building onto the sidewalk.
“Gabby,” I call out. She freezes in her tracks, clearly startled, and spots me.
“Oh wow,” she says, striding over. She’s in a poncho, jeans, and short black boots. “I thought you were still away.”
We embrace in a hug. As I pull back, I see that her eyes are strained from being ill, and she may have even lost a couple of pounds.
