The Herd(55)

I stacked the pillows I’d left on the sofa and attempted to fold the fluffy duvet. In the doorway, Cosmo watched me with his grasshopper-green eyes. As I headed for the bathroom, I paused outside Hana’s bedroom, and my eyes fell on the scrap of paper on her bureau. The note she’d mentioned, the numbers scribbled on top. It definitely hadn’t been on Eleanor’s big desk as Daniel unlocked the drawer below.

Another memory, an echo of dialogue that I’d tucked away for later: Tuesday night, while the three of us were still panicking in the hallway of a tapas restaurant, Mikki had said, Who has Daniel’s number? and Hana had raised her hand and dialed confidently. Why did Hana even have him in her contacts? A thought like a whisper: What else are you lying about, Hana?

I showered, torturing myself with a mental montage of beautiful, sparkling Eleanor and all the smiles she’d never shoot out. As shampoo foamed against my scalp I realized a suspect had been taking shape underneath it, a heady suspicion I could investigate on my own. Quickly, a plan stitched itself together in my mind. It was steadying, giving the grief and desperate exasperation something to cling to, like handrails in a shower stall.

Outside, the air was a little warmer, the sky silvery and swollen—probably around freezing, but it was a relief after all those stark, icy-blue days. I checked the weather forecast and groaned: a “wintry mix” was headed our way, and headlines despaired over the probable upending of holiday travel plans.

For now, at least, our Monday flight was still on time. I pictured the three of us in Kalamazoo, eating off the nice china in Mom’s dining room. It’d be an especially awful meal: Hana creepily pretending everything was fine, me scrabbling at my mounting anxiety, Mom complaining about what bad company we were being while subtly, expertly excoriating all of Hana’s life choices. If Mom didn’t call me back soon, she’d probably hear about Eleanor’s death on the news.

As would my agent, Erin. This time I’d be ready for her; in fact, I’d get ahead of it. I’d been close to calling the whole thing off: Last week, I couldn’t imagine defying Eleanor’s wishes, telling the world how she’d parachuted out of her perfect-seeming life. Implying judgment, sending the news vultures and TV and podcast crews scuttling after her to Guayabitos, in search of her casa. I couldn’t do that to her. But now? Now I was a snapping hound dog on a leash, more determined than ever. Eleanor deserved justice. On the subway, I emailed Erin, concluding with a promise, a vow, ripped from the parlance of bad action movies: “I’m not going to stop until I find the motherfucker who did this.”

At home, I pulled up my research file on Carl Berkowski, a Known Enemy of Eleanor. I remembered he was an engineer at Hopscotch, a stupid app that lets you check into a business to unlock discounts and freebies there. And I knew from my time as a tech reporter that start-ups expect every goddamn employee to use their product with the fervent devotion of a Scientologist. Bingo: Sixteen minutes ago, Carl had checked in at Ghost Cafe in the Financial District. I skidded off toward the subway, backtracked when I realized I’d left my phone on my desk, and then headed into Manhattan.

It was a packed little coffee shop, people chatting eagerly or gazing wide-eyed at their laptops, as if trying to prove to themselves that the din was energizing, not distracting. I spotted Carl at a table in the back: short brown hair, glasses, sloping chin, gray hoodie. Big Bluetooth headphones like my own. I pulled mine down to rest around my neck, tapped at my phone, and steeled myself, mentally raising a sword in the air and bellowing For Eleanor! Then I took the seat across from him.

He stared over the top of his laptop. “Uhhh…”

“Katie Bradley.” I thrust out a hand. “We were supposed to have a coffee last week? I was hoping we could—”

“What are you doing here?” He leaned in, his eyes shooting around, attracting far more attention than I had.

“I just thought maybe we could have that coffee now.”

“I could report you.”

“For being in a coffee shop?”

“For stalking me.” He slammed his laptop shut. “How did you find me?”

I blinked at him for a moment. Had he literally never considered the practical implications of his employer’s product? Oh, to be a white man in the world. “You checked in on Hopscotch. I just want to talk.”

“Why?”

Eleanor surged back into my brain, thwacking me with grief. “Why’d you stand me up?”

“I stood you up?”

“Yeah, I—I waited, like, a half hour, tried texting and calling, and you never showed.” A note of confusion crept into my voice.

“Oh, that’s rich. Nice try. We said we’d meet at four; when I got out of the Lincoln Tunnel I had a couple confused texts from you, and the diner was empty. I was livid. Really great use of my one day off, so thanks for that.”

“No, we said—” My voice faltered and I got that feeling, hot and cold at once, indignant but also maybe he was right and I’d messed up. Didn’t we have it in writing?

Dramatically, he sighed. “So now you’re following me…why?”

I squared my shoulders. “You texted me about Eleanor last week.”

“That’s right—thanks for sending that detective my way. That made me super eager to text you back.”

“What’d you tell them?”