The Couple Next Door(68)

They decided on a ransom of two million. Split fifty-fifty.

“Not bad for two days’ work,” Bruce assured him.

Marco decided it had to be soon. If he waited longer, he would lose his nerve. He said, “Tomorrow night we’re going out—there’s a dinner party next door. We’ll have a babysitter, but she always falls asleep on the couch with her earbuds.”

“You could go out for a smoke and sneak home and bring the baby out to me,” Bruce said.

Marco thought about it. It could work. They discussed the plan in more detail.

Now if he could choose the point at which he could go back and change everything, it would be the first time he met Bruce. If only he hadn’t taken that walk in the spring air down to the water, if he hadn’t sat on that bench, if Bruce hadn’t happened by. If only he’d gotten up and left that day when Bruce sat down and not struck up an acquaintance that had, over time, grown into a friendship. How different everything would be now.

He didn’t think the police would be able to find anyone who could put Bruce and him together. Their meetings were rather sporadic, unpredictable. The only people around were people occasionally jogging or whizzing by on Rollerblades. He hadn’t worried about it before, because no one was going to see Bruce again. Bruce was ready to retire—he was going to take his million and disappear.

But now Bruce is dead.

And Marco is completely fucked.

He needs to call Richard—that’s the reason he came to the office, to get away from Anne so that he could have a private conversation with her father. He has to know what’s going on with Cora, whether Richard has made new arrangements with the kidnappers.

He hesitates. He can’t bear the thought of any more bad news. No matter what else happens, they have to get Cora back. He has to trust that Richard can make it happen. He will deal with the rest later.

He picks up the phone and enters the number for his father-in-law. It goes directly to voice mail. Fuck. He leaves a brief message: “It’s Marco, call me. Let me know what’s happening.”

He gets up and starts pacing the length of his office, like a man already locked in a cell.

? ? ?

Anne thinks she hears her baby crying; Cora must be just waking up from her nap. She peels off her gardening gloves and goes quickly inside and washes her hands at the kitchen sink. She can hear Cora upstairs in her crib, crying for her. “Just a minute, sweetheart,” she calls. “I’ll be right there.” She feels happy.

Anne rushes upstairs to get her baby, humming a little. She goes into the nursery. Everything looks the same, but the crib is empty. She suddenly remembers, and it’s like being violently swept out to sea. She collapses into the nursing chair.

She’s not right—she knows she’s not well. She should call someone. Her mother. But she doesn’t. Instead she rocks herself back and forth in the chair.

She would like to blame Cynthia for all her problems, but she knows Cynthia doesn’t have her baby.

Cynthia has only tried to steal her husband, the husband that Anne herself is no longer even sure she wants. Some days she thinks Marco and Cynthia deserve each other. Anne hears Cynthia now on the other side of the wall, and all her hatred solidifies into a powerful rage. Because if they hadn’t gone to Cynthia’s that night, if Cynthia hadn’t said no children, none of this would ever have happened. She would still have her baby.

Anne studies herself in the shattered upstairs bathroom mirror, which they still have not replaced. She looks fractured, splintered into a hundred different pieces. She hardly recognizes the person looking back at her. She washes her face, brushes her hair. She goes into the bedroom and puts on a clean shirt and new jeans. She checks: there are no reporters in front of the house. Then she walks next door and rings the doorbell.

Cynthia answers, clearly surprised at finding Anne on her doorstep.

“Can I come in?” Anne asks. Even for a day spent at home, Cynthia is nicely dressed—Capri pants, a pretty silk blouse.

Cynthia looks at her warily for a second. Then she pulls the door wide and says, “Okay.”

Anne steps into the house.

“Do you want some coffee? I could put some on,” Cynthia offers. “Graham’s away He’s flying back late tomorrow night.”

“Sure,” Anne says, following her into the kitchen. Now that she’s here, she wonders how to begin. She wants to learn the truth. Should she be friendly? Accusatory? The last time she was in this house, everything was still normal. It seems like such a long time ago. Another lifetime.

In the kitchen Anne looks at the sliding glass doors that lead out to the patio and the backyard. She sees the chairs on the patio. She imagines Cynthia in Marco’s lap in one of those chairs, while the dead man drives Anne’s baby away. She is filled with rage, but she is careful not to show it. She has had a lot of practice feeling anger without showing it. She dissembles. Isn’t that what everyone does? Everyone is faking it, all of them pretending to be something they’re not. The whole world is built on lies and deceit. Cynthia is a liar, just like Anne’s husband.

Anne feels dizzy suddenly and sits down at the kitchen table. Cynthia gets the coffeemaker started, then turns around and faces her, leaning back against the counter. From where Anne is seated, Cynthia looks taller and more long-legged than ever. Anne realizes that she’s jealous, insanely jealous, of Cynthia. And Cynthia knows it.