Colette walks to the door and pushes it closed a few inches. Back at Teb’s desk, the Danish clutched in her hand, she opens the folder and peeks inside. There’s a photograph of a man. He’s tall and thin. He wears a hooded sweatshirt and is handing something to a store clerk. There’s another, taken from the same security camera, as he turns away from the counter, his face in profile. Then he’s walking toward the door and glancing up, straight into the camera. She fingers through the papers underneath: copies of handwritten notes; a photo of Midas’s crib, with mint-green sheets and a decal of thin, delicate birds taking flight on the wall above it. And then another of the man, this one crisp and in color. He’s of Middle Eastern descent, and he’s staring into the camera, sunglasses perched atop his head, balancing a baby on his forearm. The baby is partially covered with a blanket.
She lifts the photograph for a closer look, but then hears footsteps outside the door. She quickly returns it to the stack, closes the folder, and rushes back to the table. The steps pass by outside Teb’s office, and she looks down at her notes—Teb’s story about finally confronting his mother’s abusive boyfriend—but she can’t get the image out of her mind. The man’s smile. His hands. How they cupped that baby’s skull.
Who has my baby? How am I going to survive this?
Before she can consider what she’s doing, Colette takes her purse from the chair beside her, walks to Teb’s desk, and places the folder in her bag. She walks calmly into the hall and down the corridor to the copy room, where she shuts the door and turns the lock. The sweat of her palms smears the ink of the stamp on the top of each paper—Highly Confidential—as she pages through the stack, knowing how significantly she’s breaching her contract with Teb. According to the confidentiality agreement she’s signed, she can’t access any information he hasn’t specifically shared with her. She can’t speak to anyone about the things she’s learned during the course of her work. She can’t even admit to anyone—“no relative, friend, member of the public”—that she’s the person who writes his books.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Hello?” It’s Allison. The doorknob turns. “Is someone in there?”
Colette shoves the papers back into the folder and sets it under a box on a shelf above the copier. She grabs her bag from the floor and digs inside, unbuttoning the top four buttons of her shirt, revealing the upper edge of her nursing bra. She steadies her breathing before cracking open the door.
“Sorry.” She offers Allison an apologetic smile and holds up her manual breast pump. “The mayor’s still not there, and I need to pump. The bathroom’s a little gross. That makes it difficult.”
Allison’s forehead wrinkles in embarrassment. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry to disturb you. Of course. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“You’re the best.” Colette relocks the door, and waits a few moments before reaching for the folder again. Ten minutes later, she’s back in the hall, walking slowly toward Allison. “See what you have to look forward to?”
In Teb’s office, she returns the folder to the pile. She’s just sat down and opened the lid of her laptop when Teb walks in. He’s without his suit jacket, and his shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows, the cotton stretching across the taut muscles of his back.
“You hate me?” he asks, throwing a notebook onto his desk. His smile is wide and radiant—the smile now gracing billboards across the nation as part of the “True Heroes” ad campaign for Ralph Lauren—no signs of the difficult meeting he’s come from.
“No, of course not, Mayor.”
He grimaces. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? It sounds too weird, coming from you.”
“Sorry. No, I don’t hate you, Teb Marcus Amedeo Shepherd.”
“Whoa. No need to go crazy.” He flips through the folders Aaron left and then places them on the credenza beside his desk. “I have some bad news.”
Her heart seizes. “About Midas?”
“Midas?”
She shakes her head. “Midas Ross. That baby in the news. Aaron said you were with Ghosh. I thought you were going to say—”
“I was wondering if this was going to get to you. That baby’s the same age as Poppy.” He turns his back to her and pours himself a cup of coffee. “What kind of monster would take a baby?”
“Do you have any—”
He waves his hand, dismissing the question. “No, the bad news is not about him. It’s about you and me.” He turns toward her, and she braces herself. “I have to cancel on you. I didn’t get a chance to read what you sent yesterday, and now I have another meeting.”
The tension in her chest dissolves with relief. She doesn’t have to spend the next hour talking about this awful book. She can get out of here, try to make sense of what she’s just read.
“Teb—” She makes sure the word comes out annoyed.
“I know,” he says. “I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. Can you come by tomorrow?”
She begins to pack up her laptop and notebook. “Sure.”
“No. Wait. I’m out on Long Island all day for a fund raiser. The day after?”
She nods. “Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, C.” He sits behind his desk, scrolling through his cell phone. “How’s my baby?”
“Adorable.”
“Yeah? She giving her mother any trouble? Because if she is, I’ll have a talk with her.”
“I’m not sure even you are convincing enough, but feel free to tell her she better start sleeping through the night.”
He keeps his eyes on his phone and reaches out his hand. “Let me see.” He looks up. “I need to see a recent photo.”
Her phone is in her bag. Teb stands up, and she turns her back to him. She cautiously unzips her purse just as Aaron appears at the door.
“Excuse me, sir, but they’re waiting for you. They don’t have much longer.”
“Okay, I gotcha.” Teb takes a long drink of coffee and then sets the mug back on the credenza, next to the folders. “Text some to me,” he says, reaching to touch her arm on the way out.
Colette says good-bye to Allison, and once outside, she walks quickly through the crowds, through air perfumed with the earthy scent of charred pretzel oil, and toward the subway. Inside the train, she takes an empty seat at the back of the chilly car. Ten minutes later, as the train emerges from the tunnel on to the Brooklyn Bridge, she watches the stream of pedestrians trudging down the pathway under the hot July sun. She takes out her phone, the tears stinging as she types.
Are you guys free tomorrow morning to come to my place? I have something I need to tell you.
Chapter Six
Night Two
I don’t know what to do.
I’m trying to keep in mind the thing the doula told me: Deep breathing initiates the parasympathetic nervous system, the rest-and-relax state. But it’s not working. My chest is too stiff, and I can’t get enough oxygen. I need to get out of here, breathe some fresh air, but the journalists are outside, circling, waiting to ask me questions. That guy from the Post, Elliott What’s-his-name, with his shlubby clothes and cheap haircut and oily skin, making his mother so proud to see his name in print. He’s there all the time, talking to the neighbors. Where were you that night? What do you think happened? What can you tell me about the mother?
I pace. Up and down the hall, instinctively avoiding the creaky sixth floorboard in front of the nursery. I keep the curtains closed. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. I don’t want one more visit from a detective, asking if I can talk, wondering if there’s anything else I can add.
I have nothing to add. How can I, when I remember so little—when the details of that night come and go, like a rapid blur of static events.
I remember reading Nell’s e-mail, suggesting a night out, a few hours away from the babies.
I remember thinking no, of course I won’t go to that. But then I kept re-reading the e-mail, considering it. Nell was so persistent. Everyone come, and especially Winnie. We won’t take no for an answer.
Fine, I hastily decided. I won’t give no for an answer. I’ll give yes for an answer! And why not? I deserved a night out as much as anyone. I deserved to have fun. Why did I always have to be the one person staying home, obsessing about a baby, when every other mother in the world seems to have no problem going out, celebrating a holiday, having a drink or two? They’re somehow able to effortlessly navigate this new world. So calm. So confident. So fucking perfect.
Why couldn’t I be more like them?