It took forever for Mikey Pearce to leave. He wouldn’t stop with questions to which there were no safe answers; it was with nosmall amount of relief that Gretchen finally saw him to the elevator. She was heading upstairs when the doorman called up again. A moment later, Deborah was in the foyer. She had on a long-sleeved pink dress with huge white flowers, a Zabar’s tote bag over her shoulder, and a casserole dish in her hands.
“Lasagna,” Deborah said, smiling sheepishly as she stepped into the foyer. “It’s ridiculous. You must have someone who cooks for you. The last thing you need is my lasa—”
“No, no. Thank you.” Gretchen felt genuinely overcome by the simple kindness. She took the glass dish, gripping it like a flotation device in front of her. “It’s perfect. I don’t remember the last time I ate something.”
Deborah rested a hand on Gretchen’s back. “Come. I’ll make us some tea,” she said, steering Gretchen to the kitchen and depositing her at the counter as she heated water and let Gretchen point her toward the correct cabinets.
While the tea was steeping, Deborah took a seat next to Gretchen and explained that she had some work-related papers that required Richard’s signature. She wasn’t sure of the procedure for that sort of thing—she offered this matter-of-factly as though they were discussing how to get something to Richard while he was vacationing in the Caribbean.
“I’m sure his lawyers will know how to go about it.” Deborah placed a folder on the marble counter, pressing down on it with her hand. “Are you holding up okay, Gretchen?”
It was only then that Gretchen realized she’d folded back the tinfoil and was eating Deborah’s cold lasagna right out of the pan with a fork. Had apparently been at it long enough to polish off a solid corner.
“It’s delicious, Deborah,” she said as if she’d known all along exactly what she was doing. As though it were completely normal to eat cold lasagna out of the pan. She secured the foil and stood up to put the fork in the sink, before rubbing her hands together, brushing off imaginary crumbs.
“Why don’t you sit down, Gretchen?” Deborah looked concerned.
Gretchen nodded—that did seem like a good idea—but her phone rang before she could join Deborah at the counter.
“Oh, my…that’s her,” Deborah exclaimed as she reached for the phone and handed it to Gretchen.
“Who?”
“The woman who came to see Richard at the office,” Deborah said, pointing to the screen. “That’s her picture on your phone. She’s calling you right now.”
When Gretchen looked down, there was Hilary’s glamorous photo—sun hat, bathing suit—smiling back at her.
—
Hilary opened the door in her bathrobe, seeming completely unsurprised to see Gretchen even though she hadn’t called or texted in advance. Maybe she’d been anticipating this confrontation all along.
“Hey, doll.” She kissed Gretchen on the cheek. Despite the robe, she had a full face of makeup on and her hair was done. She also reeked of alcohol. “We’ve got to leave for a few—or I mean…” She scrunched her face playfully. “I mean,I’vegot to leaveina few. I need to meet Scotty at Eleven Madison. Some stupid client he’s trying to impress, even though he knows I fucking hate that place. The maître d’ is such a dick. It’s like, Listen, dick, you do know you work in arestaurant?”
“Scotty’s not here?” Gretchen asked, relieved.
“Nope,andI’m already late. So come in, come in. Sit with me for a minute and I can be even later! You want a cocktail?” she called over her shoulder as she swayed toward the open kitchen. “Don’t worry. I’m notasdrunk as I seem.” She refilled her glass. “I ammoredrunk.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would like a drink.” Actually, Gretchen wanted five.
“Alrighty, now we’re talking!”
Hilary had an affair with Richard?Gretchen had been turning the possibility over and over in her head since Deborah left. But it simply would not stick. She didn’t believe it any more than shebelieved that Richard had killed Frankie—she simply rejected it on a cellular level. But then again, maybe her whole life was built on a shoddy foundation.
“Clase Azul.” Hilary grinned delightedly as she handed Gretchen a very full tumbler of clear alcohol and joined her on the sleek white sectional that was much more comfortable than it looked.
Scotty and Hilary lived in one of those storied prewar buildings on Central Park West that was not the Dakota but could have been. Hilary’s tastes were very modern, though, and she’d insisted on an exorbitant gut renovation that had blown out most of the apartment’s walls. And installed nearly all white furnishings, despite the boys.
Gretchen stared down at her glass. “What is Clase…”
“It’s very expensive mezcal. Just drink it. Oh, and I have good news!” She dug her phone out of her robe pocket and tapped the screen. Google Maps was open to a street view of an address in the West Village. “Noah King! He lives here.”
“You found him?” Gretchen zoomed in on the image for a closer look. It was a doorman building. Very nice. “You’re sure he lives here?”
“Pretty sure,” Hilary said, taking her phone back and draining her glass. “A master class in cyberstalking, if you ask me.Dr.Noah King is not on social media. But Frankie mentioned him by name—first and last—one timein the caption ofonepost she made about some NYU reunion two years ago. I googled his name and NYU and eventually, voilà. He’s a shrink.”
On one level, Gretchen regretted asking Hilary to find him. Every new rock she’d turned over so far seemed to have something even darker and uglier underneath. But then—there was the matter of the spray paint.
Gretchen had called Luke’s mom, Mathilda, the moment Deborah had left the apartment.
