“My buddies said they’d give me twenty bucks if I hit on one of them. You know, as a joke. Like, who could get with a MILF? I took the bet. The first one I tried denied me before I could even offer the drink, but then she—this Winnie woman—she was into it.” He scoffs. “Really into it.”
Francie takes another sip of her drink. She needs to slow down. The wine is muddling her thoughts. “So you didn’t know her before that night?”
“No.” He smirks. “But I sure knew her by the end of it.”
She softens her voice and peers at him from under her eyelashes. “I’m intrigued.”
He’s quiet, studying her. He takes the hem of her dress between his fingers and folds it over itself, making her dress shorter, exposing her freshly shaven thighs, shiny with peach-scented lotion. “You sure you want to hear? It’s really crazy.”
She forces a flirtatious tone into her voice. “I like really crazy.”
“Oh yeah, Veronica? Prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“Yeah. Let’s say I have an incredibly good story for you.”
“Okay.”
“But you have to earn it.” His face is inches from hers. “Kiss me, and I’ll tell you.”
He leans in and roughly presses his lips against hers, pushing his tongue inside her mouth. He pulls away eventually, leaving a bitter hint of beer in her throat. “I bought her a drink.”
Francie raises her eyebrows and then frowns. “That’s not really crazy.”
“No, that’s just the beginning.” He traces Francie’s collar bone with his thumb. “You want more?”
She nods as he slides his hand under her dress, gently forcing her legs apart. He squeezes her inner thigh, his thumb teasing the edge of her underwear. “Go ahead,” she says. Her voice sounds hollow and unfamiliar.
“I asked her to come home with me.” One of the construction workers at the pool table glances at them as fake Archie takes Francie’s hand and places it in between his legs. Francie can feel he’s grown hard, and he guides her hand back and forth over the fabric of his jeans.
“And did she? Go home with you?” she asks. He kisses her. When he pulls away, her vision is hazy. The smell of beer on his breath. The bruising stubble on his chin. It’s not him she’s seeing—not this man she’s calling Archie—but the science teacher. Mr. Colburn.
“No, sadly. She said she had this kid to think about. She was upset about it.”
Francie spreads her fingers wider, feeling a sinking sensation as she continues to press down on him. She closes her eyes. “Winnie was upset?”
“Yeah.” He forces aside her panties and she feels her arms being pinned down, the scratch of the cheap blanket on top of Mr. Colburn’s bed. She feels the urge to scream, but she can’t. “She said all she wanted was to go back to my place. Climb on top of me.” Her hand moves faster over the fabric of his jeans. “That she hated being stuck at home. Having this baby to worry about all the time.”
She whispers into his ear. “She said that? That she hated having a baby?”
“Something like that. We locked ourselves in the bathroom. I couldn’t keep my hands off her body. It was amazing. I told her to at least stay a little longer. Let me get her another drink.”
“And?”
“She started yelling at me. Telling me she had to go take care of things. That she wasn’t like that. Something about being a good mother.” His breath grows shallow on Francie’s neck, and she feels his body beginning to tense. “I would have killed to take her home. To shove her down on my bed. To rip off that dress.” He removes his hand from between Francie’s legs and clutches her wrist, pressing her palm down, forcing it to move faster, his eyes closed, his mouth open. “Winnie. My god. She was so fucking hot.” Francie feels the tears seeping from the corners of her eyes as he moans, deep and low, the sound filling the room.
They’re watching. Both of the guys at the pool table. Standing motionless, their cues held like pitchforks at their sides. Archie doesn’t seem to notice she’s crying as he stares up at the ceiling, licking his lips, his head resting on the back of the couch.
“Her kid. Abducted.” He shakes his head, sitting up and reaching for the rest of his beer. “I sure hope the police are asking her some questions. That girl was fucking nuts.”
Nell sits at a table near the window at the Spot, her mug of black tea growing cold in her hand as she scrolls through the photos she took last night of Beatrice; dozens of pictures of her tiny hands, her minute feet, the bottoms yellow like butter, sweet enough to eat.
Nell checks the door again, hoping Colette and Francie are on their way. She’s impatient to get to the day care to pick up Beatrice—knowing how ludicrous it is, the number of hours she spends staring at photos of her baby’s feet while paying strangers to care for her.
Nell drops her phone in her purse, and when she looks up, Colette is standing at the table, Poppy peeking out from the fabric of a Moby Wrap. Colette’s eyes are red and her freckles are stark and lacy against her skin, which is unusually pale. “You okay?” Nell asks.
“Did you see it?” Colette sits heavily on the chair across from Nell. “They identified the body.”
Nell nods. “I watched it at work, in the corporate café. Everyone was glued to the television. I thought it was going to be Midas. Ever since you called yesterday, I was sure the body was going to be his.”
“I know. Me too.” Colette leans in toward Nell. “I have to talk to you about something. I got this thing in the mail—”
Nell spots Francie near the door, squinting up at the chalkboard menu over the counter. “Oh good, she’s here,” Nell says. Nell stands and waves to Francie, surprised to see she’s wearing a tight, low-cut dress, offering a peek of her black lace bra underneath.
“Did you see it?” Francie asks, approaching the table. “The body?” Her mascara runs in smeared arches over her eyes, which are framed in long, false eyelashes, like the thin legs of a spider.
Nell nods. “I saw it. It’s—”
She sits down. “And Bodhi Mogaro? They’ve released him.” The news of his release broke earlier that day, in a press conference called by Oliver Hood. Standing on the steps of the jailhouse beside Mogaro, his wife, and his mother, Hood demanded an apology from the police officers involved in the investigation, from Commissioner Rohan Ghosh, from Mayor Shepherd.
“We’ll see the NYPD in court,” Hood said.
“I really need a coffee,” Francie says. “And some water.” Nell notices the way her words slur, the sheen of perspiration above Francie’s lips.
“Francie, are you drunk?”
Francie throws Nell an irritated look. “No, Nell. I’m not drunk. I’m a nursing mother.” She reaches for the water in front of Nell and takes a long drink. “I’m very shaken by this Hector news. I saw it on the way here. Do they have any idea who killed him?”
“No, but listen—” Colette says, but Francie cuts her off.
“He had keys to her building. He could have gotten in. Or let someone else in. They’re going to put that together, right? Even an idiot like Mark Hoyt will be able to make that connection?”
“Yes,” Nell says. “And they’re asking for volunteers to search the property and surrounding areas for Midas. We should go.”
Francie’s face is pinched. “You mean search for his body.”
Colette leans forward. “Listen. I have something I need to tell you—something very disturbing happened today.” She takes an envelope from her diaper bag, her name written in green block letters on the front. “This came for me today, at the mayor’s office.”
Nell sees the block handwriting. The green ink. She reaches into her bag at her feet and retrieves a similar envelope, her name written in the exact same print. “This came for me, at work,” Nell says. “It’s why I asked to see you. To show you this.”
The envelope was in her mail slot when she returned from lunch. She opened it sitting at the head of a conference table, before a meeting to brief the other officers of the company on the impending changes to the security system. She stumbled through her presentation, flustered by what was inside.