The Herd(40)

“Keep me posted, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I stared at him. I hated this feeling: so much subtext, but I couldn’t figure out what any of it meant. I gave him Daniel’s number and mine, and then we both stood, the air between us cold and staticky. “So you’re sticking around?” he asked. Faux casual, like he thought I was up to something sketchy.

“For now. I guess I’ll walk you out.”

We dawdled at the door as he pulled his coat back on. Finally he caught my eye and gave a cool-guy nod. “You know, even under such shitty circumstances, it’s good to see you, Hana.”

I froze. Seeing him out of Eleanor’s apartment—what the hell was I doing, standing here as if I were Talented Mr. Ripley–ing her life? I gave a little wave and pressed the door closed behind him.

For a moment I watched him from the window. Why had he come? Why, really? I was pretty sure he and Daniel had never been alone in a room before, and it was hard to imagine them exchanging bro-y sympathy. Was he actually convinced of Daniel’s guilt, here to intimidate the man he’d deemed responsible? It hadn’t really crossed my mind before, but of course Cameron could still be in love with Eleanor. So many people were.

I trudged back upstairs, desperation bulging inside me—this trip couldn’t be for nothing; I had to find something. I returned to the bookshelf and surveyed it, hands on hips. So many feminist memoirs and essay collections, spanning all the waves. Some domestic noir, a fat run of Calvin and Hobbes books, an entire row of Jane magazines. The blue cover that’d caught my eye earlier: Frida, a hefty tome she’d brought home from a Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum earlier this year. I pulled it out and flipped through the glossy pages. She’d always worshiped Frida, had been a fan since her parents took her to the Blue House museum in Mexico City when she was a little girl. I replaced the book, imagining I could feel Eleanor’s fingerprints on it, little echoes of her attention pressed into the pages.



* * *



—

I locked the door behind me and felt the cold envelop my outsides: pressing hard on my nose, eyeballs, ears. My visit had been a bust, and this unleashed a new torrent of hopelessness. I was out of ideas, and with every passing hour, that candle flame of hope, the desperate belief that Eleanor was fine, dwindled. The app had said my car was two minutes away, but as I watched, bouncing on the balls of my feet, the driver took a wrong turn and the wait time jumped to six minutes.

Kalamazoo had winters like this, bell-clear and frigid. Katie had loved playing outside when we were kids, even when temperatures were in the single digits, and one winter we’d dragged a bunch of lawn furniture into a clearing in the woods behind our house, then sculpted the snow that fell on them into a kind of roof. Wearing long johns and snowsuits, we’d sit for hours in the series of protected ovals and rectangles underneath, and I’d boss Katie around as she fixed snow slides and tunnels. Katie must be wondering where I was. I should text her.

At home I hesitated in the living room, phone in hand—I should check in with Mikki, I should try to contact Stephanie in her fancy beach hut in Goa. I should call Mom; Katie had sent me a screenshot of Mom telling her to tell me to call her, a literal game of telephone. But Mom would inevitably find a way to make me feel even worse. Even when something positive had happened and I’d rushed to Mom for approval, she’d found a way to twist it. When I got into Harvard: “Well there goes the cottage in Escanaba we were saving up for.” When I got scholarships and took on my own debt: “You better hope you find a good enough job when you graduate to stay on top of that.” Going to her with good news was foolish; calling her with bad news was unthinkable.

Instead I went to my call list and tapped on one from last night.

“Hello?” He sounded suspicious.

“Gary? It’s Hana.”

“Hana! I thought you were one of those damn telemahketers.” More quietly: “Karen, it’s Hana!”

Some fumbling and clicking, then Karen’s voice: “Hana, hello!” She attempted to sound cheery, but I could tell it was forced. Then, suddenly tense: “What is it, do you have bad news?”

“Not at all! I’m just calling to see how you’re doing.” I sank into the couch. “I know I was pretty frantic on the phone last night.”

“We’re just waiting to hear anything,” Karen said. “You know, trying to stay positive. We feel so out of the loop about what’s going on down there.”

“We talked to Daniel last night, he gave us a call,” Gary said. There was a quaver in his voice, though he was trying so hard to sound like his usual jolly self. “Asked if we’d heard anything, obviously, and we asked him the same. The whole thing is bizarre. We’re just telling ourselves, I don’t know—she must’ve decided to get away for a few days.”

“They said her laptop, phone, wallet, she took all that with her,” Karen added, almost manically. “So she had to have left by choice—right?”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“I can’t bring myself to imagine the worst-case scenario.” Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. “I just can’t.”

“Of course. I’m sure the detectives have got it under control. They assured us they’d take this seriously.”