“Listen, who knows who or what he was talking about. He was half asleep,” Jimmy went on. “And I did grab a couple other things—some cash, gold chain on his nightstand. It’s possible that when he notices that, he’ll think it was a robbery. But I got to be honest; my feeling was he knew it was you.”
I spent the afternoon at the Central Park Precinct, trying to convince them to let Ben Bleyer, wayward CMO of Play Up, go. He’d broken out of rehab in the Hamptons and made his way back to the city. He’d been arrested for public intoxication (and urination) near the John Lennon memorial in Central Park—all before 11:00 a.m. He was so different this time when I saw him—exhausted and disheveled and also sad. His eyes were red-rimmed as we stood on the sidewalk outside the police station, listening to kids playing raucously in the park nearby.
“Thank you.” Bleyer sounded so sincerely remorseful that I had a hard time making eye contact. I needed to extricate myself.
“No, problem,” I said.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I think I finally see how big a problem this is, how big a problemIam. I always thought if I got worse, I would stop drinking. No one warns you that when you feel ashamed enough of the things you’ve done, the opposite can be true.”
“You know what, Ben? I think you may be right,” I said, not liking how dry my own mouth felt as I turned to go. “Absolutely right.”
The late-afternoon sun cast a warm gold light over the rooftops as I turned down our block. It made me feel safe, almost hopeful for a moment. But when I reached the house, my feet were rooted in place. We had a security system, a good one—I would have received an alert if someone had gone in. But I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease.
I shaded my eyes—was that a figure in Cleo’s bedroom window? But no, it was only the sun. I started at a sound behind me, turned around quickly. It was George, angrily dragging his neighbor’s trash cans up to their gate. I felt a surge of relief. George might not be the most reliable watchdog, but he wasmuch better than nothing. And despite his prickly exterior, I had a soft spot for poor George, especially these days. I knew what it was like to be lonely, how it changed you.
“Hi, George,” I said brightly.
He squinted, like he was trying to place me. It wasn’t clear whether he’d been successful. “Hello,” he said warily as he came to a stop at his own gate.
“I’m worried there might be something of a situation inside my house. I’m sure it’s nothing, but it could be … dangerous.” I needed to keep my request simple enough for George to understand but sufficiently serious to trigger a moment of clarity. But George’s face was still a total blank—neither alarmed nor intrigued. “Could you keep an ear out?”
George pointed at my house. “If this is some kind of danger to the rest of the neighborhood,” he said a little aggressively, “then we should get the police out here right now.”
Alerting the police would be a very bad idea. Amateurs were even more dangerous when they panicked.
“No, no,” I snapped nervously. “No police. Please. They can’t be trusted in this situation.” I felt guilty for preying on George’s paranoid tendencies. But I wasn’t sure what else to do.
“Hmm.” He nodded, eyes narrowed conspiratorially. “I see. Okay. Okay.”
But wait. Ididwant him to call the police if there was somebody inside waiting for me, didn’t I?
“How about don’t call the policeunlessI scream ‘Fire!’ Okay?”
“Fire,” he repeated, then looked up toward the house.
“Yes, thendocall the police.”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“And if you hear something else … maybe check it out?” I added, and then immediately regretted confusing the issue.
“Mmm,” George grunted, decidedly less committal.
“Oh, also, please don’t mention this to anyone, okay?” I added.“Even Cleo or Aidan. I don’t want to scare them.” The last thing I needed was to give Aidan more ammunition in a divorce proceeding. Or for Cleo to have another reason to be angry.
George gave me another blank look. I smiled as I started up the stairs to the house, not wanting to muddy the waters any further. “Okay, great. Thanks, George. I really appreciate it.”
George stayed there watching as I made my way up to the door. I decided to take this as a good sign.
Inside, I flipped on the lights and headed straight for the butcher block on the kitchen counter. Pulled out the largest carving knife. I felt oddly more vulnerable with the knife in my hand as I moved quickly, checking the rooms downstairs first—in the closets, behind doors, under the desk. All clear. I relaxed a tiny bit as I looked up the steps, only two more floors to go.
Upstairs, I checked under our bed—my bed—and in the walk-in closet, then up to the rooms on the third floor, including Cleo’s, my chest loosening a little with each place I cleared. Nothing was out of place anywhere.
Are you on your way?I texted Cleo when I was back downstairs.
OMFG! I’m headed to the train! CALM. DOWN.
I’d never been so happy to be told off. Almost home. Almost safe and sound. Everything might be fine if Cleo could just get here in one piece.
