He didn’t hesitate to call up and tell Annie that she needed to come back downstairs, immediately. He even nodded knowingly when I shook my head instead of offering my name—I got it,he seemed to say.
“Because there’s somebody here who needs to see you,” he said curtly. “No, not that guy. This is anadult.I suggest you come down here right away, or maybe I’ll tell campus security about your last visitor. They love to search rooms.”
When he hung up, he tugged his jacket straight and gave me an officious nod. “She’s on her way.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I really appreciate your doing that.”
“These kids … someone needs to teach them a little respect. Their parents sure as hell won’t.” I smiled but said nothing. Hoped Annie would get down there quickly, before he worked up the nerve to hit on me.
“I’ll go stand over there.” I pointed to a spot on the opposite wall. “Out of the way.”
A moment later, Annie charged off the elevator, looking wired and exhausted. High, maybe. I was hardly an expert in such things. She waved her arms accusatorily in the direction of the guard. “What’s the fucking emergency?”
She was so changed from the sweet, quiet girl I remembered. The one who wore pastel sweaters and headbands long after they were in style at school. The girl who’d never seemed to turn dark and angry the way Cleo had. Annie was more striking now, but harder, too. And in a different way than Cleo. Cleo’s tough exterior—the black makeup, the many piercings, and the goth clothes—was like a suit of armor she wore. This new hardness in Annie seemed born from the inside out.
“Hey, calm down,” the guard admonished, then gestured in my direction.
It took Annie a moment to register who I was. Then she scowled as she walked toward me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Annie, Kyle is not a good person,” I said. “I thought you should know.”
“Wow, no kidding.” Annie’s affect was so flat. It was like all the life had been pressed out of her. “Golly, gee.”
“No, I mean he keeps pictures of his customers on his phone,” I explained. “As insurance. It’s … risky.”
Her scowl deepened. “Risky?”
“Being a customer.” Like she really had no clue what I was talking about. Or she didn’t care. “He could use the pictures against you.”
“Is that seriously why you called me down here? To tell methat?”
“I was trying to help.” I waited for it to occur to her that I must have been spying on them. But her face betrayed nothing but a vacant kind of anger. “Your mom would want to know if you were in a bad place. She could help. She would. I’m sure.”
I’d gone there faster than I’d meant to. It sounded like a threat—tell your mom or I will.
Annie worked her jaw. “My mom stays out of my business because she trusts me,” she said. But there was the tiniest flicker of something in her eyes, a hint of shame, possibly. “Anyway, maybe instead of harassing me, you should worry a little more about what your own daughter is up to. Who she’s fucking, for instance.”
“Excuse me?” I kept my voice calm, but my mind was racing. Cleo was not only dealing for Kyle; she was backwithhim. Of course she was.
From the little smirk on Annie’s lips, she could tell she’d gotten to me. “Yup. Saw them with my own eyes. Or saw Cleo. The guy had his back turned. They were mauling each other up against the side of a building where I guess they thought no one could see them. But it was near the bike path on the West Side Highway. It might not be campus, but there are still a million people over there. Yet another brand-new boyfriend who Cleo practically fucks in public. You must be so proud.”
Cleo
TWENTY-FIVE HOURS GONE
I dressed the part. Or at least I tried to. I mean, what does one wear to confront a famous CEO who may have attacked your mother? The priority was an outfit nice enough to loiter in front of a fancy doorman building without being shooed away. And I don’t really have a lot of options for “respectable Upper West Side young lady,” especially because I’m not 100 percent sure it’s even a thing. Upper East Side? Definitely. Even I know that’s some version of Chanel. But Upper West Side is trickier. It’s more down-to-earth than Upper East, but not Brooklyn earthy, which is slightly (and only slightly) cooler. Upper West Side is likeI didn’t thrift this, because I’m above that. But I also didn’t spend stupid money, because I’m above that, too. I’m rich, but I’m also a good Democrat. Even my mom follows the NYC neighborhood uniform—she’s “working Park Slope mom” through and through. Think Vince sneakers that cost two hundred dollars. Never Gucci, even though she could afford them, because that would be in poor taste. Her Chloé flats are exactly it, the gray canvas ones that she isalwayswearing … or was.
So here I am, leaning against the side of the Dakota building on Central Park West in the frilly, not-me yellow Free People sundress my mom insisted I buy for my grandmother Nell’s eightieth birthday party. I feel vaguely ridiculous, exactly like I did at the party.
I’m waiting for Vivienne Voxhall—woman of many vivid threats, who looks like a very tall, even thinner Anna Wintour. Luckily, she is easily googleable. Article after article about one high-powered job after the next. She was recently sued by her co-op board for renovations she undertook despite lack of approval. The complaint provided me with her home address—the Dakota, at Seventy-second and Central Park West—as well as allegations of familiar-sounding threats and, in one case, the record of a physical altercation between Vivienne and another board member. It was just a single shove in a fancy elevator, but it’s enough to keep Vivienne at the top of my suspect list—that plus the small matter of her death threat.
I stand near enough to the entrance to see people coming and going, but I’m hoping far enough away not to be conspicuous even in my dumb yellow dress. Luckily the sun is going down, and the doorman who came on at 7:00 p.m. seems more interested in sneaking in discreet vaping sessions than in hassling me. I’m watching him pull out his vape pen again when I spot Vivienne Voxhall crossing the street. She’s even skinnier than in photos; in her tight black dress, she looks like a huge praying mantis in a tube sock. She has her phone in one hand, earbuds in, and she’s shouting at whoever is on the other end.
Get off the phone. Get off the phone.Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to interrupt her, which I’m guessing isn’t going to go well. I hear her snap, “I know you heard what I said, Bob. And Iknowyou know what’s going to happen if you don’t listen.” Now she’s almost at the entrance to the building. “So put on your fucking big-boy pants, tuck your tiny dick up wherever you hide it, and let’s get—”
“Excuse me, Vivienne?” I say, bracing for impact as I step into her path. “I’m Kat McHugh’s daughter.”
