Walking down the stairs, I reminded myself that New York was filled with impatient assholes and terrible drivers, not to mention black sedans. The anonymous texts had me jumpy, no doubt, but it was a mistake to get distracted by imaginary threats lurking around every corner. Inevitably, you missed the ones that mattered.
The basement level was occupied by a fancy boutique gym called the Box. The equipment was old-school, rudimentary, but set off by a stark black-and-gray palette, the overall effect was deliberately, expensively retro—simplicity meets edgy high design. The sole color pop came from piles of fluffy lemon yellow towels dotted around the space. The only person exercising was a very tall, very thin supermodel type with a high blond ponytail, stepping up and down on a raised box—like the ones from aerobic step class, except this was an actual wooden box.
“Can I help you?” A petite and very good-looking blond man in his twenties was perched on a round brown leather stool with elaborate stitching behind a sleek ash-wood reception desk. He eyed me up and down and appeared to find me wanting. He turned back to his computer. “Do you have an appointment?” He seemed confident I did not.
“No, I was—my daughter was here last night,” I began. “She’s at NYU, so I don’t think she could afford to belong here.”
“I would think not.” His eyes were still on his screen.
“You’re not affiliated with NYU in any way?”
His eyes flashed up. “Do we look like a student facility?” I gave him a blank stare in response. “Our memberships are by invitation only and start at eight thousand dollars, annually.”
For a wooden step?
“Were you working last night? That’s when my daughter came in.”
“Yes, I was,” he singsonged with obvious irritation. “I amalwaysworking.”
I pulled up a picture of Cleo on my phone. “This is my daughter. Did you see her when she came in?”
He glanced at my phone, ready to dismiss me before he’d even looked. But I saw the moment he registered Cleo’s face. He definitely recognized her, and he was definitely going to pretend that he didn’t.
“Sorry, I can’t help you,” he said more sharply. He leaned overto smile at the Kendall Jenner look-alike who’d walked in behind me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a member checked in.” That’s when I noticed the slight tremor in his hands, the beads of perspiration on his forehead, the way he kept scratching the inside of his left forearm. Could be he was a client of Kyle’s that Cleo had gone down to meet.
I stepped to the side but didn’t leave. I waited until he’d swiped the woman through, exchanged effusive hellos, then handed her a bright yellow towel and sent her on her way. When he saw me still standing there, he frowned. I approached the desk again. This time I leaned over forcefully and pushed my face in very close in to his.
“Tell me what my daughter did when she came in here or I’ll tell your employer you’re a drug addict.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Except there was a nervous twitch to his lip. He was using something for sure.
“They’ll be obligated to give you a drug test. All this access to member information, their lockers …”
He glared at me.
“I need to know what my daughter was doing here. No one will know you told me anything.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms.
“She wanted me to leave a package for a member in his locker,” he said finally. “And before you go around threatening to tell my employer that—I called the member and asked first. He said she could leave it. I would never open a client’s locker without permission.”
“What member?”
“I can’t tell—”
“What member?” I leaned closer.
“Kyle Lynch,” he said. “I left the package in his locker. Just like he asked me to. And that was it.”
ONE DAY BEFORE
Can you tell me again what she said, exactly?
Why?
Because I can’t sleep and I’m worried.
She said there were pictures on his phone, that’s all.
