Confessions on the 7:45(65)

“Small, slim, could be,” he said.

Hands in pockets, an easy approach, casual.

“Awfully laid-back for a kidnapping, right? Not the kind of approach you’d expect.”

“Kidnapping?” he asked, as if surprised.

“Well, that’s the implication, right? That someone took Geneva, has her? You’re asking about isolated properties. She didn’t just run off with some other working mom’s husband?”

“You’re angry,” he said.

She put the pictures down on the coffee table.

There was a woman I met on the train, she almost said. We talked. I told her about my husband, though I’m not even sure why I did. It got weird. She said something that has stayed with me. Didn’t I ever just wish my problems would go away? Then, she texted me. I went to see her—I don’t know why. Maybe because she knew too much about me. She called herself a solution architect.

Could this be her?

But she didn’t say any of that.

Because—it was suspicious, wasn’t it? Wasn’t there a dark undercurrent to each of their encounters—the train, the bar? Wasn’t there some tacit understanding that Selena should say nothing, and if she stayed quiet, then so would Martha? Even though there were no more secrets to keep. The affair, the disappearance, her shattered life would become the main news event of the moment, if it wasn’t already. It would be the number one topic of conversation at school, at the tennis club, on the soccer field. It was one of those stories, salacious and bizarre, that captured the attention. The nanny you let into your home seduces your husband, sets fire to your life. And all because you wanted to work and be a mother.

And if that was Martha on the street with Geneva, then what did that mean?

“Do you recognize that person?” asked Detective Crowe.

She leaned in closer. Really, it could be anyone. A smaller young man, a large teenager. Eliza Tucker was petite, athletic, a runner. She, too, had reason to be enraged. But it was hard to imagine a preppy mom of two confronting Geneva on the street.

“No,” said Selena. “I don’t.”

“Did Geneva mention anyone to you? Anyone bothering her, following her?”

He’d asked that before. “No. But if she was in the habit of sleeping with her employers, then blackmailing them, she probably had one or two people who didn’t wish her well.”

Her phone started ringing. She could see that it was her mother, told the detective so. Crowe gave her a nod.

“Mom,” she said, answering.

“It’s me.” Oliver sounding pouty and tired.

“Hi, honey,” she said releasing a breath. “How was school?”

“You said you’d have an answer for me, Mom. Can I come home?”

“Sweetie, I have to call you back, okay? In fact, just sit tight. I’ll be there in a bit.”

She heard him start to protest. “I love you, Oliver. Just sit tight.”

She hung up with a twinge of guilt. Another text came through, pinging several times, but she stuffed the phone in her pocket. She only had to answer calls from her mom and her kids. Everyone else would have to wait.

“As you know, Geneva Markson was allegedly blackmailing Erik Tucker,” said Detective Crowe, snapping Selena back to the moment. “He bought Geneva a car to keep her quiet about the affair.”

“Okay.” Selena knew this but still couldn’t process it. Sweet, helpful Geneva. Now, the Naughty Nanny.

“What about you?” asked Detective Crowe. “Are there any large sums of money missing from your accounts? Any purchases your husband made that you didn’t understand?”

Selena almost laughed. She had always been the one to manage all their finances, set the budgets, meet with the advisors, schedule all their savings for college and retirement. Graham never wanted anything to do with it. All their various purchases popped up in their accounting program. That was a lesson she’d learned from her mother: never be the woman who doesn’t understand money.

If Geneva wanted to blackmail Graham, she’d have been out of luck. “No. Nothing like that.”

“You have knowledge of and access to all accounts.”

“Yes,” she said. But what other secrets was he keeping? What other lies had he told? “If Graham has other money, or other cards, I’m not aware.”

Crowe had his eyes on her, watchful but not unkind.

“Are we done here?” she asked.

“I have to be honest,” he said. “I’m getting the feeling that there’s still something you’re not telling me.”

“And I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” she shot back.

“See, that’s the difference between us,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

She wished that she could just sink into the soft folds of the couch, just disappear into chenille oblivion.

“I didn’t hurt Geneva, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said. “I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never even been rude to anyone. And that’s not Graham in the photo, or anyone else I recognize. So maybe you should be looking elsewhere for what happened to Geneva. Obviously there were a number of people who wished her harm.”

He stared at her a moment, and she held his gaze. She remembered something about herself in that moment, something that it was easy to forget. She was a fighter; she didn’t back down—not from bullies on the playground, not from mean girls in college, not from backstabbers at work. Marisol used to cry when people picked on her. Selena got mad—or she got even. She wasn’t afraid of Detective Crowe. He lowered his eyes to the floor, then rose.