Hutton had been refreshing his email repeatedly for hours when a reply from the IRS finally appeared. There was only one Schedule K-1 that had been turned in for Lilac Futures, the taxes paid on time every year. The name wasn’t familiar. He ran it through the database. Nothing. The junior FBI agents ran it through theirs.
“She’s six years old,” one of the agents said.
“Fuck,” Hutton swore. That meant it was stolen. “You can go,” he said to the agent, who nodded and disappeared. Hutton dropped his head to the desk and groaned, then went back to his computer and stared at the form. It took him a few minutes to notice the address associated with the child’s name, but once he did, time stopped.
He noticed the flickering of the fluorescent tubes above him, their buzzing, the way the thick gray paint sat on the concrete walls, the beating of his own heart.
He felt a pressure build up, then remembered to inhale.
“It wasn’t stolen,” he said slowly to himself. “It was borrowed.”
He darted out of his office, jumped into the nearest squad car, and threw it into gear. He looked at his watch. It was 3:00 p.m. He turned on his sirens and drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic. When Hutton was just a few blocks from Cooper, he turned them off, double-parked on Thirty-Ninth, got out, and strolled confidently into the Cooper garage.
He smiled at the door attendant before flashing his badge. “Hi, I’m Mark,” he said flirtatiously, standing a little too close. “My girlfriend Catherine Ono works on 46. Mind if I head up?” He took out his ID and handed it to her.
Gina couldn’t help but smile right back at this tall, gorgeous man. “She didn’t go to Paris?” she asked him. “That sucks.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
“Oh,” Gina said awkwardly. “Everybody’s in Paris, for the shows. The whole magazine.” She looked at him with pity.
Fuck. He wanted this arrest so badly he could taste it burning in his mouth like a handful of pennies, could feel it roiling in his stomach, next to his grief. He couldn’t tell the FBI their suspect had left New York; they’d begin the extradition process and the case would be officially removed from his jurisdiction. He thanked Gina and walked back to his car.
He sat in the driver’s seat, closed his eyes, and gave himself sixty seconds to meditate, allowing thoughts to move freely through his mind without judgment. When he’d counted to sixty, Hutton opened his eyes, sat up, opened his phone, and booked a ticket to Paris. On the way to the airport, he reinstalled Mania.
When they got up to the Eurydice Suite, Bess repurposed the cut-crystal vases in the kitchen into very large water glasses and filled them each with an entire bottle of Perrier. She picked up the lobster phone from the piano and ordered more steaks and salad, but this time appending a “rapidement, s’il vous pla?t,” sharply to the end.
“Tres bien, Bessoo,” Cat said as she collapsed on the couch.
Bess flopped down next to her, grabbing a pillow and holding it in a hug. She checked her phone. “Molly’s out on the town, I guess. How you feeling?”
Cat squinted one eye. “Not great. You?”
“I need to eat, I guess. Let’s get out of these clothes.” They cut each other out of their dresses and hung them up carefully in the closet.
“I’m gonna take another shower,” Cat said. “Can you start making a list of who might have slipped us something?”
Bess nodded.
Cat stepped into the shower and felt nauseous. She reached for the open bodywash on the shelf but slipped and sent the tiny bottle flying. She gripped the door and steadied herself, then tried to uncap a second one without falling over. After a few tense moments, she managed to squeeze the scented gel into her palm. Cat nearly smeared it onto her body before her mind flooded with recognition.
She knew this smell. It was the same scent that Vittoria had smeared on Cat’s face not once but twice at Bedford Organics, the one that said “For Happiness” on the label. She let the gel fall out of her palm and down the drain.
The room spun, the water fell over her head, and she opened the shower door, focusing only on the three remaining sets of Panacea products scattered around the bathroom. She scooped them up in her arms and ran naked into the dining room.
“Bess!” she cried. “It wasn’t our drinks. It’s Bedford Organics,” Cat exclaimed, tossing her the juniper bottle. “Smell that.”
Bess uncapped it and recoiled in horror. “How is that possible?” she asked in amazement. “How did we not smell this already?”
“The ones we had before smelled like tangerine. Vittoria didn’t use it on us,” Cat said. “Who could have put this here?”
“Bibi? Edith?” Bess said.
“My instinct is no. Why would they want us to get sick?”
“Molly?!? She wouldn’t. She loves us…doesn’t she? Or…did she want us out of the way? Did she want to take over the shoot?”
“No…no,” Cat insisted. “She worships us. I don’t think she would harm us.”
They sat there dumbfounded. Cat slumped onto the floor.
“I am so fucking high right now,” she complained. “And so fucking tired. And so fucking hung over.”
“I can’t think right now either,” Bess finally said, her head in her hands. “I need to eat something. Get dressed. I’ll make coffee. The food is on the way.”
Cat walked into the closet, pulling on the first clothes she found, black leggings and a white cotton T-shirt. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Her leggings were baggy and wrinkled—like when she was a child—and the shirt dwarfed her, her arms and neck poking out of the holes like wire hangers. Cat felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight of her emaciated frame. I need help, the rational part of her mind screamed. Another part sighed with happiness, telling itself Now that is a textbook thigh gap.
The doorbell rang. Cat marched over to the oversized wooden front door and opened it. A tiny waiter with a waxed mustache stood on the other side, pushing a wide cart loaded with silver-topped dishes. She ushered him in, and he laid out the plates rather ceremoniously, setting the table with fine linens and polished silver.
Bess immediately sat at the dining table, shoveling steak and salad into her mouth. “No excuses,” she mumbled through a mouthful of meat. “You have to eat.”
Cat rolled her eyes but sat down on the upholstered dining chair, crossing her legs underneath her. She plunged her knife into the fillet, its center so rare it glowed purple, and cut off a small piece. The beef felt fleshy, alive; when she put it in her mouth she nearly gagged, but she forced herself to swallow the bite—and the next, and the next, and the next after that.