The Perfect Mother(55)

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“On the way there, maybe? Or inside the park? Did you pass anyone, or speak to anybody?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Are you having trouble remembering things?”

“No.” Winnie stares at her hands in her lap for a few moments, but then abruptly jerks her head up. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“It’s Midas.”

“Midas?”

“Shhhh, listen.” Winnie stands, listening to something in the distance. “There. Did you hear that?”

“No, what are you—”

“He’s crying.” Winnie walks off camera. “I can hear him crying.”

“Winnie—”

She appears on the screen again. “He’s quiet now.” She looks down the hall, toward the nursery. “But where is it coming from?”

“Winnie, listen. I want to call your doctor. We think you should make an appointment—”

“I don’t need a doctor.” She runs her fingers through her hair, gripping it in her fists. “I need you to find my son. He’s crying right now. He wants me. And you’re sitting here, asking me the same questions again and again. Why are you even here?” She walks to the terrace door and opens it. “Why are you not out there, searching for my baby?”

The detective stands and walks stiffly toward the camera. “Let’s take a break.” The rest of her words are undecipherable, before the screen goes dark.

Colette is aware of the silence around them and a heavy ache in her chest. “Oh my god,” Nell says. “She’s lost her mind. Do you . . . Did she—”



Nell sits on the toilet seat, attached to the pump. She looks down at her phone and, against her better judgment, closes the photo of Beatrice and types in the address of Patricia Faith’s website. The television host is, as Nell expected, broadcasting a live-feed from the park plaza, under the large banner headline: A Prayer for Midas.

Nell hesitantly opens the video, and her screen springs to life—an image of Patricia, in a tight floral dress, calling out to a woman walking behind a double stroller. “Excuse me,” she calls. “Do you have a minute?” The woman stops, and Patricia scuds gingerly toward her on her three-inch heels. Behind her Nell sees the circle of women, pink carnations in their hands, their heads bowed in prayer. “I’m Patricia Faith, host of The Faith Hour.”

“Yes,” the woman says. “I know.”

“We’re here today, talking about what some people are calling the Jolly Mama phenomenon.”

“I think you’re the only one calling it that.”

“So you’ve heard of it?”

“Yes,” the woman says. “Unfortunately.”

“Wonderful. You’re a mother, obviously. You look like someone who loves her child.” Patricia raises her eyebrows. “What do you think about the idea of mommy groups meeting at bars, drinking alcohol? Some even do this in the afternoon, bringing along their children, I hear.” She discreetly wipes the perspiration from her eyebrow with her finger and points her microphone at the woman.

“I think who gives a shit.”

Patricia Faith peeks at the camera and grimaces.

“The kids are not the ones drinking. You do understand that, right, Patricia?”

“Yes, but the parents are. With all the places there are to meet, isn’t it irresponsible? The night that Midas Ross was taken, his mother was at a bar.” She shows the woman the flyer in her hand, with the photo of Nell and Winnie. “Have you seen this? This is the night—”

Nell shuts down the phone and flips off the pump, silencing the droning motor. She hasn’t gotten nearly as much milk as she’d hoped, but it’s hot and stuffy in the bathroom, and she needs to get back to work. She buttons her shirt, packs the bottle, and waits until the bathroom is empty before making her way out of the stall. She needs a coffee—she’s felt unsteady since she left Colette’s apartment, that image of Winnie caught in her mind.

Heading down the hallway, she’s surprised to see Ian waiting for her, his hands along the top of her door frame, his cowlick curling like a question mark from his forehead—a feature Nell has heard that many of the company’s young female employees find irresistible. His belt today: pink flamingos embroidered over a sky-blue background. “Hey,” he says as she walks into her office, setting the pump under her desk. “Got a second?”

“Sure.” He’s with a young woman Nell has met a few times in passing, someone from editorial. She’s in her mid-twenties, and she wears a white lace dress over black jeans and orange ballet flats. Her hair is arranged into a perfectly messy bun, and she holds a folder in her hands.

“You know Clare?” Ian asks. Nell nods and straightens her back, aware of the pull of her shirt and the way it puckers between the buttons. She still hasn’t found the time to shop for clothes that fit. Ian saunters to the window and perches on the sill, moving aside some of the framed photographs of Beatrice that Nell placed there earlier this morning. “Second day back, huh? How’s it going?”

“Brilliant, thanks.”

“Yeah? It’s okay? Being back at work?”