The Herd(44)

“Have either of you been to the construction site?” I said. “Maybe there was a creepy contractor.”

Aurelia shook her head, but Mikki looked up. “I’ve gone a couple times, to sign off on changes with the design,” she said. “But I don’t remember anyone leering or anything. I mean, it’s construction workers. They’re just tired and trying to do their jobs.”

“Eleanor’s really picky about who we work with—I know because I was in charge of getting bids.” Aurelia leaned back on her hands. “The contractors we went with are expensive but super professional. She didn’t want to hire anyone who’d do anything, you know. Below board.”

“Undocumented workers, that kind of thing?” I said.

“Yeah. Or even just cutting corners, forging ahead without the right permits or whatever. She kept saying we wouldn’t survive a scandal. I guess ’cause of the acquisition.”

Mikki flung herself into an armchair. “Speaking of scandals, did they ever figure out who was calling us ugly cunts?”

“The detectives know about it, but no progress, no.”

Suddenly a phone buzzed, and for a brief, wild moment I thought it was Eleanor’s, hidden here in her office, and it would solve everything and prove she was okay. My heart took off, but then I realized the phone was mine, vibrating inside my bag on Eleanor’s desk.

Fatima. “It’s for a story,” I told them, my get-out-of-jail-free card. “I gotta take this.”

But of course, when I called her back a minute later, Fatima didn’t pick up. I texted her and then tried Hana again: It was strange enough being here without Eleanor, and it wasn’t like Hana to blow me off. Where had everyone gone? Suddenly the frustration surged up like nausea and I found my cheeks dripping with tears.

I needed distraction, needed to keep digging. I thought of Ted, who this morning had mentioned meeting for food, and sent him a text: “I’m wrapping here—what’s your plan?” He suggested a burrito place nearby, and though I couldn’t imagine eating a fucking burrito at the moment, I’d do anything to get out of here, away from Eleanor’s once-perfect and now-rumpled things.

I glared at those I passed in the street, well-dressed and good-looking even under their thick winter layers—lucky bystanders, people who didn’t know or care that Eleanor was someplace she shouldn’t be. That my writing career was fucked, that there was a bloodstain somewhere in Michigan where a Chris-shaped hole had been cut from my chest. I gulped in the frigid air and hurried over to Eighth Avenue.

I spotted Ted through the fogged-up windows and felt my spirits lift. He wore a down vest over a plaid shirt, all mountain man-y. We hugged hello, a little awkwardly, and when he ordered a margarita, I did the same. I sucked at it when it appeared, eager for the softening, the way tequila sanded down the rough edges.

“So how’re you holding up?” he asked. Chips arrived, the oily deep-fried variety, and he plunged one into salsa.

“I’m okay. I’m trying to keep busy—makes me feel like I’m doing something.” I pulled a napkin from the little dispenser.

“I hear that. I just keep getting stuck on…we were all high-fiving over your computer on Friday. A few days ago. Where could she have gone?”

“She didn’t seem like someone with any plans to leave.” I sighed. “How often do you normally see her?”

He shrugged. “Every few weeks. When she needs something at the Herd, usually. I saw her twice last week, with that spray paint in the bathroom.”

“It’s the Gleam Room, Ted,” I said, with mock seriousness, and he raised his palms.

My phone, facedown on the placemat, buzzed a few times in a row, and I flipped it over. Dammit—automated texts from a political campaign. “Sorry. I haven’t heard from Hana all day and it’s kinda freaking me out. It’s not like her.”

“Do you want to try calling her now?”

“No, it’s fine. Sometimes she…” I plonked my elbows on the table. “Sometimes she gets stressed out, and it’s like I’m the only one she can…punish is too strong a word. Take it out on?” I cocked my head. “She uses up a lot of energy trying to seem together. All cheerful and easygoing and all that. But she’s actually so tightly wound, sometimes I worry she’s going to, I don’t know, implode into a little diamond or something.” I squeezed my fists to demonstrate.

Our burritos arrived, fat rolls in red baskets.

Ted slopped sour cream onto his plate. “Oh, for sure. Does she think she’s hiding it?” He chuckled and even though I’d brought it up, I felt a flare of irritation: I could criticize Hana, but he couldn’t.

I thought back to Hana’s and my walk down Fifth Avenue, how her eyes had flashed at the mention of Ted. I made my voice light: “Be honest, do you two have bad blood? She was weird when I asked about you.” I smiled conspiratorially. “I smell unresolved sexual tension.”

“Oh God, no.” He tossed his head. “Er, I mean, not that she’s not—she’s great! But that’s definitely not it.”

“You’re sure?” I raised an eyebrow and gave my margarita a sip.

“Positive. All I meant was—” He took a breath. “I knew all of them in college. Harvard girls are no joke. And even of the three of them, she was the serious one. Super driven, super focused, like she had something to prove. You can…” He waved at the air in front of him. “I’m not crazy, right? She comes across as determined as shit.”