Have You Seen Me?(70)

“Why do you keep dismissing everything I say, Hugh?” I’m practically shouting now. “I feel like I’m sitting on the wrong side of one of your depositions.”

“I’m not dismissing your ideas, Ally. I’m just playing devil’s advocate, as I’m sure you’d do if our roles were reversed.”

“Right, but I also need you to hear my concerns.”

He steps closer, as if he’s about to hug me, but as he does, his towel loosens. Using both hands, he rolls the top of the towel over a couple of times to keep it from sliding. “We can talk more about this after I’m dressed, okay?” he says. “I ordered Japanese takeout. It should be here any minute.”

Is that the best my husband can do on the comforting front tonight? Call out for sushi?

“Sure,” I say testily. “Why did you need to take a shower tonight anyway?”

“Just feeling grungy. I ended up working in the library at the office and it’s dusty in there.”

“The dust got in your hair, too?”

“Probably.”

He turns, and I follow him down the corridor. As he slips into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, I check my phone. There’s a text from Sasha, sounding borderline annoyed and asking when we can review next week’s material.

And another, oddly enough, from Damien. How are you? is all he writes. Is he really concerned—or trying to control the narrative about Greenbacks? I don’t respond. Best to shut down contact with him going forward.

Before I can set my phone on my desk, it pings with yet another text, this one from Gabby.

I think I may live, she says.

r u really better? I respond.

Marginally. Soup eaten. Head now raised.

Can I do anything for u?

No, but thanks for all your texts. Sorry not to be there for u.

Now’s not the time to fill her in. dn’t worry about it. miss u! I reply.

I strip off my sweat-soaked blouse and swap it for a long-sleeved tee. As I’m wiggling into jeans, my eyes roam the bedroom. I’ve always loved all the white in here—walls, curtains, bedspread, the antique whitewashed dresser—and the space has always felt like a kind of sanctuary for me, and for us as a couple. But at this moment it seems stark and uninviting.

My gaze settles on Hugh’s bedside table. His phone is lying there, nestled beside his keys, his money clip, and a crinkled receipt. I approach, nearly on tiptoe, and pluck the receipt from the pile. It’s from a liquor store, for two bottles of wine, and my stomach clenches until I recall the plastic bag I spotted earlier on the top of the island.

I tuck the receipt back under the phone and listen. From the bathroom comes the sound of Hugh’s electric toothbrush. With my eye trained on the bathroom door, I reach now for the phone and quickly type in the password. I go to recent calls and scroll down.

It takes a few seconds before I see a call to Ashley Budd. I nearly gasp at the sight of her name. The call was made two and a half weeks ago. And there are two more a week before that.

The whirring sound from the bathroom ceases. I set the phone back down and flip it over, so Hugh won’t notice the screen’s lit. I’ve barely withdrawn my hand when the door swings open. Dressed now, he quickly grabs his phone from the table and stuffs it in his back pocket.

“Food not here yet?”

“No.” Although maybe the concierge rang and I didn’t hear it because of the blood pulsing hard between my ears. Hugh lied to me. He’s been in touch with this Ashley, Sasha’s good buddy. He’s called her more than once, meaning he might be meeting with her, or even hooking up. Was he with her tonight? For the very first time, I seriously consider the fact that my husband could be having an affair.

But then why no recent calls? Maybe he’s put things on hold because of my problems. Or he’s bought a burner phone solely for contact with her.

“Are you thinking about your detective? I’m sorry I didn’t sound more sympathetic.”

“Thanks.”

“I picked up some wine. Would you like a glass?” The buzzer rings from the other side of the apartment. “I’ll get that.”

My stomach’s roiling. I don’t even know how I can eat tonight or carry on a normal conversation with him. Though honestly, when was the last time I had a conversation with Hugh that felt the least bit normal?

My phone rings, jarring me again. It’s Jay Williams.

“Have you got a minute?” he asks when I answer.

“Of course.” It takes all my mental energy to force my attention on the call.

“I looked through the notes on your case to see if there were any red flags.”

“And were there?”

“None obvious to me. But can you get me up to speed on a few things? When you spoke to Kurt last night, I assume he filled you in on where he was in the investigation?”

I explain how Mulroney told me I spent all Tuesday night at my WorkSpace office, possibly sleeping, and even more time than previously noted in the East Village on Wednesday. I describe finding my purse and learning about my trip to the restaurant Pairings.

“It looks like Kurt also spoke to a waitress who saw you the first morning you went missing.”

“Oh, right. And I apparently told her I needed to get down to Forty-Second Street, though I have no clue why. At this point in time, Tuesday afternoon is still a total blank. But that’s when my phone went missing and when I think something must have happened to me.”