Life and Other Inconveniences(67)

“What did you do?” I asked.

She lowered her sunglasses and looked at me. “I excelled,” she said, arching her eyebrow.

I smiled. She was kind of awesome, this Genevieve London person.

I didn’t want to like her too much, because of how she stranded Mom way back when and suggested an abortion. But I understood. Mom had been eighteen. Genevieve knew life was going to be hard, and she wanted to give Mom a way out that didn’t involve supporting her (and me).

And my mom was the best. The youngest, the prettiest, the smartest and nicest mom of anyone. I knew how hard she worked to get through school, and it made me proud. She was so cute when she went into the city to her office, asking me if she looked okay, what jewelry she should wear.

My mom was kind of perfect, to be honest. Overprotective and a little heavy on the advice, but hey. At least she cared. She was my best friend, and hardly anyone had a mother like that. Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if we’d stayed here on the Sheerwater tit, so to speak. Maybe Genevieve knew what she was talking about.

And maybe—though I knew better than to ask—maybe she’d leave my mom some money. It’d be nice to have Mom be able to breathe a little. When she’d finished her PhD, Pop and I bought her a leather satchel from this really cool boutique in Wicker Park, and she cried when she saw it. She didn’t have a lot of nice things, and she never seemed to mind, but seeing how Gigi lived . . . well.

Anyway, back to Sheppard. When I’d mentioned doing some research the other day, I knew I hit a nerve.

So far, I’d done the following:

1. Did a Google search for people who suspected they’d been force-adopted.

2. Asked Gigi for a saliva sample (you should’ve seen her face). We used three different testing companies. You never know. Maybe Sheppard was out there, looking for her, too. Gigi said she had already given a DNA sample way back when, but now it’s kind of a fad, so more people might be doing it. And why not, right? She has plenty of money.

3. Read all the old articles on Sheppard’s disappearance. They didn’t say much . . . just that he was missing, and it rained two days later, which didn’t help. There were no persons of interest in a kidnapping. No suspicious vehicles reported, no leads, nada.



I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like to be Sheppard. I mean, there’s not a real good outcome in his case, is there? I listen to enough true crime podcasts to know he’s probably dead. I remember being seven . . . second grade, Mrs. Schoenberg, my teacher, dressed like a duck on Halloween, and Mom had made me a chick costume that year, and it felt so special, matching the teacher. That winter, we had a big snowstorm, and school was closed for days. Pop and Mom and I went sledding at Caldwell Woods, and we got cocoa after.

It was easy being seven. Seven was a nice age. You could read by yourself, but you were still little.

I hope Sheppard didn’t suffer. I hope he wasn’t molested. At best, he was kidnapped and raised by some person who just really, really wanted a kid.

I don’t think the odds were in his favor, though.

I planned to go out to the woods near Birch Lake, where he’d last been seen. And I wanted to go through his room, but only if Gigi gave me the okay.

It would be awfully nice to have someone to do this with. A friend, even if just for the summer. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed to be in the over-seventy crowd, or these stressed mothers lugging bags from Whole Foods into their gorgeous houses.

I saw a boy about my age at the library, but he had headphones on and we did that awkward thing where just as we made eye contact, I looked away. Boys were way too hard, unless they were gay. Couldn’t really see going up to him and saying, “Hi! Are you gay? No? Okay, never mind.”

I sighed.

“Honey?” My mom poked her head in my room. “You coming down for cocktail hour?” She pulled a face.

“Yes, I’ll have a martini,” I said. “Extra dry.”

“Or a Shirley Temple. Or water. Or milk.”

“Or formula,” I said. “I was just kidding. I’m gonna change first, though.” I paused. “Is anyone else coming? Anyone under fifty?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Anyone else?”

She laughed. “I don’t know,” she said. “Come down with me so Gigi can’t criticize my clothes.”

I looked her up and down. Jeans and a boring blue oxford. “You could use a little pizzazz,” I said.

“Don’t you start,” she said, hugging me. “One fashion critic in the family is enough.”





CHAPTER 20


    Genevieve


After my talk with the wretched Paul, I spent some time in my office, Googling suicide options under the guise of assisting Beverly with some issues on next year’s spring line. The truth was, Beverly hadn’t e-mailed me since I brought Riley down to the city, and I felt snubbed. She was supposed to update me twice a week.

Then again, we hadn’t put anything in writing. It was really a courtesy, and we both knew it. The only thing Beverly wanted from me was my name. When we’d been in the showroom, she was lovely. But when I asked her if she’d like a few sketches for next year’s fall line, she gave me a look and said, “I think our team has everything well under control.”