While we snake along rural roads, I place a call to Nowak and then another to the White Plains detective I spoke to yesterday morning. Neither answers so I leave voice mails saying I have information I want to pass along. By the time we reach I-78, I feel my eyes drooping from fatigue.
When I wake over an hour later, the road signs indicate we’re approaching the George Washington Bridge. I check my phone and see a text from Jay Williams.
You doing OK? he asks.
Some stuff to share, I reply. Might be relevant. Or not. Can you talk?
Yes, but later today, OK? Any ideas about those initials, G.C.?
I realize that I’ve been so preoccupied and worried since I last spoke to him, I’ve completely forgotten the small task he assigned me. I tap on the contacts icon on my phone and search through the last names beginning with “C,” but the only person with the initials I’m looking for is an old college friend named Ginger Colefax. Haven’t talked to her in ages.
Sorry. Just checked. Nothing yet.
Okay, cul.
I drop the phone in my lap and stare out the window. We’re traversing the upper deck of the bridge, and the silver-gray Hudson River blooms out to my right, bound for the sea at the tip of Manhattan. I’ve crossed this bridge on so many occasions. Not only after I moved to the city, on trips home to see my parents—and later just my dad—but also before that, when I was a girl and my mother and I would drive in to see a play or a museum exhibit. How I loved those afternoons.
And suddenly, as I gaze at the bridge beams, and the water, and the skyline of the city, I lose track of the moment. The day even. Of why I’m here right now, crossing a river. I jerk my neck to the front. I see the back of the driver’s head, his shaggy black hair. Who is he? Where is he taking me?
And then just as quickly, I remember. I’m in an Uber. Coming from Roger’s. Going to my apartment on the West Side. I almost weep in relief. After desperately fishing through my purse, I locate one of the Altoids and quickly place it on my tongue.
For the last few miles of the trip, as we barrel down the West Side Highway, I force myself to focus on every detail I see and feel. The warmth of the car, the bumps in the road, the brash messages on billboards, the river still on my right, sailboats bobbing on its surface.
“Yes, here,” I announce to the driver as we finally approach my building. I scour the area with my eyes, not even sure what I’m looking for anymore. After mumbling a quick thank-you, I grab my roller bag, which I’ve kept next to me in the backseat for quick access, and swing open the car door.
To my total surprise, Gabby, red hair piled on top of her head, has just darted from the lobby of my building onto the sidewalk.
“Gabby,” I call out. She freezes in her tracks, clearly startled, and spots me.
“Oh wow,” she says, striding over. She’s in a poncho, jeans, and short black boots. “I thought you were still away.”
We embrace in a hug. As I pull back, I see that her eyes are strained from being ill, and she may have even lost a couple of pounds.
“I came home sooner than planned. What are you doing here?”
“I—my god, your face. Ally, what the fuck happened?”
“I was attacked last night—at Roger’s. It’s this crazy nightmare story. But I’m fine, and they caught the guy.”
“This is horrible. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was going to, but I’ve got to get upstairs and talk to Hugh. Something’s come up.”
“Are things okay with you guys?”
I glance down. “I don’t think so.”
When I look up, she’s shaking her head so that her earrings, long gold ones of her own design, swing back and forth. “I’m so sorry, Ally. I’ve been a terrible friend when you needed me the most.”
“Gabby, don’t worry about it, I know how sick you’ve been. Can we talk later today or tomorrow? I’ll bring you up to speed on everything, I promise.”
“Of course. In the meantime, is there anything I can do?”
“No, but I should really go. I— Wait, so why were you here?”
“Oh, I was dropping something off for you. Um, a little gift.” She seems to read the confusion in my eyes. “I mean, I knew you wouldn’t be able to get it for a few days, but I was in the neighborhood, so I left it with the concierge.”
“That’s really nice, Gabby, thank you.” I hug her again. “Talk later.”
After leaving her behind, I hurry into the lobby, my legs still aching from last night. The doorman, it turns out, is behind the front desk, filling in while the concierge’s on break.
“Do you have a package for me?” I ask. “Something that my friend just dropped off?”
He smiles, steps through the open doorway to the storage area, and returns a minute later.
“I don’t see it, Ally,” he tells me. “So it must have been picked up already.”
Which means Hugh is upstairs. At least he hasn’t fled the premises, too nervous or ashamed to come clean as promised. As I head toward the elevator, I can feel the dread swelling in me.
I enter the apartment and find the foyer dark and the great room empty. After parking my roller bag in the great room, I grab a small bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and make my way down the corridor to the bedroom. It’s empty, too, and the drapes have been pulled closed. I drop my purse on the bed and reach for a lamp, but before I have a chance to turn the switch, I hear a noise behind me and spin around. Hugh’s in the doorway, standing motionless.
“You made good time,” he says. His voice sounds joyless.
“Yup. Where were you just now?”
“In the den, working.”
He fumbles along the wall for the overhead light switch and taps it on.
“Ally, your face!” he exclaims, as shocked as Gabby was. He steps closer. “Do the police know any more since we spoke?”
“Not that Roger or I have heard.”
“You really should see a doctor, Ally.”
“I don’t want to see a doctor, Hugh. I want to talk to you.”
His shoulders sag, an ominous sign. “Why don’t we go to the other room?”
I follow him to the great room, where I perch on the edge of the armchair as he plops onto the sofa across from me. My breath feels trapped in my chest, unable to escape.
“I don’t know where to start, exactly,” he says.
Ah, so there are layers.
“Why don’t you start with Ashley Budd,” I manage to say. “Are you having an affair with her?”
I nearly cringe, waiting for the worst.
“No,” he says. “I’m not having an affair with Ashley.”
“With someone else, then?”
He shakes his head. “No, Ally. I’m not having an affair. I swear.”
I exhale. Was Roger right, that it’s not what I’ve been imagining? It’s been hard for me to meet Hugh’s eyes, but I force my attention there. His expression is bleak, at odds with his seemingly reassuring words. Is he in trouble at work? I wonder. Has he gambled away all our money? Been going to see hookers?
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“It is about Ashley, in a sense. After I ran into her at that event, I took her to lunch. And then for a drink a week later.”