Woman on the Edge(23)
I try to connect the dots. It’s clear Nicole suffered after the birth of her daughter. Back when I was in charge of the cases at Haven House, I had many clients who experienced postpartum depression. Maybe she was mentally unstable. Maybe there was no one coming after her on the platform at all. She could have seen my picture or name anywhere and convinced herself we were close. On that platform, her eyes were wild, her cheeks sunken. She was disheveled, unhinged. She might have been suffering a psychotic break. If not, then someone drove her to the edge. Could it be this anonymous source?
But none of that explains what led Nicole to me. I keep scrolling, trying to find the missing link, but there’s nothing. Frustrated, I type in “Husband of Nicole Markham,” and press on a link to a splashy photo in the Chicago Tribune of a charity gala a year earlier. The caption reads: “Breathe CEO Nicole Markham with husband, stockbroker Greg Markham.”
Quinn’s father is handsome, maybe in his late thirties, with wavy brown hair and a cleft chin. A stockbroker. I click another link, to the website for his brokerage firm, Blythe & Brown. I don’t recognize him, but could he have been involved with Ryan somehow? Did Nicole know my husband?
Greg left Nicole and her newborn baby. Why? How on earth could any father do that? But I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Should I try to find him? Talk to him?
I spot a brief article in the Chicago Reader with a report on Nicole’s death. In it, Greg is mentioned. It says he was in New York yesterday, the day she died. Is he back in Chicago now?
I type in “Nicole Markham; family.” I skim the first ten links, my heart aching when I find an interview in which she talks about losing her parents in a car accident as a teenager. It mentions an older brother, Ben Layton, an emergency room doctor at Mount Zion hospital.
Mount Zion Funds Flatlining. Low-Income Hospital Slated for Closing.
I click through the images until I get to a recent one from a medical conference. A tall, lean man stands on a stage, long brown hair flopping in his eyes.
There’s a slew of glowing five-star reports on RateMDs: “Understanding and kind.” “He saved my son’s life.” “He helps people in need, even if they can’t afford insurance.”
He sounds like a decent man and a true professional. Then again, that’s exactly how people used to describe Ryan. People hide their darkness under a facade of light and goodness. Nicole didn’t give her brother custody of Quinn, either, and there must have been a reason for that.
I type in Ben Layton’s name, and for $14.95, I can access all his public records. Bingo. Benjamin Layton, with an address in Wicker Park.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Nicole fell to her death. Jumped. I have no solid information about her. But I have her address and her brother’s address. And I know she has a husband who’s here or in New York. I’ll go to work first, then drive to her brother’s place after. I’ll ask him if he knows why she stuck that note on my purse, why she chose me, where his niece is now, and if he’s seen her.
I close my laptop. My neck is itchy, and I think I’ve been scratching it without noticing. The stress is making my eczema act up. I reach for the tube of steroid cream on my yellow-painted bedside table. On top of my pile of self-help books is my wedding photo.
I clap my hand across my mouth, suppressing a scream. Since the day I moved in here, that photo of me and Ryan—laughing in a clinch on the steps of the Keith House where we got married—has been face-down in the top drawer of my nightstand. I couldn’t bear to look at it, couldn’t bear to see the man who had betrayed me so deeply. But I also couldn’t quite get rid of the photo, either. So why is it face-up, right in front of me now? Someone must have taken it out of my drawer.
Someone who might still be in my apartment.
CHAPTER TEN NICOLE
Before
Nicole’s eyes flew open at the sound of the door slamming. Where was she? It took a moment for her to realize she’d fallen asleep on the sofa with Quinn in her arms. After Tessa had left, she’d meant to close her eyes for only a minute. What was she thinking? She knew better than to sleep with her baby—what if Quinn had fallen off the sofa as she dozed? Or she was smothered in the cushions?
Greg called from the entry, “Nicole, are you here?”
She glanced at the silver clock on the living room wall above the flat-screen TV. It was too early for Greg to be home. He appeared in the doorframe.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve been calling and calling. Why didn’t you answer?” His jaw was hard.
She carefully sat up, trying not to wake Quinn. “Quinn and I were napping. If you were ever around these days, you’d know that’s what babies and mothers do.” She hated her tone, but she was furious that he was angry with her for missing his calls. Her job was to take care of Quinn, even if it meant not being available for him.
Greg exhaled. It was the sigh of a very frustrated man. “We need to talk.” He sat down beside her. He looked miserable. “This isn’t working, Nicole. We’re not working.”
Before she could say anything, Quinn awoke. Her beautiful face screwed up unhappily, and she wailed. A foul odor filled the room.
“No, not now!” Greg said, as though a baby could control its bodily functions.