Have You Seen Me?(62)

Though he lied to me about Ashley Budd, didn’t he? A revelation that in my panic tonight I’ve let slide out of view. He said she was simply a law school acquaintance whom he’d bumped into at a lecture, so why would he have her number in his phone?

Of course, as I’d tried to convince myself earlier, he could have taken it down that night, simply to be polite. Which means he hasn’t deceived me. And why would he? Hugh’s a straight arrow.

And then I’m on my feet again, practically flinging myself at his closet. I tear open the door and drop onto my haunches, peering at the area on the floor where he stacks his clothes for the dry cleaner. There’s a neatly folded pile of about seven or eight items.

I lean closer and rifle through it, hurling each item of clothing behind me one by one until I’ve gone through everything.

There’s no sign of the fucking suit pants. The ones that supposedly became unwearable because of the cup of coffee dumped in his lap.





24


A few minutes after nine the next morning, I’m barreling south in a taxi I had the doorman hail for me. Before darting into the cab’s backseat, I’d quickly scanned the immediate vicinity. Everything looked perfectly normal.

It just doesn’t feel normal.

As I promised Mulroney, I’m going to look for clues that might explain what I was doing at WorkSpace Tuesday night.

Surely if Dr. Erling knew about this, she wouldn’t be pleased, but I’m not only going there to hunt for clues. It’s my chance to finally catch up in person with Nicole—who must be wondering what in the world is going on with me—before heading to my MRI appointment on the East Side.

And if I were actually playing amateur sleuth, I justify to myself, I would have shown up at WorkSpace as soon as I was off the phone from Mulroney, but I was still too unsettled and anxious to leave the apartment last night, and besides, Hugh would have nailed the door shut if I’d tried to leave.

I still cringe when I think of the pathetic scene in our apartment. Hugh arrived home without my hearing him, and when he stepped into the bedroom, I was still squatting on the floor with his dirty clothes strewn behind me. I must have looked like a dog caught rooting through the trash bin.

“What in the world are you doing?” he’d demanded.

“I—I was looking for your pants.” Inside, a little voice had warned me against accusing him of anything. Not without proof. “I was going to take them to the cleaners—before the stain set in.”

“I told you I’d do it, Ally. Besides, I doubt they’re open now.”

I glanced at my watch, feigning surprise. “Oh wow. I hadn’t realized how late it was.”

“That was nice of you, though,” he said, his voice gentler then. “If you really want to drop them off tomorrow morning, they’re in the hall closet.”

So there is no bizarre Mystery of the Missing Pants, I told myself. My husband hadn’t deceived me, at least not about that. I rose, trying to make my movements seem casual, and began restacking his dirty clothes, setting them back in his closet.

“Sorry to seem so frazzled,” I told him, “but something upsetting happened tonight.”

I told him then about my fall, and the idea that it might be related to my missing days. To me as a possible witness.

“Ally, look,” he’d said, putting an arm around me. “I know you trust this Mulroney guy, but his theory seems far-fetched. It was probably nothing more than a jerk who wanted to get across the intersection ahead of everyone else. Or a nutjob.”

How could he be so sure? I wondered.

Later, after we’d picked at a pizza we’d had delivered, Hugh set to work again at the dining table, and I tried to read on the couch. From time to time, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him lifting his gaze and studying me, his pen poised in midair. Was he worried I was making things up, slowly losing my mind?

Shortly afterward I’d headed to the bedroom, but before crawling between the sheets, I checked my phone and saw a message from Jennifer, the New Jersey researcher I’d contacted. She had a pocket of time available the next morning, she said, and would photocopy the microfilm I requested.

Now I lean back against the taxi seat and try to focus on the people and buildings flying by, a blur of gray and black and silver punctuated by small smudges of color. My arms, I notice, still ache from the fall last night. Stay in the present, I command myself, but my thoughts keep getting tugged ahead, wondering what I’ll find in my office. I root around in my purse for a cinnamon Altoid and shove it into my mouth. At the rate I’m going, I should invest in the company.

Once I arrive at the building where WorkSpace is located, I stop at the front desk and ask for my new key card. Hugh had submitted a support ticket for me last Thursday, deactivating the old card and requesting a new one. As I accept the card from the manager, I notice him glance briefly at my palm, which is still crisscrossed with scrape marks. I wonder briefly if he’s the one who spilled to Mulroney, but I don’t have time to dwell on that.

Stepping away, I scan the space around me—the boldly colored, mod-style community lounge, the rows of sleek wooden tables, and the offices behind them. The last time I remember being here was a week ago Monday, and yet it actually feels longer. That’s normal, I tell myself. So much has happened in between.

After grabbing a water from the lounge, I make my way to the two-person office I rent, unlock the door, and—holding my breath—flick on the light.