Wherever She Goes(12)

I finally get off work, and I’m walking to the parking lot when my phone buzzes. Thinking it’s the police, I scramble to yank it from my pocket.

Bright Horizons Daycare.

I wince. There’s only one reason they ever call me: if Charlotte is sick. Paul can’t dash in from the city, obviously, so this is the one responsibility he allows me to take.

Maybe Charlotte wasn’t faking her cough yesterday.

I answer quickly with, “Aubrey Finch.”

“Ms. Finch? Your husband said you were picking Charlotte up today.”

Today? Why would I pick Charlotte up on a Wednesday— The princess tea. That’s what I forgot.

“Yes, I’m getting her today,” I say as calmly as I can. “Thank you for checking. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

A pause. “We closed five minutes ago, Ms. Finch.”

What? No. I get off at five and . . .

I stayed an extra hour. It’s past six.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as I run for the parking lot. “I was asked to work late and totally lost track of time. I’ll be there in . . .”

I look around the lot. Where is my—?

Oh, no . . . I don’t have my car.

“In a few minutes,” I say as I race back to the road, frantically searching for a cab. “I’ll pay the late fee myself. Please don’t charge Paul. This is on me, and I’m so sorry. I’ll be right there.”



I jump out of the cab. As I run across the empty daycare lot, the side door opens, and Charlotte walks out . . . clutching the hand of a stranger.

For two seconds, reality snaps, and all I can think is I’m losing my mind.

That’s the only explanation as I watch my daughter being led away by a stranger, two days after I saw a boy snatched. This is not possible.

“Mommy!” Charlotte shouts.

She breaks away from the stranger and starts to run. The woman hurries after her and catches her hand. Then they walk toward me.

“You must be Aubrey,” the woman says.

She isn’t a daycare worker. Not dressed like this—sensible but stylish, from her heels to her dress to her hairstyle, short and smart.

Sophisticated. That’s the word that comes to mind. Stylish and sophisticated.

She’s in her late thirties. Not beautiful, but striking and self-possessed. The kind of woman I visualize for my future, when I’ve overcome all the bumps and gotten my act together.

The woman extends her free hand, the other one still holding Charlotte’s.

“Gayle Lansing,” she says.

Gayle . . .

Oh, no.

I shake her hand and babble something about being pleased to meet her. It is, quite possibly, the biggest lie I’ve told in a long time, and that’s saying something.

Gayle Lansing is Paul’s new girlfriend.

When he told me a few weeks ago that he was seeing someone—doing the right thing and warning me that there was a new face in Charlotte’s life—he said she worked in his office, and I thought, Really? He’s dating some cute young assistant? Figures.

Except that it didn’t figure at all, and deep down, I knew that. So I looked Gayle up . . . and promptly began wishing Paul really were dating a twenty-something assistant.

Gayle Lansing. Thirty-nine, the same age as Paul. A lawyer at his firm. A new partner at his firm. As I’ve learned since, Gayle is divorced, with custody of her two children, who attend a private school, win tons of awards, and are shining examples of parenting perfection.

Naturally.

I look at her, and my memory kaleidoscopes through scenes from every social function I attended as Paul’s wife. At first, they’d seemed endless—the firm dinners, the charity banquets. At every one, I’d looked at wives like Gayle, poised and professional, and it didn’t matter how conservatively I dressed or intelligently I spoke, I felt like the stripper Paul met in Vegas and married after too many free drinks at the casino.

I tried to tell myself I was imagining it—being self-conscious again—but eventually we stopped going to those functions, and when I asked Paul, he shrugged it off and said he didn’t need to do that, now that he’d made partner. Which was a lie. The truth was that having me at those functions hurt his career more than not attending.

Having someone like this woman on his arm, though? That would be an entirely different matter.

“I am so, so sorry,” I say. “My supervisor asked me to work late, and I completely forgot why I couldn’t. I was just about to call the daycare when they phoned me. I guess I’m not the only number they dialed.”

“They notified Paul, but he’s in court, and I was already heading home, so he asked me to come by.”

“Again, I’m sorry. I know this looks terrible.”

She smiles. It isn’t exactly a bright and friendly smile, but it’s not fake either. Just restrained.

“Work emergencies happen,” she says. “I tried daycare when mine were young. I had to switch to a nanny because they threatened to kick my kids out if I was late one more time.”

I relax a little. “I am sorry they called Paul. I’ll—”

“Mommy?” Charlotte cut in. “Where princess dress?”

I smile down at her. “Don’t worry. It’s—”