“Frantic, I guess. I was doing so much better after I hired Kurt Mulroney—I felt in charge of my life again—but now everything feels out of control.”
“Have you reported the incident in the street to the police?”
“No, there didn’t seem to be any way they could figure out what happened. But this morning on my Uber ride to New Jersey, I received a call from a police detective in White Plains, near where Kurt was killed. I told him about the shove. He didn’t say much, but I had the feeling he was interested, that maybe the murder could be connected to my case.”
“Ally, it’s good you were helpful to the police, and I know you want answers, but I’m seriously concerned that if you keep pushing yourself, you’ll dissociate again. What’s the best way for me to help you understand that you need to focus on your health and well-being right now?”
Is she annoyed? I guess she has the right to be. She’s repeatedly told me to allow my brain to rest, and I’ve repeatedly ignored her advice. She must wonder why I bother to show up and pay for her services.
“You don’t have to help me understand. I know I need to take better care of myself. And going forward, I will. I promise.”
She nods in approval, and smiles too.
“Excellent. Why don’t you use the time away from the city to relax, read, watch TV, and enjoy time with your brother. No experimenting with ways to force memories back. Not right now at least. We can do that all in good time.”
“All right.”
“When I see you next, we can talk through possible next steps with Hugh. In the meantime, if you sense over this weekend that you’re dissociating, I want you to call my cell immediately. And of course, you can call me if any memories, or what you call flashes, come back on their own.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
We say good-bye, and a second later she vanishes from the screen. The only sound now is the popping and crackling from the fire Roger made earlier.
And the hammering of my heart.
28
Shortly after I finish with Erling, Hugh calls my cell. It’s as if his ears are burning.
“You make it to Roger’s okay?” he asks. There’s concern in his voice, but also a hint of irritation, like I detected after I announced I wanted to escape the city for a few days.
“Didn’t you get my text?”
“Yeah, but I just wanted to check in. What are you and Roger going to do today?”
“Nothing special. Read. Maybe take a walk along the river at some point.”
I don’t inquire about his weekend plans. If I did, how would I know he was telling the truth?
“When do you see yourself coming back?” he says.
“I’m not sure, Hugh. I’m going to have to play it by ear.”
“Listen, I can understand why you’re shaken about this Mulroney business, but there’s absolutely no proof it’s related to you. I did a quick online search for that park, and it’s definitely a gay pickup spot.”
“His partner has doubts about that theory. It’s possible he was there to meet someone connected to my case. The killer might have figured out Mulroney was close to discovering stuff that needed to be kept quiet and lured him to that location so that the police would read it wrong.”
“So does this mean you’re planning to stay with Roger until they arrest someone?”
“I said I don’t know.”
He sighs. “Ally, what’s really going on?”
I’m not surprised he’s guessed there’s more at play here. A colleague of his once told me that Hugh’s called “the duke of depositions” because he’s masterful at reading a room, surmising what people are thinking and feeling, and then easing the truth out of them. But I’m not going to confront him about Ashley, at least not yet.
“I feel safer here for now. Besides, a little R and R isn’t a bad thing, right?”
“If that’s what you want, fine. Why don’t we check in later in the day?”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Ally.”
“Same here.”
Does Hugh mean that? If he does, how could he be seeing another woman? Gabby always says that smart women accept that all men cheat, that they cheat as predictably as the sun comes up in the morning, and that you’re an idiot if you assume your guy is the one exception, and yet I’d thought that was Hugh. I knew there were no guarantees our marriage would last forever, but I never thought he would sneak around. He’s always seemed so upright, a straight-shooting, play-by-the-rules-because-the-rules-keep-things-sane kind of guy. Have I once again been guilty of selective inattention?
Maybe he is a stand-up guy, and I’m reading this all wrong. But I can’t talk to him about it until I know more.
I dig my laptop from the tote bag nestled by my feet. After lifting the screen, I pause briefly and then, almost with a mind of their own, my fingers creep around the keyboard until they’ve called up LinkedIn. I make certain my privacy feature is turned on and then slowly type in “Ashley Budd.” With each tap of a key, I feel like I’m six years old and waiting, with my heart in my throat, to give one more crank of the handle to a jack-in-the-box.
The spelling complete, names materialize, and then additional ones do after I tap “see all results.” One is for a woman who’s a lawyer in Manhattan, so I figure that must be her, and with another click, her profile pops up and her photo enlarges.
I swallow hard. She’s strikingly attractive, a brown-eyed brunette with thick, dark eyebrows. From the timeline in her profile, I see that unlike Hugh she attended law school immediately following college and is now in her late twenties. Like Sasha.
I feel a nasty surge of bile in my throat as I imagine Hugh kissing her. Making love to her. Was that the reason for his late-day shower? To wash off any trace of Ashley Budd?
Mulroney could have helped me answer this question, I’m sure. I could have hired him to investigate Hugh. And now suddenly I’m also imagining Mulroney—lying dead in his car, blood spattered everywhere.
I jump up from the couch, cross the room to the hearth, and throw a fresh log on the fire that Roger had lit for me earlier. I squeeze my eyes closed, and when I reopen them, I try to simply absorb my surroundings. I’ve always loved this room, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and shades of deep blue. The two windows, framed by silk curtains, offer a view of the side yard, ending with a row of majestic fir trees.
When I return to the couch, I finally compel myself to work, starting with a scan of the research notes that Sasha has forwarded me for the podcast. These prove to be about as scintillating as a recipe for boiling hot dogs. I shoot an email to thank her and say I have what I need, so there’s no reason to review anything by phone.
“I’m currently at my brother’s in New Jersey,” I add, “dealing with a small emergency. There’s a slim chance we’ll have to post an old podcast this week and reschedule the upcoming show for the following week.”
Next, I text Casey and pass along the same news, but flesh it out, asking her to alert the studio and also determine if the designated guest will be available at the same time a week later. I hate the idea of having to cancel the show—I don’t want to take a single chance with this venture—but I can’t imagine going back to the city as soon as Tuesday.