The Perfect Mother(28)

Francie couldn’t deny the odd jolt she felt hearing the words, knowing it was her—Francie Givens from Estherville, Tennessee, population 6,360—being referred to by Patricia Faith (however namelessly) as a friend of Winnie Ross. She toes an article from the stack, sliding it closer to Nell. “It got picked up by the press.”

Nell reads aloud. “‘As first reported by TV personality Patricia Faith, three friends of Gwendolyn Ross, not identified by name, apparently arrived at the Ross residence, letting themselves in, until they were forcibly removed by an officer with the NYPD.’”

“Forcibly removed?” Colette says. “That’s a little much.”

“I know,” Francie says. “But that’s not the worst part.” The worst part was what else Patricia Faith said—the same thing Francie had read elsewhere—the information that now ties her stomach in knots. When it comes to determining whether an abducted baby will be found alive, the first twenty-four hours are critical. “If the police screwed this up as bad as these articles suggest, do you realize what that could mean?” She can’t think about it—the idea that Midas could be in even greater danger because of some incompetent policemen.

Colette puts her coffee cup on the table in front of her. Something in her expression makes Francie stop bouncing Will. “What is it?” Francie asks.

“Okay, listen. I feel weird sharing this, but I have some new information. About Midas.”

“What do you mean?” Francie asks. “I’ve been reading everything. If it’s been reported—”

“It hasn’t been reported. I found it through my job.”

“Your job?”

“Yeah. That memoir I’m writing? It’s Teb Shepherd’s.”

“You’re kidding,” Nell says. “Mayor Shepherd?”

“Yes. I’m his ghostwriter.”

“Why does he need a ghostwriter? His first book was amazing.”

“I wrote his first book,” Colette says.

“You?” Francie says. Even she knows about that book. It’s all anyone could talk about for months—the beautifully written memoir by Teb Shepherd, the young, devastatingly handsome principal at a high school in the South Bronx. Lowell stayed up all night reading it; his mother’s book club discussed it. Business was still booming at the Greek diner Shepherd wrote about frequenting near his mother’s apartment in Washington Heights, groups of middle-aged women standing in line, hoping to spot him at a table in the back, eating his standard Saturday-morning order: a toasted corn muffin and a side of bacon.

“It’s what I do,” Colette says. “I write books that other people say they wrote. I’m not allowed to tell you that, so you can imagine how much I’m not supposed to tell you this. But I was at the mayor’s office yesterday, and I found Midas’s file. From the investigation.”

“You’re joking,” Nell says. “And what? You looked at it?”

“Worse.” Colette kneels on the floor and reaches under the couch, sliding out a thick manila folder. “I made copies.”

“Oh my god,” Francie says. “Does anyone know you did this?”

“Nobody. I could get in serious trouble. I didn’t even tell Charlie. I’m so far behind on this book, I couldn’t admit how much time I spent last night, when he thought I was working, reading what’s in here.”

“Does the mayor know you’re friends with Winnie?”

“No. I was going to tell him, but after I took this file, it felt too dicey. Now I can’t. He’ll wonder why I didn’t tell him from the beginning.”

Francie can’t look away from the file in Colette’s hands. “What’s in it?”

“It appears to be recent reports, specific things they want Teb to see. If you look—” The doorbell rings. “Shit.” Colette waits a moment. “I’m gonna ignore that. It’s probably a package for Charlie. They’ll leave it downstairs.”

“Actually, I think it’s Token,” Francie says.

Colette shoots Francie an irritated look. “You invited Token?”

He e-mailed Francie earlier this morning, asking if she wanted to join him for a coffee at the Spot. It was so strange. He’s never asked her to do something, just the two of them, and she knows so little about him. She’ll never forget her astonishment, back in early June, when she rushed down the hill toward the willow tree, ten minutes late to the May Mothers meeting, and noticed a man in the circle. He was sitting beside Winnie, whispering into her ear. Winnie listened, amused, and then they broke into laughter. Francie guessed that he was Winnie’s husband (although he wasn’t nearly as attractive as she would have guessed Winnie’s husband would be). He wore a frayed sky-blue baseball cap, the exact color of his eyes, and dressed like so many of the men in Brooklyn—a faded T-shirt and shorts, scuffed sneakers, aviator sunglasses stuck into the collar of his shirt. But as Francie took her seat, she noticed the sling across his chest, a baby curled inside. He wasn’t Winnie’s husband. He was a dad.

“I’m a SAD,” he said a little later, as a way of introduction.

“You’re sad?” Nell said. “Good. You’ll fit right in.”

“No,” he said. “Not sad. A SAD.”