“Okay, well, I was thinking. Probably 60 percent of all domestic adoptions are in-state. But you said you were raised in California. Your birth certificate is from Connecticut. Of those 40 percent out of state, I’d guess that more than half of them were because the adoptive mother knew the biological mother. A cousin, or a sister, or something. So, those are decent odds. I’d start there. Try to find a link between your adoptive mother and the name on that memo.”
The birth certificate and memo are shoved in my purse. The room is taking on a soft blur, the wine doing its job, and I feel hot and lazy and tired. So incredibly tired. I sink down onto one of the stools at the island and rest my temple on my hand. I want to sleep. I think about the living room with the ruined sofa and overturned end tables and I want to sleep for days. Which might be fine. Penny can clean up the mess. The one thing about having no one is that no one expects anything from you.
“Will you help me?” I ask him, pathetically, running my index finger along the lip of the glass. It hums.
“I said I would help you. Give me all the information you have. I’ll help you.”
I reach over, clumsily grab at my purse, and hand him the crinkled paperwork. “Evelyn Lawlor. My adoptive mother’s name was Evelyn Lawlor.” Then, even softer, “I miss her.” I’ve passed the point of loosening and am starting to feel unraveled, like no moment after this one will be the same. Like I won’t be able to go back now and be the Zoe I used to be. Which makes me laugh, a gurgling, wet sound in the back of my throat. Who is the Zoe I used to be?
“Zoe, what the hell is going on?” Henry’s voice booms above my thoughts, echoing in the austere kitchen. Cash and I both visibly jump.
Everything snaps to sharp focus. Henry stands in the kitchen doorway, his hands on his hips, his chin jutting. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cash shove the paperwork into his back pocket. Cash’s eyes go from Henry, to the bottle of wine, to me.
“Who the fuck are you?” Henry demands. “Did you do this to our home?”
“Henry! No! This is Cash Murray from the New York Post. He did the article on CARE. I met him this morning to go over the article and I left my wallet at the coffee shop. He returned it.”
“Drinking wine with my wife?” Henry crosses the kitchen and swipes the half-empty bottle away, holding it away from me, like a snappy parent.
“Henry. Stop. You’re embarrassing me. I was the only one drinking. See?” I point to the single wineglass. “I was rattled from the break-in.”
“I’m sorry, Zoe, Mr. Whittaker, I should probably go.” Cash stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans. Henry gives him the once-over, with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. I love how Cash calls him Mr. Whittaker.
Then, it’s like a switch. Henry smiles. Cash hesitates, his mouth flickering up to return the smile, but dubiously. Henry crosses the room in two long lopes and extends his hand. Cash shakes it.
“I’m sorry, Cash, was it? Listen, please accept my apology. I’ve been rattled, my home is torn apart, my wife is drinking wine with a man I’ve never met, I’ve had a hellish day—” His smile widens and I wonder if his face will crack, split wide open. His eyes are steely in a way that maybe only I notice.
It fleetingly crosses my mind that I’ve had a much more “hellish day” than Henry, and I remember the way his hand cupped Pink Spandex. The hand that is now snaking possessively around my neck and across my shoulders, his fingertips massaging into my collarbone. It also occurs to me that he has yet to ask if I’m okay.
“I understand. I should go, anyway. I’m sorry that we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Please call me Henry. Let me walk you out.” He claps a hand on Cash’s shoulder and steers him toward the front door. “Were you at the CARE benefit, then? I’m sorry, there were so many people there that night.” Their voices fade into the living room, then the hallway, until I can’t hear them anymore. I marvel at Henry’s smoothness, his voice is warm butter, but I shiver. I hear the front door latch open and shut and seconds later Henry appears in the doorway. His tie is still closely knotted and I think about how other men would pull it loose, unbutton that top button, sink into a chair, and get wrinkled. Henry never gets wrinkled. Even his boxers are starched.
“Are you sleeping with him?” His face is dark, his eyes look black in the fading kitchen light.
“What?” The question throws me off guard. “No. Are you sleeping with a girl at the gym?”
He advances toward me, his fists clenching and unclenching. He reaches up, his warm hands pushing hard against my shoulders. “Don’t play games, Zoe. What is going on?”
I’m tired. “Nothing, Henry. Nothing is going on.” I break free of his grasp and hold his gaze, backing up against the sink. Trying for casual.
“Cash is just a reporter?”
“Yes.”
“Is he the reporter who saved your life? With the car?”
“Yes.”