The Perfect Mother(18)

But then she notices the dark stubble on the man’s face, the wide girth of his waist, the bulge of a gun at his hip. Francie stops, her words hanging in the air as she looks up into the gray eyes of this stranger, blank under the brim of an NYPD hat.



“Nell.” Nell feels a hand on her arm. “You need to wake up.”

Nell, the police are here.

It’s fifteen years earlier, and she’s standing in her apartment in DC, opening the curtains, seeing the dark sedan parked across the street, a man in a black T-shirt and sunglasses leaning against it, lighting a cigarette, his eyes trained on her window.

“Nell.” Sebastian is jostling her shoulder, dissolving the memory. “Wake up.”

Her mouth is sour, and she tries to sit up but her head is pounding. Sebastian sets a mug of coffee on the bedside table and strokes the hair from her eyes.

“The police are here.”

She sits up. “Are you serious? Why?”

“They want to talk to you. About last night.”

Last night.

It comes flooding back to her. Winnie. Midas. Walking home, waking Sebastian, telling him what happened before falling into a sporadic, tortured sleep.

“They’re waiting in the living room.”

She eases out of bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the dresser, still in the shirt she wore the night before. Mascara is smeared under her eyes, and her lips are like raisins, crusted with dried lipstick. “Where’s the baby?”

“Asleep.”

Nell picks up the mug. The coffee singes the back of her throat. “Okay. I’m coming.”

The room twists as she walks into the master bathroom. She turns on the faucet, waiting for the water to get as cold as possible, and splashes it onto her face. She presses her eyes closed.

What happened?

The beginning of the night she can remember. Sipping a glass of wine while getting ready to go out. Arriving and sitting out back. The heat from the bodies around her, the conversations. She can feel the fizz of the first drink, the gin in her mouth. Billy Idol. She held Winnie’s phone, slid it into her purse. And then—Nell can’t recall the details. Only that Francie and Colette were worried about Winnie. They didn’t know where she was. Nell looked for Winnie’s phone. It was gone.

Sebastian is setting a plate of chocolate digestives his mother had sent from England on the coffee table in front of the detective when Nell walks into the living room, wearing yoga pants and a thin cotton tunic she took from the top of the laundry basket. The detective is in his early forties and handsome, with soulful brown eyes, the dark shadow of a new beard on his face, a faint resemblance to Tom Cruise. He has a large tattoo of an eagle on his right forearm, the number 1775.

“Marine Corps,” he says, turning his arm so she can see it better. “The year we were founded. Served for six years.” He nods at her right shoulder. “A hummingbird?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is like gravel. “A calliope hummingbird, to be exact. Represents escape. And freedom.”

His palm is clammy against hers. “Detective Mark Hoyt. Sorry to bother you at home.” Behind him stands a man with unruly gray eyebrows, and it comes back to her. Stephen Schwartz. He was the one talking to Alma at Winnie’s apartment. Hoyt reaches for a cookie from the armchair and then lifts the plate to Schwartz, who takes three.

“Sorry,” Schwartz says. “Busy night. Missed my breakfast.”

“We’re trying to get a picture of what happened last night,” Hoyt says, setting the plate back on the table before meeting Nell’s eyes. “Talking to some of you who were with Winnie Ross.”

Nell takes a seat on the couch, her head throbbing. “Okay.” She notices the camera set up on a spindly tripod. Schwartz steps behind it and presses a button. “You okay with us recording this?” Hoyt asks. “It’s the new protocol at the department.”

“Sure. Can I get a glass of water before we start?”

Hoyt examines her and smirks. “Rough night?”

She doesn’t return the smile. “Every night with a newborn is a rough night.”

“I’ll get water for you,” Sebastian says.

“So, this May Mothers group,” Hoyt says. “Can you tell us a little bit about it?”

She clears the rasp from her throat and focuses. “It’s, you know, a mum’s group. We all have babies the same age. We’ve been meeting for about four months, since we were pregnant.”

“At this bar? The Jolly Llama?”

A shallow laugh escapes her. “No. We meet at the park.”

“And whose idea was all this? To meet.”

“Francie’s.”

Schwartz glances at his notebook. “Mary Frances Givens?”

“Yes. Well, not to start the group. We all signed up for it through The Village, the parent website. But Francie suggested the regular meetings.” The thought of going into the kitchen to pour a glass of red wine flashes through her mind—it’s the only thing that might stop the room from spinning—and she presses her palms hard against the coffee mug in her hands.

“Uh-huh.” Hoyt nods. “And what do you do at these meetings?”

“Oh, you know. New mum stuff.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Like?”