“No. It’s not that. I just . . . I just hit the wall. I haven’t been sleeping much lately and today was a long, emotional day. I didn’t mention it earlier, but we held a search for Charlotte in Riverside Park. Obviously, we didn’t find her there, but . . . you know, just going through the ritual was draining.”
I don’t know if he buys it or is just being polite, but after he pays the check Paul walks me home. Neither of us say much as we travel the few blocks. There’s an awkward moment in front of my building, when I can tell he’s deciding how to say good-bye, and then he leans down to kiss me on the cheek.
DAY SIX
SUNDAY
19.
I used to love Sundays. I’d wake up whenever and go to the Koffee Klatch around the corner. I could spend hours sitting on one of the outdoor benches, drinking my large skim latte with a double shot and people-watching.
Today, however, all I can think about is Charlotte. Where is she? Will I ever see her smile again?
Still, I try to hew to my routine. I go to the Koffee Klatch and sip my coffee on the bench. A woman with a schnauzer sits beside me, but I can’t summon the energy to pet her dog. The rest of the passersby go about their day, blissfully unaware that somewhere out there Charlotte Broden is being held against her will, or that her lifeless body is waiting to be found.
My childhood home was a limestone-facade townhouse just east of Park Avenue. When Charlotte left for college, my father moved into a classic six—New York real estate jargon for a two-bedroom apartment with a formal dining room and a maid’s quarters—with a view of Central Park, in one of those snooty co-op buildings on Fifth Avenue. The white-gloved doormen always smile when I visit and call me by name, as Ramon, the man on duty today, does when I appear.
“Sorry about your sister,” Ramon says.
He looks sincerely distressed. I wonder if Ramon has children of his own and is projecting. Then again, maybe even his limited encounters with Charlotte were enough to make him feel like they had a real connection.
“Thank you.”
“Your father said you should go right on up,” he says.
My father opens the door wearing a pained smile. His eyes look even worse. Bloodshot, with dark circles under them. He obviously hasn’t been sleeping. I know the feeling, as sleep and I haven’t been on good terms as of late either.
I follow him to the living room. It’s a space I’ve always enjoyed being in. It reminds me of what New York City apartments look like in the movies: high ceilings, intricate decorative moldings, a working wood-burning fireplace, oil paintings covering the walls, and a large Bokhara rug on the hardwood floor.
He lowers himself into a corner of the sofa. Rather than take a seat in one of the armchairs, as I would normally do, I sit beside him so that I can place my arm around his shoulder. I squeeze him into me in a hug and see what appears to be an effort at a smile.
I decline the offer of coffee, telling him I’m already fully caffeinated. He declares that he’ll make us some eggs.
“You don’t have to, Dad.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m going to make you the candy eggs, like you like.”
I follow him into the kitchen. He’s already prechopped the ingredients for the dish—so named by Charlotte because there’s a sweet taste to them. In fact, they’re just made with caramelized onions and tomatoes.
“How you holding up?” he says as he stirs the onions, the scent taking over the kitchen.
“About as good as you, it seems.”
“I was thinking about your mother.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about Mom a lot too lately.”
“Even though I miss your mother more now than ever, there’s a part of me that, for the first time, is a little happy that she’s not here. Is that a terrible thing for me to say?”
“No, I know exactly what you mean. I’m glad Mom didn’t have to go through this. Sometimes when it all gets too hard for me, I think that, if the worst has happened, then at least Charlotte and Mom are together, and that makes me feel better.”
My reference that Charlotte might be dead is too much for him, and I see a tear break free and roll down his cheek. I kiss him on the forehead, the way he did when I was younger and needed to be comforted.
A few minutes later, we’re situated in his dining room. Even though my father lives alone, his dining table seats twelve. He takes the chair at the head and puts my plate of eggs kitty-corner to him.
“What’s going on with Paul Michelson?” he says, taking a forkful of his creation.
It’s a ham-handed effort to move the conversation to safe ground. A topic he thinks—wrongly, as it turns out—has nothing to do with Charlotte.
“I had dinner with him last night,” I say.
“Really?”
I can’t tell if my father is surprised or being judgmental.
“Did you know he ran into Charlotte last Christmas?”
“Paul Michelson?”
“Yeah.”
My father shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
“Remember I told you that Charlotte’s book had a main character involved with three different men?”
He nods in a way that says, How could I forget?
“The student turns out to have been real. The police found him and questioned him. He said he didn’t know Charlotte was even missing, but he failed the polygraph.”
My father looks as if he’s about to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. I want to keep moving and focus him on the part that worries me.
“And, of course, the artist we know is real, because it’s Zach. That leaves the banker, as the third of Charlotte’s potential lovers in real life. In the book, the character based on Charlotte meets the banker at a museum benefit. She’s staring at an out-of-focus photograph when the Matthew character approaches her, and they end up having an affair. He’s the character in the book that the protagonist—Clare—truly loves. But he’s also one of the possible murderers.”
My father doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for me to get to the point.
“Paul told me that he met Charlotte the same way. They were at a museum, staring at an out-of-focus photograph.”
Neither of us says anything for a good ten seconds. Me because I’m waiting for him; my father’s silence is likely because he’s trying to process that his client might have murdered his daughter.
I’m expecting him to react with rage. Instead, when he resigns himself to what I’ve told him, he looks frightened.
“You know Paul much better than I do, obviously,” he finally says, “but I know you. I know how badly you want to fix this—to solve the mystery, to punish whoever did this to Charlotte. But I need you to promise me something. If you think that there’s even a remote possibility that Paul might be involved in Charlotte’s disappearance in any way, tell the police and then let them do their job.” My father begins to choke up, but still manages to complete his thought. “Ella, I can’t . . . I just can’t risk anything happening to you too.”
“Okay,” I say. “I promise.”
As soon as I say it, the guilt hits me, as it always does whenever I lie to my father.