The Dollhouse(78)

Darby was hanging out with a young girl who spoke Spanish and called her aunt. Further bolstering the theory that Esme had switched identities.

Rose checked her phone on her way to work. Still nothing from Jason. A twinge of regret tugged at her. She’d thoroughly enjoyed their encounter at his apartment, but she’d been a needy, twisted mess that night. Bad timing all around.

Her phone rang. Stella.

“Well, hello, Rose. How is it going with Bird?”

“Just fine, Stella. More importantly, how are you?”

“I’m almost back in fighting form. I heard from Darby yesterday.”

Relief poured over her. Darby or Esme, whoever she was, was safe. “Oh, yes? How is she? Where is she?”

“She couldn’t talk long, and the line was crackly. Said she’d be back next Monday.”

Rose swallowed hard. Less than a week.

Stella continued on. “And I have to say she was a little miffed that I left Bird in your care. She said she’d refused to speak to you.”

She’d been caught. Better to play dumb. “She was reluctant, sure, but I had no doubt in time she’d warm up to the idea.”

“Hmm. Anyway, she said she’ll come to your apartment and collect Bird as soon as she arrives.”

She could imagine the look on Griff’s or Connie’s face when the old lady showed up at their door, demanding her dog back. They’d send her off to Bellevue. “Maybe you should just give her my cell number instead, and I’ll bring Bird to her.”

“If she calls me back, I will. Apparently, she’s out of the country.”

“I see. Listen, I was wondering if I could come back out to New Jersey. We’re on a tight deadline with the story, and I’d love to get your input on something that just came up.”

“That’s fine—and in fact, I think it is better we speak before Darby returns.”

“Can I come now?”

“Yes, you may.”




Stella waved away Rose’s polite inquiries about her health.

“I want to know what you’re doing with Darby’s story. She doesn’t know you at all, claims she’s never exchanged a word with you.”

Rose squirmed under her scrutiny. “Well, that’s true enough. I apologize for not being clearer, but as you know, it was an emergency. I was happy to help out.”

Stella pursed her lips, still not convinced.

“Did you know Darby well before her accident?” Rose asked.

“We spent some time together. Not much. We had something of a falling-out soon after she arrived. Why are you so relentless on this subject, Rose? Is it really all that newsworthy? Something that happened more than fifty years ago?”

“It’s part of the story of the hotel, in my mind. The guests, the staff, whatever dividing lines existed. Seems strange she’d want to stay on, after such a tragedy.”

“She had nowhere else to go, no other choices. Before the accident, she’d started coming out of her shell. It was easy to see who she might become given the opportunity. Afterward, though, it was as if she decided she’d been punished for trying to live outside her comfort zone. She withdrew again, and that was pretty much that.”

“I see. Did she seem very different after she got back from the hospital?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

Rose leaned forward. “The girl she’s been hanging with, I think she called her Tía, not Tina. Which means ‘aunt’ in Spanish. I’m wondering if it’s at all possible that Darby was the girl who fell, and the maid, Esme Castillo, was the one who was scarred.”

Stella went white. “What on earth are you suggesting?”

“Is there any chance the two women may have switched identities? That the woman we think of as Darby is in fact Esme?”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Stella’s hands gripped the armrests, her fingers like talons. “Absolutely not. The poor woman has been through enough—and I won’t let you repaint her life as though it was some two-bit melodrama. Why can’t you just leave her alone?”

“I’m sorry.” Rose had overstepped. Coming here was a bad idea. “I guess I worry about her.”

“You don’t even know her.” Stella’s voice boomed.

“I understand what it’s like to be alone in the city and not have anyone to depend on.”

“How dare you assume to understand Darby? To understand me? You think just because we don’t have a man or children, we’re fragile, bitter old ladies? Scared of being mugged or dying in our apartments and not being found for days? Is that what you think our lives are like?”

“No, of course not.” Her reply wasn’t all that convincing.

“Well, let me put you straight.” She planted her legs wide and leaned forward on her elbows. “We aren’t weak. We don’t need anyone’s help. We help ourselves, and we help out each other. My life is rich and full and I get to do whatever the hell I want, when I want. If I want to eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast, I do it without thinking twice. The city is teeming outside my window with life and people to watch, but I don’t want to be them. I don’t need to be them. I love my life and I don’t need your pity.”