The Ex(55)

Charlotte had told me about the strategy this morning. It was a waste of her time and money, but I knew not to argue with her. She loved Jack and needed to help however she could.

Three hours later, we were no closer to identifying Madeline, and we all needed a break. When Einer and I were packing up to leave, Jack asked me to stay behind. He led the way to the kitchen and poured two glasses of orange juice.

“Remember how it was such a splurge to get the real stuff instead of in a can?” he said as I sipped.

“Being poor sucks.”

He smiled. “So . . . Buckley.”

“I didn’t realize how plugged in she was to the evidence.”

“Neither did I. I think she just heard enough to realize that we’re looking for a potential witness. She’s good at filling in the blanks. She’s also apparently good at telling people things that they probably don’t need to know. The pictures in my closet?”

“Oh, please. No big deal.” I did my best to sound like I had forgotten all about it.

“Buckley said she told you about the fight Molly and I had when she found them.”

“Really, Jack. It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about this.”

“Okay.”

I could tell he wanted to say more. I took another sip of my juice.

“It was just an argument,” he said. “Buckley was still in grade school. It probably seemed like a big deal to her at the time. Other kids’ parents were getting divorced. But it was nothing. I loved Molly very much.”

“Of course. You don’t need to explain.” Damnit. Did I sound disappointed? Did I actually feel disappointed? “I’m sorry you lost her so early, but I’m happy that you had that time together. Some people never find that.” I never found that. “At least from what I read, she seemed like a really good fit for you.”

He looked down and nodded. “After you, Molly was the only one. I never even dated anyone in between.”

I downed the rest of my drink and handed him the glass. He walked me toward the door, stopping at the table that marked the beginning of the danger zone for his electronic monitor. I reached for the doorknob but then turned back. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did. Or Buckley did, when I was arrested.”

“No, I mean before. After Owen died. When you went to the hospital, or after. Why didn’t you ever call me?”

“I told you—I just couldn’t.”

“I just wanted to know you were okay. I knew you hated me but—”

“I never hated you. I could never—” I heard his voice break.

“Then why?” He stared at me helplessly, but said nothing. “Jack, I felt so f*cking guilty.”

He cleared his throat and his eyes suddenly hardened. “So, wait, Olivia: was the hardest part not knowing if I was okay, or that you had to feel guilty for what you’d done? Because maybe not calling you was my way of being cruel right back at you. To let you wonder. To let you think that maybe I wasn’t actually okay and never would be. Is that what you want to hear? There, now you know why I never called.”

I stepped toward him and he pulled away. “Just go.”

We were interrupted when Einer stepped into the kitchen. “Charlotte just called again. She found her. Your scary, crazy friend actually found Madeline.”


“DID YOU GET THE PICTURES yet?” Charlotte was on speaker.

I watched a blue circle spin at the top of my browser window. “It’s taking a while to load.”

“Did someone finally recognize her?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Charlotte said, “but it wasn’t a tip from the Room. Remember how I said I hired some temp workers to go through websites? Well, I might’ve understated the size of the effort. I made a list of every single escort, modeling, and casting site I could identify in New York City. And I hired a shit ton of eyeballs—and not just normal temp workers. I hired models and actresses and casting agents—people who are good at face recognition. Whatever, you can tell me how amazing I am later. The point is: we found her. Do you have it yet?”

When the website finally appeared, the banner promised “New York Companionship 24/7” and a “diverse array of absolutely stunning beauties,” all at rates ranging from $800 to $2,000 an hour. I could imagine the kind of variations that might affect the price.

As I scrolled down, I found the promised array, displayed three per row, in various states of undress.

“Who are we searching for?” I asked.

“Helen. Scroll down. They were thoughtful enough to alphabetize.”

I found her about halfway down the page. Her damp, dark brown hair skimmed the top of her breasts, which were clearly visible beneath a white, wet tank top. Soaking wet, and yet somehow her makeup was perfect.

“That really does look like her,” Jack said next to me. “She was dry, obviously, and didn’t have all that eyeliner on. But that could definitely be her.”

I clicked on the photograph, and my browser did its spinning-wheel churn again before opening to a “Helen” page, with six more photographs. Jack pointed to one where her back was to the camera, her skirt lifted to reveal an impossibly perfect bottom. “I really think that’s her.”

“You saw her butt?”