The Herd(37)
I’d failed to set an alarm and it was somehow almost eleven. I called Daniel as I was drinking coffee, still unsure if I should go into the Herd.
“How are you doing? Hanging in there?” I swiped at a drip sliding slowly down the mug.
“Okay. I’m just…at my desk.”
“At the hospital?” I let out a surprised laugh, tried to turn it into a throat-clearing. “You went into work?” That explained his low, sheepish tone.
“I did. I don’t…I’m out of PTO days for the year.”
“Jeez. I’m sorry. You didn’t want to just tell them you have a family emergency?”
“We’re not…” His voice got even lower. “Since we’re not saying anything. The cops, last night. They said to just maintain my normal routine. And I—I have a bunch of meetings today.”
“Huh.” His behavior was so strange, I almost felt embarrassed for him: Your wife goes missing and you’re thinking about PTO days? Carrying on like nothing had happened—Christ, was that the behavior of an innocent man? I didn’t have a spouse, but if he went missing, I wouldn’t give a shit about my stock of personal days—I just wouldn’t show up. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just be here all day.” A beat. “Uh, thanks, though.”
“Of course. So no updates from the detectives?”
“Nothing. They went through the apartment last night, pawed through all our stuff. Didn’t seem to find anything interesting, though.”
An idea crystallized, a better plan for my day. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anytime, day or night.”
He thanked me and hung up.
* * *
—
I thought about inviting Mikki along, since, after all, she faced the exact same stakes as me. But she was probably at the Herd right now, likely with Katie, and after her text last night, the last thing I needed was another chink in her resolve. Instead I let her know I wouldn’t be coming to the Herd today. Then, pushing through the fug of my worry for Eleanor, a heady sadness that billowed like incense, I got dressed and headed out.
A few whiskery clouds bristled the edges of the sky, the sun over us almost taunting in its coldness. The streets were nearly empty—even at lunch hour, no one wanted to venture out into the Arctic afternoon. I checked my phone: a wind chill of -6 degrees. Aurelia had touched base from the Herd, letting me know Ratliff had just arrived, and this soothed me—no cops would be knocking at Eleanor’s door anytime soon.
Her street looked different in the light: a tree-lined road of row houses, their stoops spilling outside like the graham-cracker paths leading into gingerbread houses. I’d always thought of this block as warm and fairy tale–like, but today a crust of bruised-looking snow capped the curbs, and the trees, spindly and stark, raked at one another angrily. I climbed the stoop and froze—what if Eleanor never walked out of this door again? My mind skipped ahead to funerals, black dresses and hot tears, Daniel tearily putting a For Sale sign out front. But the cold had found me: My nose prickled, my fingers stung, so I fumbled with my spare key and shoved the door closed behind me.
I had no clear idea why I was there, what key or keyhole I was looking for or even whether I’d know when I found it. But maybe Eleanor had left behind another clue, possibly tucked deeper under her mattress, that’d give these random numbers meaning.
Or perhaps there was something in her apartment that I had to be sure nobody could find.
I’d only been here without Eleanor once or twice, when I’d walked over from the Herd to water her plants while she and Daniel were away. Alone in her huge townhouse, I’d always felt the vague, faraway urge to poke around—the same distant impulse I’d felt as a teenage babysitter, feeling grown-up and saintly as I resisted. The house was empty, the cops long gone. Finally, I could give in.
I left my coat in a heap in the foyer and climbed upstairs, then practically flipped the mattress confirming there wasn’t anything else under there. Her nightstand drew my eyes—Daniel had said she kept pills in the drawer, right? Antidepressants? I pulled it open but if there had been anything in there before, it was gone now. On top of the nightstand was the bell hooks book (very on-brand) with a Books Are Magic bookmark two-thirds of the way through (ditto). I thumbed through the pages for notes but found nothing.
In the dresser, I found myself groping through lingerie. I blanched with embarrassment before moving on to the other two drawers: nothing out of the ordinary. I stepped back and surveyed the bedroom, my chest throbbing, my thoughts a wail: Where are you, Eleanor?
In the en suite bathroom, I poked at the makeup bag yawning open on a shelf. Lots of Gleam products—she practiced what she preached. Several products from the Nimbus collection, “designed to flatter all skin tones and types.” The Nimbus launch had bothered me for several reasons: First, that we needed a POC add-on to begin with—it was lame that Gleam’s initial products, in particular its highlighter and eye shadows, didn’t work especially well on darker skin. Second, that journalists expected me to join Eleanor for interviews and photos about the line, as if my face gave the effort authenticity. One reporter, a bearded dude from Fortune, even asked about my “ethnic heritage.” It’s especially fun to speak on behalf of all women of color when you’re barely in touch with your own brown-ness.