THEY BARELY SAID A WORD THE NEXT HALF AN HOUR. NOT UNTIL THE GPS voice advised Anna to take the next exit off the highway. A few more miles, and a few more turns later, they spotted a facility in the distance surrounded by an unusually tall metal fence with thick coils of barbed wire strung along the top.
“Doesn’t look much like a day care center,” Anna said.
“No,” Paul said. He turned and looked at her as the car approached the gate. “All of a sudden, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Anna said. “I can turn around and take us back.”
Paul pressed his lips tightly together. “We’re here,” he said. “Might as well check the place out. If they send me here for what I did to Hitchens, maybe Kenneth and I will end up as roommates.”
Thirty-Eight
Charlotte had not lied to Paul about going into Manhattan. She hadn’t even lied about going to visit her mother. She intended to do that, if she had time. And Paul was right when he had joked as he’d dropped her off at the Milford station that she would try to find time to visit Bloomingdale’s.
But she was not going into New York for either of those reasons.
When she got off the train and entered Grand Central Terminal, she exited through the market and flagged down a cab almost immediately on Lexington.
“Sixty-Third and Park,” she said as she closed the door.
The taxi moved south, the unshaven, overweight man behind the wheel steering over to the left lane to make a turn onto Forty-First Street. One long block later, he went north on Third while Charlotte struggled with muting the annoying mini–TV screen bolted to the partition in front of her.
“Nice day,” the driver said.
Charlotte was not interested in small talk.
Traffic, as always, was heavy, but fifteen minutes later the taxi was slowing on Sixty-Third with Park only half a block away. “Where ’bouts?” the driver asked.
“Anywhere here,” she said. “Just pull over.”
The cab aimed for the left side of the street. Charlotte slid a ten and two ones into the tray below the Plexiglas divider and got out. As she hit the sidewalk she glanced up to check the numbers. She had never actually been to this address before, but she knew, from checking Google Maps early that morning, that her destination had to be practically right in front of her.
Then she saw the sign.
BENJAMIN MARKETING
It was a subtle bronze marker, not much bigger than a license plate, affixed to the side of a building at eye level, next to a set of revolving doors. Charlotte pushed through and found herself in a small, marble foyer. A security guard at the front desk looked up.
“Help you?”
“Here to see Hailey Benjamin,” she said, knowing there was probably no need to add the name of the firm.
“A moment,” he said, picking up a phone.
Charlotte had figured this would happen. She was waiting for the question.
“Name?” the guard asked, looking at her.
“Charlotte Davis.”
The guard repeated the name into the phone, hung up, and said, “Go on up. Sixteenth floor.”
Charlotte got onto the elevator, imagining what Hailey’s reaction must have been when she was told who was here to see her. She’d be so dumbfounded the wife of her ex-husband was in the building that she’d hardly refuse to see her just because she didn’t have an appointment.
As the elevator passed the fourth floor, Charlotte wondered whether Hailey would notify her husband, Walter, that she was here. Walter Benjamin was the president of Benjamin Marketing, and while his wife technically worked for him, it was, from everything Charlotte had heard, more of a partnership.
When the elevator doors parted on the sixteenth floor, Hailey was standing there in front of the wall with the firm’s name stretched out over twenty feet in big blue letters.
“Charlotte,” she said, saying the word as a half welcome, half question.
“Hailey,” she said.
“Taking a day off to see the city?” Hailey said, forcing a smile.
“Something like that. Is there someplace we could talk?”
“Uh, sure. What’s this about? Has something happened? Is everything okay?”
“Let’s get settled first.”
Hailey said something quietly to the man on the reception desk before leading Charlotte down a glass hallway to a door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM B.
Inside was a rectangular glass table big enough to sit a dozen people. Hailey pulled out a chrome-and-black-leather chair for Charlotte before sitting herself in the one next to her.
“Can I get you something? Sparkling water? A cappuccino?”
“No,” Charlotte said. “Hailey, I know you and I have not exactly been best friends over the years.”
Hailey said nothing, waited.
“But this isn’t about me. This is about Paul. I know there’s got to be some part of you that still cares about him, and—”
“Of course I care about Paul,” Hailey said. “Just because things didn’t work out between us doesn’t mean I have no feelings for him. We had a child together, for God’s sake. What’s going on? Is he okay? Is he sick? Is this about what happened?”
“Yes . . . and no. He’s not himself. He’s—he’s believing in things that don’t make any sense.”
“Like?”
“First of all, he’s hearing things.”
“What do you mean? Do you mean voices? Paul’s hearing voices?”
“Not exactly,” Charlotte said. “But—”
The door opened. A tall, gray-haired man in a dark blue suit, open-collared white shirt, and no tie stepped in.
“Charlotte?”
“Walter,” Charlotte said.
She started to stand, but he raised two palms, as though he could keep her in her seat through some invisible force. “Please, don’t get up. How nice to see you. Is something wrong with Paul?”
“Why would you ask that?” Charlotte asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
“I just—” He cut himself off, looked at Hailey.
“I told Walter you were heading up in the elevator,” Hailey said, “and all we could think was that Paul was in some sort of trouble. Has he been back to see the neurologist? Is that what this is about?”
“He hasn’t,” Charlotte said. “It’s a different issue than that. I came here because, I think you need to know that Paul is going through a very difficult time, and I don’t know that I can handle it all alone.”
Hailey shrugged hopelessly. “Tell me about these voices he’s hearing.”
“Jesus, hearing voices?” Walter said.
“I never said voices,” Charlotte said. “More like sounds, in the night, sounds I don’t hear.”
“It’s a good thing you’re telling us this,” Walter said. “Thank you.”
Charlotte shot him a look. “Thank you?”
“Well, it’s good to know,” he said. “Because of Josh.” Walter glanced at his wife. “Right? If there’s something wrong with Paul, we need to know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlotte asked.
Hailey looked apologetically at Charlotte. “It’s just, well, if Paul is unstable, I mean, that’s something we’d have to take into account when it’s your turn to have Josh.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Charlotte said. “And I’m not suggesting Paul’s dangerous.”
“Of course not,” Hailey said earnestly. “But I can’t help but be concerned about the environment Josh is in. It could be very troubling to him, to be there if his father is having . . . episodes. He was very upset after his last visit to your house.”
Charlotte slowly shook her head.
Walter was nodding, as though he’d seen this coming all along. “We know that what’s happened with Paul isn’t his fault. He didn’t ask that man to attack him. It’s a terrible tragedy, all the way around. But we have to deal with the fallout from that, whether it’s fair or not.”
“I don’t believe this,” Charlotte said.
“Well, if he’s delusional,” Walter said, “it’s simply out of the question that Josh can be spending any unsupervised time with him.”
“I have to agree with Walter,” Hailey said.
Charlotte pushed her chair back and stood.
“Nice to know you’re all so very concerned,” she said.
“No, Charlotte, please,” Hailey protested, placing a hand on Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte shook it off.