I’m good. And you?
I’m actually better than I’ve been in a long time, considering the speed of his response. I’m not going to put myself that out there, however.
I’ve had a crappy day, to tell you the truth.
Sorry. Anything I can do?
I’m smiling ear to ear. My face is so out of practice that I actually feel the muscles move in an unfamiliar way.
I decide to bring our relationship to the next step and dial his phone. He answers immediately, and practically the first thing he says is that he was hoping that I would call.
“I have to be honest,” I say, even though I wonder if honesty is the best policy when embarking on a new relationship, “I’ve been struggling with the whole can-I-meet-someone-new-while-my-sister-is-missing thing.”
“I totally understand. Timing . . . couldn’t be worse. But I’m a big believer that things happen for a reason . . . at least sometimes. We met, we really clicked, and then this terrible thing happened to your sister. I think . . . I don’t want to get all higher-power on you because I’m not religious, but I do consider myself spiritual and, well, I think the universe does send us messages. And yes, I know that makes me sound like someone dressed in pajamas giving out daisies at the airport, but I believe it.”
I truly don’t know what to say to that. While I’m formulating a response in my head, he repeats the question he previously texted.
“Is there anything I can do? To make things easier on you, I mean.”
I decide to let down my guard. Having a distraction—especially such a handsome one—would definitely improve my mental state.
“In fact, there is. Would you mind terribly keeping me company tomorrow night? I’m just going crazy here all alone and I don’t want to do it again another night.”
He asks if I have a favorite restaurant, but I don’t want to be in public, so I invite him to my place for dinner. I’m tempted to suggest that he not expect anything, but I think that’s implied. Another reason I don’t say it is that I’m not certain it’s true.
DAY SEVEN
MONDAY
22.
It takes every ounce of energy I have to get out of bed on Monday. I drag myself into the shower and then get ready for work as if my life hasn’t been ripped apart. I’m buoyed only by the thought that after I get through the workday I’ll see Dylan.
I make it to the office at 9:15. I’m nearly floored when Ashleigh says that my father hasn’t yet arrived. In my three months at the firm, I’ve never gotten to work before him.
“Have you heard from him?” I ask.
“No. I guess with Garkov adjourned, he decided to sleep in.”
Like my father, I also have no pressing work this morning. With Paul Michelson in hunker-down mode, there’s nothing to do there, and while there are some smaller matters to which I could bill time—a Medicare fraud sentencing memorandum, an SEC inquiry into insider trading that’s heading toward an on-the-record interview next month, a call I need to return to our expert witness in an art-forgery case—none of those things is time-sensitive.
So I stare at the blank walls of my office. Wondering when all of this will finally end, and what it’ll look like when it does.
My father knocks on my office door a little after ten. He looks like something the cat dragged in. His tie, which is always perfectly knotted with a center dimple, hangs askew, and his complexion is the color of smoke.
“You look terrible,” I say.
“Good morning to you too, dear,” he says, trying but failing to smile.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. His body crumples into my guest chair. He’s completely and utterly bereft.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he says.
“I don’t know, Dad. But what I am certain about is that we need to stay positive.”
He puts his face in his hands. “I . . . don’t know how I’m going to be able to go on if . . .”
I want to comfort him, but I feel the same way. How can I continue to live in a world without Charlotte?
My life has always been bisected by my mother’s death. The before and the after. When my mother was alive, my father reminded me of an exotic bird that only appeared at certain times of the year. The two weeks before Labor Day, when he’d work from his home office in our East Hampton house, or the week of winter break when we all went to Aspen and he skied the double-black diamonds. At all other times, he was working. When I was little I thought my father must be a criminal himself because my mother was always telling me that he was “on trial.”
It now seems as though my life will forever be cut into thirds. Before my mother died. Before Charlotte died. And after.
At noon, Gabriel calls. As is the case every time I see his number pop up on my caller ID, my heart stops.
“I have good news,” he says, and for the briefest moment I allow myself to think the good news is that Charlotte has been found safe and sound. Then he crashes that fantasy. “Zach came down and agreed to cooperate with us.”
Compared to what I had let myself imagine was his good news, this revelation was nothing of the sort. On top of which, I don’t trust a word out of Zach’s mouth.
“Did you hear me?” he says, a reaction to my silence.
“Yeah. So, what’s Zach saying?”
“He came in here with a friend who’s a first-year law student. Said that he’d thought about it, and because he hadn’t done anything wrong, he wanted to help in any way he could. Turns out that the last time he saw your sister wasn’t Wednesday morning like he’s been claiming. He didn’t see her at all on Wednesday. The last time he saw her was on Tuesday morning.”
Damn him. We had the timeline wrong.
“Why did he lie about that?”
“He said that he didn’t come home himself on Tuesday night. He was out with the law-school friend all night, and claims that when he finally came home—which he puts at a little after nine a.m. on Wednesday morning—Charlotte was already gone. He said that he knew she had an early class, so he didn’t think twice about her not being home. Then, when she didn’t come home that night, he figured she was out to get back at him. You know, he stayed out the night before and so she was staying the night somewhere else to give him a taste of his own medicine. But when it was getting close to daybreak, he started to worry. That’s when he called you.”
I honestly didn’t know how to react. Should I be happy that we had more information? Or feel even more distress because Charlotte has now actually been missing six days, rather than five?
“What’s to say he’s not lying now?” I say. “Because his law-student girlfriend gives him an alibi for Tuesday night when he doesn’t have one for Wednesday night?”
“Yeah, I thought of that too. But he passed the poly. She did too.”
“On everything?” I ask.
“Like they’re George and Martha Washington.”
“Jesus.”