On her way to sit at the mayor’s office, to wait around for Teb, writing a book he’s going to say he wrote himself, earning him a fortune in royalties, too afraid to attempt another book of her own. Her first book, a biography of Victoria Woodhull, the first woman to run for president, was published six years earlier. Colette spent years researching it and was infinitely proud of the work. But its sales were dismal, and while she wrote two subsequent book proposals, no publisher was interested. Too gun-shy to try again, on her agent’s advice she began to accept ghostwriting work. Just for a little while, her agent said. Just until a better idea for the next book strikes. That was four years ago.
Her phone dings with a new text message as she climbs the subway stairs at her stop near City Hall, distracting her from the thoughts. It’s Charlie.
I’ve been thinking about something, he wrote.
What’s that?
Global warming. What a bummer, huh? She waits. Also, how about a romantic dinner at home tonight? After the baby’s asleep.
Sounds nice.
I’ll even let you cook.
Colette stops at the coffee cart at the entrance to City Hall Park. “A large black iced coffee,” she says to the man inside. “And a glazed doughnut, please.”
How generous, she types.
I think so too. What are you going to make?
A soufflé.
Awesome. What kind?
The invisible kind.
But you made that yesterday.
She has another ten minutes before she’s scheduled to meet Teb, and she decides to take her coffee to a bench in the park, near a butterfly bush blooming with purple flowers. It would all be so much easier if she could tell Charlie the truth. She wants to stop working. She wants to focus on Poppy. She pulls the doughnut apart, envisioning the life she wants: being only a mother right now. Making sure Poppy is okay. That she’s loved, healthy, getting the things she needs.
She casts the idea away. She can’t tell Charlie that.
She can’t be that.
Colette Yates, the daughter of Rosemary Carpenter, the Rosemary Carpenter, who made a career writing about the plight of motherhood, the inherent sexism in domestic partnerships, the need for women to avoid dependence on a man. She was going to choose to be a stay-at-home mom?
Colette finishes the doughnut and opens her e-mail, knowing she has to gather herself and prepare for her meeting with Teb. There’s a new message from Aaron Neeley, with notes on the chapters they’re meant to discuss today.
You’re not really getting this part—the emotional toll Margeaux’s death had on the mayor. The timeline here is all screwed up. Go back and dig up the Esquire profile. That writer got it right.
Colette raises her face to the sky, feeling the sun’s warmth on her skin, and hears the chime of an incoming text. She tries not to think about Aaron’s message, or the hour she’ll have to spend talking about this book, or the image of Winnie sitting alone in her apartment, Midas’s crib empty, surrounded by reminders of his absence. All she wants to think about, at least for another five minutes, is the sun on her face, dinner with Charlie, the pediatrician’s appointment tomorrow, where she’ll hear everything is fine. Poppy is normal. Her fears are unfounded.
She reaches for her phone to see what Charlie has written. But the message isn’t from Charlie.
It’s from Francie.
Colette tries to appear composed as she greets Allison.
“Go on in and get settled,” Allison says. “He’s finishing up another meeting.”
Inside Teb’s office, she sits at the large round table and opens her laptop.
They found him. That’s all Francie’s text said.
She types the address of the New York Post website, bracing herself for devastating news. The article is on the home page.
Suspect in Midas Ross Abduction Found in Pennsylvania
Colette exhales, resting her forehead on her palm. Francie didn’t mean Midas. She meant Bodhi Mogaro.
A 24-year-old Yemeni man believed to be linked to the abduction of Midas Ross was arrested early this morning in Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania, two hours west of New York City.
The police pulled him over for trespassing after his parked car was spotted on the grounds of the Tobyhanna Army Depot, which houses surveillance equipment used by the Department of Defense. The police confirm they have been searching for Mogaro for two days, after eyewitnesses spotted him around Gwendolyn Ross’s residence on the night of July 4, at the time of her son’s abduction. A bag containing nearly $25,000 in cash was discovered in the trunk of Mogaro’s car, a 2015 Ford Focus, rented from JFK early in the morning on July 5.
$25,000 in cash.
Colette reads the sentence again. Why would he have that money?
The Department of Homeland Security has become involved, investigating why Mogaro may have been trying to break into the Army Depot, while also trying to determine if any military personnel may have been working in collusion with Mogaro. Mogaro’s wife, a professor of economics at Wayne State University, did not respond to several requests for comment.
Colette’s phone beeps again. It’s Nell. What does this mean?
“Colette.” Allison is standing in the door. “Sorry to interrupt your writing, but the mayor’s running a few minutes late.”
Colette nods. “Okay,” she says, barely getting the word out. “Thanks.”
“And I should let you know. The copy machine broke.” Allison lowers her voice. “The repairman won’t be here for another hour, if you need to use the room. I can make a sign. Nobody will disturb you.”
Colette glances down at the article. “Good timing,” she says. “I was just about to see if the bathroom is empty.”
Allison’s smile is wide. “Give me a minute.”
Colette takes her bag from under the chair and walks to the credenza beside the mayor’s desk. The file is still there, heavier in her hands than it was two days earlier. Allison flashes a thumbs-up from her desk as Colette walks to the copy room, clicking the lock into place behind her. As she lifts the file from her bag, something falls from it, landing at her feet. A flash drive. She sets it on the copy machine and pages quickly through the papers inside the file, scanning for Bodhi Mogaro’s name. In her haste she slices the crease of her thumb and forefinger, leaving a painful wisp of a paper cut, and a trail of her blood on the top page.
“Shit,” she whispers, rubbing the blood across the words “Membership list: May Mothers.”
She flips through copies of the questionnaire she had to fill out when signing up for May Mothers through the Village website. She sees Nell’s profile. Yuko’s. Scarlett’s. Francie’s. How did the police get access to these?
She sees hers.
She takes it from the stack, looking at the photo she included, from the trip to Sanibel Island she and Charlie took before Poppy was born. The night he proposed, the anniversary of their first date, the first night they’d spent together, waking up the next morning in his Brooklyn Heights apartment, watching the first plane hit the tower. “I will be with you forever,” she said that day on the Florida beach, her hair thick with sand and salt water, holding the ring in her hand. “But you know me, Charlie. Marriage isn’t my thing.” She barely recognizes herself in the photo. Just two years earlier, but she appears so young.
Then it occurs to her: Teb will see this. He’ll discover that she knows Winnie. He’ll know—if he doesn’t know already—that she was there that night. He’ll want to know why she didn’t tell him.
She looks at the shredder next to the copy machine, and without a second thought, she feeds the paper into the slit on top. In one rapid motion, slivers emerge from the other end of the machine.
She returns to the folder, flipping through the papers. Photos of the back deck of the Jolly Llama. Photos of Winnie’s house. Her kitchen. A lab report Colette can’t make sense of. She stops at a transcript of an interview, several pages long.
Hoyt: Can you spell your name for me?
Meraud Spool: M-E-R-A-U-D S-P-O-O-L
Hoyt: And you’re a friend of Ms. Ross?
Spool: A former friend. We haven’t spoken in years, but we were close when we were young.
Hoyt: I know we want to get to the incident with Daniel you witnessed, but before we get to that, tell me about your relationship with Ms. Ross.
Spool: We met at the Bluebird auditions. We had a lot in common, and we clicked right away. When my mom and I moved here for the show, Mrs. Ross invited us to stay with them while the apartment we bought was being renovated. We would spend our weekends at their country home, upstate. Winnie and I shared a room. She felt like my sister.
Hoyt: Okay.
Spool: So, anyway, we both got cast. Winnie, obviously, got the lead.