The Vanishing Year(31)

The whole time I talk, I rub the thin, pink scar on my wrist, from where the cable ties tore into my skin. I had seven stitches there to hold the flesh back together. It’s barely visible. Lately, I find myself running the pad of my finger along the edge, a reminder of where I’ve ended up and maybe what I don’t deserve.

I tell the entire story, which is something I’ve never done before. Not to Detective Maslow, not to the lawyers, or the cops, or later to a psychologist I saw a total of three times. Everyone knows bits and pieces of the story but no one has ever heard me tell it, all at once in a rush. I say it all, quickly but flatly, dispassionate, almost like it happened to someone else.

Which is true, when you think about it. It happened to Hilary.





CHAPTER 10



Yates promises that she’ll be in touch and drops me off in front of my building. She touches my hand once, a tactile thank you and don’t worry all at the same time, her crimson fingernails flittering.

I stand on the sidewalk, studying my apartment building with Hilary’s eyes. The opulence, the gold and brass. Fear pricks at the back of my scalp and I scan up and down the street, expecting to see Mick or Jared Pritchett leaning languidly against the black stone of the building. Picking his teeth. Grinning like a Cheshire cat. You’re dead now, chatty girl. His scarred face glinting in the afternoon sun. My brain is flinging memories at me, long buried. The curled snake around Mick’s bicep. His nails, cut square and rimmed with black, fingers tap tap tap on his knees, his foot bobbing.

I haven’t relived the kidnapping in years, maybe ever. I buried it, deep and inaccessible. Now, on the streets, the lights seem too bright, the cars seem too loud. I can’t catch my breath and I feel shaky and weak. I think of Henry’s face if I told him, how his eyebrows would protrude downward, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Peter is at the door, hunched over and white-haired. He gives me a sympathetic pat on the back. It seems everyone needs to touch me today, but in that quick funeral parlor way—taps and pats.

“There’s a man inside the lobby waiting for you.” He wheezes. My heart lurches into my throat and sticks there. He turns his head to the side. “He says he’s from the New York Post? Might want to write about the break-in? Seems funny.”

Cash. I blow out a breath and shake my fists loose. I need to get a grip. I hesitate in the vestibule and check my phone. No Henry.

Cash is hunched over, elbows resting on his knees on the plush sofa in the lobby, fiddling with his cell phone. At the click of my heels on the marble floor, he looks up and gives me a half wave.

“How do you know where I live?” I halt about ten feet from him and eye him suspiciously.

He half stands, fumbling with something on the sofa next to him and it falls to the floor between us. It’s my wallet. He snatches it up, almost guiltily.

“You, uh, left this. When you ran out this morning.” He extends his hand and rushes on. “I tried to call you a few times.”

“I ignored them. I . . . I didn’t recognize the number. It’s been a . . . hectic day.” I take the wallet and feel a stab of sympathy. He looks flustered and awkward, and he shoves one beefy fist in his pocket.

“So I also had an idea. About our conversation this morning?” His eyes slide over to Peter.

I hesitate. I don’t want to discuss my adoption in the lobby. The apartment is still torn apart, likely streaked with fingerprint powder by now. I’m overwhelmed. At least Cash is a friend. Sort of. I sigh and motion him to follow me. We ride the elevator in silence and I’m self-conscious of the apartment. The flaunting wealth never bothered me before, but now as I slide the card across the top, I view the apartment through Cash’s eyes. The custom designed flooring and rich paint hues, large, European antique furniture, fourteen-foot ceilings. The ransacked belongings.

I clear my throat, hang my coat in the hall closet.

“Holy shit! You’ve been robbed!” He pulls out his cell phone. “Here, I’ll call 9-1-1—”

“No!” I wave my hand. “The apartment was broken into this morning. That’s where I was all day. I’m sorry. I feel so . . . disconnected or something. I should have mentioned it in the elevator.” I do feel disconnected. My reactions are out of whack.

I study the living room. The credenza has been emptied, its contents littering the carpet like a flea market. I bend down, pick up a pair of pewter candlesticks, and place them back in the cabinet I think they came from. It’s such a small gesture, like taking a chip out of a block of ice. I shrug.

“Are you okay?” he asks, raising one arm to pat me and I involuntarily step back.

“I’m okay, let’s sit in the kitchen. There was nothing done there.” He follows me and takes a seat on the kitchen island. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, I feel like I’ve lost the skill. If he was Lydia, would I cry? Would I ramble about being insecure and violated and scared? Would I tell him about Mick? I can’t remember how to need someone. A year is a long time to be so emotionally self-reliant. I feel tired.

I open the fridge and pull out two water bottles. On second thought, I pull out a bottle of pinot grigio and uncork it. I tilt a wineglass in Cash’s direction and he shakes his head no.

“Thanks for the water, though.” He takes a long time to unscrew the cap and take a sip. I down my glass of wine and feel the heat behind my breastbone. My back relaxes almost immediately, that taut string between my shoulder blades, and the release tingle travels down my arms and into my fingertips. I flex my hands. I pour the second glass and take a deep swig. It’s cold and acidic. Cash doesn’t fill the silence, which I like. Neither does Henry. Where the fuck is Henry? And suddenly, I’m filled with anger. It’s bubbling up, fighting its way up my esophagus against the river of wine, and before I know it, I’m crying. The kind of crying where you can’t see and you can’t stop. It’s embarrassing, and I know that, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m just so tired of always trying to “do something about it.” The release feels good, if not vulnerable.