As I look at the cold andirons in the fireplace, blue and red flashing lights shine through the windows and interrupt my memories. Two squad cars are parked outside, and the amplified sound of someone speaking over a police radio jars me to attention. Valium softens the commotion and panic that would otherwise come over me in this situation. I think of James and his propensity to drive after drinking. I live in fear that one day I’ll answer the door and be told my husband is dead. Or seriously injured. Or in jail. I imagine his Volvo screeching into a tree, a parked cargo van, a grandmother crossing the street in a wheelchair. I imagine the sound of impact, James’s head smashing into his windshield, shattering it. I imagine him handcuffed and blowing into a roadside breathalyzer test. Despite his drinking, he’s never had even a speeding ticket, but no run of luck can last forever. Some nights, upon arriving home drunk, he can barely wobble upstairs.
The doorbell rings, and I collect myself before answering. No hurry to be the recipient of bad news or a police investigation, I let the bell ring a second time before getting up from the Hepplewhite and walking across the house to open the door. Though I’ve rehearsed in my mind what to say, a somber nervousness churns in my stomach. A medium-built man in khaki slacks and a polo shirt stands in the portico, one hand pressed up against the marble column that partially supports the porch roof. Behind him, two uniformed police officers stand at attention by their squad cars. The man holds out his silver Metropolitan police badge, and after I glance at it, he asks, “Are you Mrs. Patricia Wainsborough?”
“Is this about my husband?”
The man blinks. “Why would you ask that?”
“He’s late. I worry about him. He should be home by now.”
“Interesting,” the man says. Because he doesn’t say more than that—just “Interesting”—I wonder if I’ve already spoken too much. He looks over my shoulder into the darkened foyer and the grand staircase beyond it. He’s not here about James. His clothes are inadequate given that nighttime temperatures hover around the freezing point, and yet, because the case that calls him to my doorstep is urgent, he doesn’t shiver.
“A wife worries about her husband. Is he the reason you’re interrupting my evening?”
“No, ma’am. Are you Patricia Wainsborough?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Lionel Adderly,” he says. Adderly shakes my hand and then motions to his colleagues standing by their squad cars. “Do you mind if we come inside?”
“If that’s what you’d prefer.”
Inside, I lead Detective Adderly into the living room, invite him to sit on the Hepplewhite, and apologize for being unable to offer him tea. The two uniformed officers stand in the corner by my father’s old Victrola. Though they introduce themselves, Adderly does most of the talking. He’s not a rocket scientist, just one of DC’s finest, I remind myself. His eyes wander the room, taking in my antiques and paintings, the museum-quality furniture, the antique writing desk upon which a portion of James’s 78s are stacked, and the seashells and millefiori glass paperweights in the curio cabinet. The brass andirons, with their vaguely Chinese-looking dragon motif, draw his attention. Peacock feathers bloom from a Ming vase set upon a lacquered pedestal. The detective takes this all in, seeing in each object a clue about my life; if he is like most people, he will assume that I, too, am as cloistered and fragile as the objects in this curated living room.
“I was thinking how nice it would be if my husband were home. He could light a fire, brew me a carafe of chamomile tea, and we could sit on the sofa and just . . .” Adjusting my legs, crossing and recrossing them, I don’t complete my sentence. “Why are you here?”
“Is there a reason he’s not home? Have you two—and I’m sorry if I’m blunt—not been getting along lately?”
Talking to the police is not the wisest thing, and yet suspicions would rise if I request my lawyer be present for this interview. My father insisted we be responsible for our own narratives, that we never cede control of our story lines. Adderly looks at me, eager for my reaction. At heart, everyone is an actor performing the story of his or her life.
“Do you feel uncomfortable talking about this, Mrs. Wainsborough?”
“Yes. My husband is, shall we say, drawn to women younger than I. His mistress had a baby the other day, so James has been coming home later than usual,” I say, speaking softly, my evasive eyes darting to the fireplace and my father’s portrait.
Adderly leans in closer so he can hear me. On his clean-shaven face, I smell his musky aftershave. He’s a young man, still in his early thirties, and his face is young enough that it doesn’t express concern as ably as an older man’s might, but as I let down my guard and reveal to him my plight as the aggrieved wife, his face softens. He sees in me a preconceived notion: the stereotypical middle-aged woman about to be tossed aside for a younger woman, and because he is fundamentally decent, sympathy lights his coffee-brown eyes.
“I suspect James stopped off again at the hospital where his mistress and her baby are convalescing after the delivery. This has become, as you might well imagine, a matter of no small discomfort for me. Right now, he’s probably rocking the baby in his arms, cooing at her. In another hour, he’ll come home and ask why I don’t have dinner waiting for him.”
“He’s not at the hospital. And he’s not with the baby,” Adderly says.
“He’s not?” My eyes gape, as if taking in this information. “But you said he’s okay. Is he okay? He’s not hurt, is he?”
“The baby’s missing.”
“The baby? Are you sure?”
Adderly tilts his head, assessing my reaction. Some men speak first and save their thinking for later, but Detective Adderly is not of that persuasion. There’s an intensity in his eyes I’ve rarely encountered. He’s judging me, making up his mind on whether I’m responsible for Anne Elise’s disappearance. Each moment under his gaze feels prolonged, uneasy. He raises his hand to his chin.
“Are you sure the baby’s missing?”
Adderly lowers his hand. Although his clothes are clean, his fingernails are dirty, and yet a small satisfied smile appears on his lips. He leans in close and, dropping his voice, says, “Between you and me, Sibley’s record on baby security leaves a lot to be desired.”
“This is horrible.” I let my mouth fall open, expressing shock. Inwardly, however, I’m elated, for a man who confides in me his professional opinion about another organization’s security record is a man who trusts me.
“Were you at the hospital, Mrs. Wainsborough? To see Laurel?”
“Yesterday and the day before, I was there. I might have been, like, the first person to actually hold the baby. James brought me there as soon as the baby was born.” I glance at Adderly and see the shock in his eyes. Clearly, he can’t conceive of a marriage where the husband so willingly invites his wife into his mistress’s maternity suite. I shake my head, bat my hand through the air, as if I, too, can’t fully comprehend this. “It’s a messed-up situation. It truly is. But it’s life, unfortunately. The baby, Anne Elise, is beautiful. Although I can’t stand the idea of my husband messing around with another woman, I’ve never seen so beautiful a baby.”
“I noticed the flowers you sent. That was a very nice note you wrote.”
I smile, glad that Adderly noticed my capacity to be generous. Already, he seems inclined to view me kindly. “Thank you. Laurel was telling me she was worried she couldn’t be a good mother. To be honest, I was prepared not to like her. But she’s a young mother now, and I imagine a young mother’s life must be fraught with horrible stresses, so I was simply trying to be supportive. For the baby’s sake.”