The Last Housewife (71)

“No matter what he pulls with those tech tips,” added the third man, laughing.

I stared at the clean-cut man’s outstretched hand for a moment longer than socially acceptable. Then I shook it. What did it say about me that it was the moments of normalcy that were starting to throw me?

“I told you, I’m not a fucking incel.” The sallow-faced man glared at me. “Don’t call me that.”

“Well, you can call me Greggy,” said the one whose hand I’d shaken.

“I’m Steven,” the Incel said. “I don’t need a code name like those cloak-and-dagger assholes.”

I frowned. “You guys aren’t worried about protecting your identity?”

The Incel scoffed, tossing a hand at the party. “Why? Everyone we know is here.”

Everyone. An undercurrent of anxiety tugged at me.

“Hey, have one,” Greggy said, grabbing a passing waitress by the elbow. When he turned her, I realized she was wearing a demure, high-necked dress. A daughter, playing party servant. Probably to ingratiate herself, or maybe we all took turns, and mine was coming. She lifted her tray so we could see the shots lined up in slim glasses and, beside them, a small mountain of pastel-colored pills. They looked friendly, like Smarties. Nicole popped one and chased it with a shot.

Greggy held the tray out to me and raised an eyebrow.

Nicole leaned in. “Take it,” she whispered. “They’ll get a lot more interesting.”

I took the shot glass but left the pill. “Thanks.” The liquor was smoky. Mescal.

“Greggy, tell her the candy’s the important part,” said the third man. “Gotta get her loose.”

“Good luck,” Nicole said with a wink. “Shay’s one of those good girls you might’ve heard about.”

“My favorite,” said the Incel. He turned to the others. “Dibs.”

I swallowed my disgust. They were acting like we were eighteen, at a college party. Well, if they were going to be loose-lipped, all the better for me and the recording device tucked inside my bra.

The Incel grinned at me. “My assistant planned this whole thing. Rented the space, bought the projector. Bitch had no idea what it was for. You should’ve seen her busting her ass to get every detail right. Isn’t that amazing?” He snorted. “Serves her right, the uptight Vassar feminazi. Thinks she’s better than my desk.” He waved a hand at the dance floor. “I’ll let you in on a secret: I have no idea who half these people are. I just needed a crowd for the ambiance. They’ll be gone before we get into the real shit.”

I edged closer, and he leaned in, too, like I was tugging him with an invisible string. “What’s the real shit?”

He nodded at the wall. “A little auteur filmmaking.”

I forced the words out. “You make films with daughters?”

Is that where the missing women went? Were they trapped behind screens, hidden in private collections, doomed to die a thousand times on film for the Paters’ enjoyment? If it was true, it was evidence: I tried to cling to that.

He laughed. “You should see your face right now. Nah, but one of these days, those old bastards will let me. They need us, you know. We’re the fresh blood.”

I swallowed back bile and tried another tack. “How did you become a Pater?”

He studied me. “You’re a little nosy, aren’t you?”

I searched for an excuse, but he kept going. “I know your type. You’re one of those girls who thinks they’re in control. You were always the hot one, so guys bent over backward. You’re my favorite to break.” He held up a light-pink pill, one of the Smarties from the tray. “Take this.”

I shook my head. “I don’t—”

His voice was sharp as a slap. “I told you to do something.” He held my eyes, unblinking. A test.

The eternal dance: give them enough, but not too much. Walk right up to the line.

I wished I could hurt him. Instead, I picked up the pill and put it on my tongue, bitter and chalky. “What is it?”

He smiled as I pretended to swallow. “Think of it as a little pink handcuff. You and me are bound now.” He turned, nodding at the room, and I spit out the pill and dropped it on the floor, crushing it under my heel. “I have a house up in Bronxville. I met the Paters there last summer, at some big finance cocksucker’s party. I thought I was so special, getting in on a secret. Took me a while before I realized everyone I knew was already part of it.” He inclined his head toward Greggy and the other man, who were talking to Nicole. “Bastards were keeping it from me.”

How ironic. Even among the Paters, the Incel was toxic. “You don’t seem to like the other Paters very much.”

It was the exact right question. His face twisted. “Those assholes and their pageantry? A bunch of old guys who need to make everything into a ritual to feel important. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had to chant their dicks hard.”

“You don’t like the ceremony?”

“I’m here to fuck women, not dress up in costumes and learn about enlightenment.” He shot me a sly look. “I was a virgin through college. Nobody wanted to fuck me. Can you believe it?” He tilted his head back and laughed. In the strobe lights, he looked like a movie still, looped and glitching. “Damn, that’s freeing.” He wiped his eyes. “A year ago, I never would’ve told you that. I would’ve begged you to let me buy you a drink, which you would have taken and walked away. You cunt.”