Chapter Eleven
Eleven
So many times when Waylen and I have fought over my night job, the scene has been the same.
We argue. Sometimes we yell, and sometimes we don’t, but I’m always the one to come home late.
There’s the fading aroma of dinner, and the gentle hush of Collette’s white noise machine as she sleeps.
There’s one light on, in the kitchen, where he’s waiting for me to come and talk it out.
Always talking. I’ve told so many lies at that kitchen table.
I’ve said whatever will get us back to normal.
And Waylen, whether or not he believes me, accepts my words because he wants the same thing.
But tonight, when I come home, there are no lights. There’s no evidence that there’s been dinner. Collette bull-rushes me so hard that I almost fall over. Her gold hair is a flash of lightning in the darkness. Her tears soak into my shirt.
I can’t see Waylen in the living room, but I know he’s there. I know that they both sat up for hours waiting for me.
I kiss the top of Collette’s head. “Go get into bed, and I’ll come see you after I talk to Dad.”
“Will you promise to wake me up if I fall asleep?”
“I promise,” I say.
She gives me one more squeeze, and she nods. “Will you tell me where you were?”
I smooth the hair out of her face. “Working late on a client. It’s out in the valley where there’s no cell service. I must have forgotten to tell you guys.”
She stiffens as she draws away. Just barely, I can see her face lit up by a streetlamp through the window. A mix of disappointment and anger. She doesn’t believe me.
Only after she’s gone upstairs and closed her bedroom door does Waylen speak. “You were with him.”
Anyone eavesdropping would think he was a husband accusing his wife of seeing an old lover after she’d promised the affair had ended. Wouldn’t it be simpler if that were the truth.
From here, at least, things are familiar. Waylen saying he can’t do this anymore, me saying I have to, and him wondering why. It all leads to the same conclusion, which is that he can’t bear to lose me, and so he concedes.
He asks why I brought Collette to his sister’s, if she was in any danger.
I tell him no. And now that I know Bertram was only chasing me down to have that weird little picnic chat, I’m confident that this is the truth.
Waylen would accuse me of losing my instincts for being so sure Bertram doesn’t mean me harm.
I’m always cautious and I never let my guard down.
But the more I speak to Bertram, the more I’m convinced that he is just hopelessly out of touch.
He’s been rich and reclusive for so long, he doesn’t remember how to interact with people.
Erin said little about his personality. I didn’t press for more details because I could hear in her voice how much she hates him.
Even before he stole Budgie from her, he was the golden child of the family, and her resentment is clear.
Her feelings toward him are fair, but part of being a good spy is forming a picture based on the evidence presented. And evidently, Bertram is pretty weird.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, Waylen glances at it as though it’s a loaded gun. He’s waiting to see what I’m going to do. That phone is at the heart of our marriage, the thing that tethers us and the thing that has the power to destroy everything we’ve built.
Sometimes I think it’s inevitable—that destruction.
“I’m going to check on Collette,” I say. It’s the only way to end this for now. I can’t sit here anymore in the dark, feeling the heat and the weight of his love for me. There are too many strings attached to it, and the more I struggle, the more they tighten around me.
Waylen is afraid he’ll say the wrong thing and that I’ll leave. I’m afraid he’ll say the right things and that I’ll stay.
I lie with Collette until she falls asleep, clinging to my shirt the way she did as a toddler.
Only once I’m sure she’s really asleep do I check my phone. There are several notes from Elodie asking if I’m okay, to send a signal if I need anything, if I’ve heard from Mr. X. But her latest, sent just twenty minutes ago, says:
Really hope you’re alive, because I’ve been working on something big.
I text back:
Proof he stole the app idea?
Her reply:
Better!
My reply:
After we drop off the girls.
She gives me a thumbs-up emoji.
I ease out of the bed slowly and make my way to the door. Just before I open it, Collette whispers, “Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“You won’t leave us? I mean, you won’t go away and never come back, will you?”
“Of course not.”
“Okay,” she says. And she seems to believe me, even if she is starting to doubt many of the other things I say. “Because if you had to leave, I’d want to go with you.”
—
I meet Elodie at a parking garage at a high-end hotel, forty-five minutes from home. There are security cameras in case Bertram decides to follow me again and something were to happen. But it’s busy enough that nobody will think it’s strange to see two women chatting in a car here.
When Elodie asks, I tell her that Mr. X is doing just fine.
He is paranoid about the government monitoring his phone—something about a bitter former client—and he’s gone dark on all of his devices until he can neutralize the threat.
But not to worry, the plan is still on, and he’s still looking out for us.
This is enough of an explanation for her, and I can see that she’s about to burst with pride. “I found Mr. Billionaire’s girlfriend.”
“Annie?”
She shakes her head. Her eyes are practically glittering. “This one is named Skylar. Look.” She pulls up the Instagram page on her phone. Skylar Marie. One million followers. Only following one hundred people. Something Collette would call “a flex.”
“I told you I’ve been working on a little side research,” Elodie says, preening. “She’s some sort of influencer-slash-model-whatever. She’s been posting a lot of cryptic stories about having a broken heart and how Mr. Perfect wasn’t all he’s cracked up to be.”
“How did you find her?” I ask. “How do you know it’s about Bertram?”
She gives me that pitying oh, honey smile.
For staying off social media, I’m dubbed the Mennonite of the PTA.
“She was on a reality TV show for some streaming platform—one of those who-wants-to-be-a-top-model things. Only lasted a season, but it launched her social media career. I’ve been following her for years. Here, look.”
She pulls up some screenshots of Skylar’s now-deleted Instagram stories.
There’s nothing identifying about any of these sad professions of love turned resentful.
That is until the last screenshot: A photo of her standing in the arms of a man in a tailored suit, a giant eggplant emoji covering his face.
But even without his face, I recognize him, and his apartment’s fireplace behind them.
The caption reads: The things I know could destroy you, but I know what comes around goes around, and I don’t have to say a word.
“But wait,” I say. “He was dating Annie before he even came to America, and she hasn’t been missing for very long.”
“There’s definitely overlap.” Elodie is giddy.
“What are you thinking of doing?” I ask.
“Since Mr. X has gone dark on us, it seems we’re on our own in terms of research, at least for now.
” Mercifully, she believes my explanation.
She prefers to be in the spotlight where she can collect the glory anyway.
She’s the perfect match for someone like me who works best in the shadows.
“I say we should meet her. She’s in NYC, just a quick train ride away. ”
“You mean just pop up at her apartment and ask her for gossip on Bertram?” I ask. “She’s going to turn us away, if she doesn’t call the police.”
Elodie looks sheepish, and I can’t tell whether this is sincere or an act she’s putting on for my benefit. “I sort of…already handled it.”
I rub my temples. “What do you mean, Elodie?”
She launches into a tirade about how Skylar had mentioned in previous posts that her twin nieces are turning seven soon.
Elodie direct messaged her and suggested an interior decorator to design a custom theme.
She linked her to my minimalist website, which boasts more than a thousand positive ratings.
Most of my reviews are fake, but I do aim to please the clients I work with as a front to my secret life.
I don’t have much of a web presence, but Elodie used this to her benefit also. I’m very word-of-mouth, very exclusive, and of course I don’t advertise. Do the Kardashians use party planners who show up at the top of Google search results? Of course not.
“Imagine if you used your powers for good,” I say.
This makes her grin. “You know,” she says. “You have such a glowing reputation at the school. Everyone talks about the baked goods you bring, and all the extra hours you put in at the school plays and parties. I’m a little jealous.”
Thanks, I think. Making little things sparkle comes from a deep desire to avoid my larger issues.
“I like details,” I say.
“But what about people?” Elodie asks.
“I like them well enough,” I say. But Elodie’s mischievous grin pulls a little truth out of me. “In small doses.”
If buddy-cop comedies and stakeout episodes of law-and-crime TV shows are to be believed, there’s a special bonding that happens in cars. The effect even works on me, because the more time I spend with Elodie, the more I’m starting to think we could get along.
“I can never talk to them about what I really do, so what’s the point? ‘Wow, Cynthia, sorry to hear you didn’t get that promotion. The alleged murderer I’m pursuing under cover of darkness hasn’t left enough evidence for a conviction, so I’m also not advancing in my career.’ ”