I wander into the short hall before the dining room, wondering where the study might be in this massive house where it feels like nobody lives, despite all the initials everywhere that remind you someone does. And if I find the right door, do I knock? Or do I find Dorotea again and ask her to introduce me? Before I met Hudson, I’d been worried about the decorum of showing up at Paula’s house when I couldn’t even put a name to what I wanted (comfort? answers?). Then I got pissed. Now I’m back to sheer, cold anxiety, and I shake my hands to warm them. My notebook weighs unnaturally heavy in my bag—it’s the only thing inside—but none of Hudson’s “facts” are worth recording, little bastard. As I still myself, I hear a murmur coming from behind a door off the dining room. Paula’s voice. Is she with someone? Little Bastard said she’s on the phone. I will wait.
Two minutes, then five. I slump against the wall. I begin to worry that Dorotea might come through to clean, or that Hudson will emerge from the man cave and rat me out for being a stalker. Though stillness also feels like the norm in this house. Finally, the murmuring stops. I tap the door lightly.
“Come in, Dorotea!”
I ease the door open to see Paula sitting behind a mahogany desk. But I was wrong; she’s still on the phone, just listening. Her eyes widen, pleased, and she waves me in with gusto, phone to ear. Everything besides the desk is white: rug, wing chairs, couch, and pillows. I fix on three framed photographs: Paula with President Obama, Paula with the governor, and Paula next to a blonde with a tepid smile. Paula catches my gaze and points, mouthing, “Elizabeth Smart.” She talks into her neck. “Don’t worry, even if he manages to stay on point, he still looks bad. I need the questions no later than six.” Paula hangs up and stands. She’s dressed for the evening news, in a sheath dress with a leather panel at the waist. “To what do I owe this visit? Sit, sit.”
“I know you have to go on air soon.”
“I have time for you! Make yourself comfortable,” she says, waving me into a white wing chair studded with nailheads as she rises, sitting on the edge of her desk. She’s wearing Ugg slippers over black hose, and she holds them up, flexing her ankles playfully. “Another one of my maxims: Never wear heels unless you absolutely have to. Can I get you anything? Sparkling water, Coke? Something warm, perhaps?”
“I’m good.”
“Dorotea!”
“Please, no!” I shout. “Really. I’m all set. You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”
“I know it’s one of two things. Either you have something you want to tell me, or you just want to spend time with a friend who understands you. Honestly, I’m hoping it’s the latter.” She smooths her hair back with her hands, and her face looks young and sad. “You could say I’m a little burned out on this case.”
“Burned out? How come?”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t given up on bringing justice to your case, believe me. I’m just hitting roadblocks. Confirming Ana and Donald’s relationship before my big interview with the parole board chief on Thursday.”
It finally occurs to me, in flashing neon, that she thinks my reason for coming is to relay the conversation with Kellan’s father that I didn’t have. I scan the room, desperate for a notable item on which to comment and change the subject. “Your son was so cute!” I choke, pointing to a photo of an olive-skinned baby in a silver frame.
“Oh no. That’s the Agarwal baby. Do you remember the story? He was abducted by his father in 2010. His mother gave me this as a token of gratitude.” She lifts the picture to her lap. “She claims my reporting just after the abduction helped find him. Baby Sam would be living somewhere in Saudi Arabia by now, convinced his mother abandoned him.”
“They must be really grateful.”
Paula gazes at the picture. “My work is everything to me. If my reporting isn’t making positive change in the world, I may as well not do it.”
Silence settles between us. Somewhere, a TV buzzes, a drone interspersed with applause like a crashing wave.
“You said once, in the woods, that if there was anything you could do for me, you would,” I say.
Paula folds her hands in her lap earnestly. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Something’s not right with my friend Liv. The other girl…”
Paula stops me with a smile.
“Right. You know who Liv is. Sorry.” I shift in my chair. “Liv was in the hospital for ketoacidosis, though her mother and she both lied and told everyone she had mono.”
She runs a finger over her chin. “Remind me what ketoacidosis is.”
“It’s when your body is so starved of sugar it begins eating its own reserve of fat, causing a metabolic chemical reaction.”
“I see.” She grabs her phone off her desk and jabs at it. When she’s done, she looks up. “And she’s not diabetic?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. Is that it?” Paula asks.
My face contorts. “Not really, no.”
Suddenly the details of how I found the sketches in Liv’s room sound silly, and paint me as a straight-up snooper besides. And sitting there surrounded by Paula’s sophisticated ether, mentioning Liv’s bad-boy hook-up would make me sound like I think I’m starring in a soft-focused women’s movie. What’s she going to do anyway, besides tell me to call an abused women’s hotline? No, best to stick with the flat-out mystery. “I mean, yes. I need you to look into what’s going on with Liv. Maybe her mother, too. Inside their house.”
“You think something’s off?”