She was suddenly struck by the full absurdity of this endeavor. Becks had already told herhehad seen Richard and Frankie at that coffee shop together. So what exactly was she there to figure out? Did she think Becks had invented his story? No, she did not. But maybe if she unearthed enough supplementary facts, the whole thing could be contextualized.
The barista tilted his head to the side. “Can I…How about the special of the day? It’s a matcha macchiato. I made it up, but I am not biased when I say it’s spectacular.”
She took tentative steps toward the counter. “Oh, no—but thank you. I wanted to ask if you’d seen someone in here.”
“Do you have, like, a picture or something, maybe?”
“I do,” Gretchen said. “It’s my husband and his, um, friend. She’s maybe not just a friend, you know.” She met his gentle brown eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“I get it,” the young man said, frowning sympathetically. “Always better to have the facts.”
“Is it?” Gretchen asked quite genuinely.
“Definitely.” He sounded so sure—the providence of youth.
Gretchen put her phone on the weathered wood counter and slid it toward the young man. She’d found a group shot with Richard and Frankie next to each other in Richard’s folder of trip photos on the computer. Gretchen had emailed the photo to herself and then cropped out everyone else. She’d been proud of her editing skills, but blown up like that, Frankie and Richard did seem unnecessarily close to each other.
Only a couple of the many group shots had included Richard and Frankie standing side by side. If they’d spent every second of the trip together, wouldn’t there have been more pictures of them next to each other? Unless that was precisely why there werenotmore. Because Richard had been conscious of hiding it. This was the terrible truth about most evidence. It could prove anything you wanted.
The barista studied the image without touching her phone.
“Well, I know Frankie. She’s in here all the time with Thalia. I’ve never seen that guy, though.” He shrugged. “I’m here a lot, but not always.”
“Thank you,” Gretchen said.
The answer she wanted—he hadn’t seen them together. But instead of relief she felt only dread. Because this entire interaction simply drove home the truth. This was pathetic.Shewas pathetic.
“Thalia owns Las Nacionales around the corner on FirstAvenue, near East Second. She would know if Frankie and him…Maybe you should try asking her.”
—
It was just past four, Las Nacionales empty apart from a handful of employees setting up for dinner service when Gretchen stepped inside. It was an inviting restaurant, cozy but also chic, with exposed wood beams, brick walls, and a sophisticated Cuban farm-to-table menu that was certainly adventurous. Stalling, she’d taken a moment outside to peruse it in the window. She could not for the life of her imagine Richard ever eating there.
“We don’t open until five p.m.”
When she turned, there was a woman behind the bar—she must have been bent over when Gretchen walked in. She had fine, sharp features, flawless olive skin, and very short black hair. Expensive-looking tank top, muscular yoga arms. Striking, but in a harsh way, complete with nose ring and tattoos—apparently a requirement for living below Fourteenth Street.
Gay,Gretchen surmised—nonjudgmentally, of course. Though apparently it was offensive to jump to conclusions about people’s sexuality even when you were not judging. How one was supposed tonotcome to such conclusions, she wasn’t sure. But that’s what Becks had told her in no uncertain terms. Everything was “fluid” these days.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Gretchen began. Her voice sounded strangled. “Can you tell me where I can find Thalia?”
“You found her.” The woman didn’t seem especially happy about this fact.
Gretchen was suddenly very aware that this slightly frightening woman was Frankie’sfriend. How close a friend, Gretchen didn’t know. Certainly, she must be grief-stricken. And she probably wasn’t going to jump at the chance to help the wife of the accused. But maybe, woman-to-woman, she’d take pity on Gretchen, if she phrased her questions the right way. On some level, she probably wanted the truth, too, whatever it was.
“My husband has been maybe…” Her mouth was so dry, likeit was stuffed with cotton. She cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s, um, possible my husband was having an affair with your friend Frankie. That would be on him, of course. This—Frankie didn’t do anything wrong. She—he’s the one who’s married. But I’m just trying to find out if it happened.”
“Recently?” Here it came.He’s the one who did it, isn’t he? The banker?
They were eventually going to get there. The only question was how long it would take. And whether Gretchen would make it out in one piece after this terrifying tattooed woman launched at her.
She braced herself. “Yes, in the past few weeks.”
Thalia narrowed her eyes. But otherwise, no outsize emotional response. She actually seemed…calm. Maybe they weren’t such good friends after all? “You have a picture of him?”
Gretchen nodded as she dug her phone out of her bag.
“To be clear—I am on Team Frankie. I love her like a sister. You hear me?” Thalia eyed Gretchen, waiting for an actual response.
