“I’ve suggested nothing—”
Sebastian steps into the hallway, looking worried. “Her fever’s back,” he says. “You should probably nurse her.”
Nell sighs and presses her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to contain the ache swelling behind them. “Listen, Detective, it’s been great catching up, but my baby needs me. I’m assuming I have the right to ask you to leave?”
Hoyt nods. “Of course you have that right. I’m happy to come back when it’s more convenient. I know how it is with kids.” He rolls his eyes. “I got three of them.”
Nell stands, her legs heavy, and walks to the door. She makes a show of opening it wide. “Then you know how difficult it can be when they’re sick.”
Hoyt pauses a beat. “Of course, Ms. Mackey. It’s not easy. Parenting can be truly overwhelming. Certainly when they’re babies.” His gaze is intense. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
She’s silent as Hoyt stands from the chair and walks slowly toward the doorway. He stops in front of Nell and draws a business card from his back pocket.
“This is my direct line,” he says, handing it to her. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us. Okay, Ms. Mackey?”
She takes the card. “Yes, fine.”
Before she can close the door, he stops it with the toe of his boot, peeking his head back inside, and gives her a curious look. “That is your real name, correct? Nell Mackey?”
Chapter Eleven
Day Six
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 10
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 57
If you haven’t already implemented a bedtime routine, we have one question: What on earth are you waiting for? A routine will help the little one know it’s time for sleeping, so consider spending as much time as you can rocking, singing, bathing, reading, and/or cuddling. You’ll both be ready for a good night’s sleep afterward!
The blood runs from the slit in Francie’s wrist down her forearm, pooling in the bend of her elbow. She steadies herself against the counter as Lowell rushes toward her, holding the good yellow dish towel, the one with sunflowers. The blood is going to ruin the towel. She’ll have to throw it away.
“Jesus,” he says, pressing the towel to her wrist.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Hold it tighter.”
“But that plate. It was one of your grandmother’s.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He wipes the blood from the scuffed linoleum under her feet before picking the pieces of glass out of the sink. After everything is cleaned up, he leans against the counter. “You okay?”
“Fine. It looks worse than it is. That was so weird. The plate slipped through my fingers.”
He nods. “I heard you out here last night. What were you doing?”
“I thought I heard Will cry, and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. I was just reading some things—”
Lowell shakes his head. “There are people working on this case, Francie. Professionals. If he’s out there, they’ll find him.”
She keeps her eyes down, pressing the wound. “I know.”
“You’re so anxious and distracted. That’s not good for Will.”
She spins toward him. “What does that mean? Not good for Will?”
“You need to be thinking about him now. About his—”
“Are you serious? Our baby is the only thing I think about anymore.”
“Francie. Come on. Calm down.”
“Calm down? No, Lowell, you calm down. The people working on this? They’re a bunch of incompetent buffoons. You’ve said so yourself. And what? I’m just supposed to forget that?” She throws the towel on the counter. “This whole Bodhi Mogaro thing? Have you been reading about it? People are coming to his defense. Saying he’s being racially profiled. The ACLU is starting to pay attention. They have nothing on him. No criminal history. No motive. His wife says he missed the flight because he overslept.” She hears the accusation rising in her voice. “She says he doesn’t get much sleep, because he gets up with their son at night. So she can rest.”
Lowell is silent, his expression impassive.
“Even Patricia Faith is saying the police are overstepping by keeping him in custody. The guy was lost. That’s why he was on that government property. If they had anything on him, they would have charged him by now.”
“I wouldn’t put too much faith”—he raises his eyebrows and smirks—“in what that woman says.”
“It’s not funny, Lowell.”
“I know it’s not, but Francie, you can’t do anything about it. I’m serious. You’re not sleeping. You’re hardly eating.” He rests his arms on her shoulders. “I know I’m not allowed to suggest that Midas is dead—”
“Lowell, stop.”
“—but guess what? He might be.”
She pulls away. “Lowell, stop. Don’t be so cavalier. It’s a baby’s life we’re—”
“Francie, listen to me. He might be dead, okay. It’s awful, but you have to prepare yourself for that news.”
“He’s NOT dead.” She remembers that Will is in earshot, rocking on the bouncy chair in the living room, and she lowers her voice. “I know it.”
“How? How do you know it? Bad things happen, France.”
Francie closes her eyes, and the memory returns: sitting under the willow tree among the May Mothers just ten days earlier, the sun on her neck, hearing Nell’s words. Bad things happen in heat like this.
The room tilts around her. “The best thing you can do is take care of yourself,” Lowell says, his voice thin and distant in her ears. “It’s not good for anyone for you to be losing your shit like this. I’ll take today off. I can cancel a meeting.”
She looks up at him. “Why?”
“So you can rest.”
She savors the idea: climbing into bed, treating herself to a few hours alone. It’s been months since she’s been by herself for more than fifteen minutes—when Lowell watched the baby so she could run to the shop for a jar of sauce. She should do it. She should allow herself a break from Will and his crying, from thinking about Midas and reading Patricia Faith’s website, with its hideous comments and the questions people are beginning to ask about Winnie. Where was she that night? Why isn’t she speaking to the press, doing interviews, demanding Midas’s return?
But she can’t do that. They can’t afford Lowell missing a meeting, not after he just lost the job they were counting on.
“No, it’s fine,” she says. “I planned to take the baby out for a walk. I need to start exercising.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You’re right. I need to take better care of myself. A good brisk walk will help.”
Lowell seems to soften. “I’m offering. Last chance to say yes.”
“You need to work. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Lowell kisses her forehead. “I’m going to take a shower.”
She waits until she hears the shower running to head into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her, removing the notebook she buried in the top drawer under the lacy underpants she hasn’t worn in months. She flips it open to the list she made of the people who were at the bar that night, and turns to the new list she’s been keeping—the names of every possible suspect.
She puts a question mark in front of the first name on the list.
Bodhi Mogaro.
What if his lawyer is right? What if it really isn’t him? She reviews the other options.
Someone related to Winnie’s grandfather’s business.