The Perfect Mother(84)

“No,” Nell says, her chest growing tight.

“What led you to look at the car again?” someone yells from the crowd.

Ghosh continues to speak, raising his voice. “At approximately six this morning, Winnie Ross was taken into custody and formally charged in the disappearance of her son, Midas Ross.”

Nell gasps and her mother comes to stand beside her, taking her hand. “Did you find the body?”

“We’ll have more details for you later today. Right now, I’d like to thank Detective Mark Hoyt for his diligent work on the case. And, of course, recognize Mayor Shepherd. You guys were pretty hard on these two, but everyone involved did a stellar job.” Ghosh collects the papers from the podium. “That’s all for right now, folks. Thank you.”

Nell grips Margaret’s hand as the image on the screen switches to footage of Winnie being led from the back of an unmarked SUV into police headquarters in Lower Manhattan. Winnie peers at the cameras from under her dark hair, her wrists in cuffs behind her back, a uniformed man at each of her elbows.

She enters the building, and a newscaster’s face fills the television, but then the video starts again from the beginning: Winnie getting out of the car, walking toward the police station, looking up into the camera, her eyes vacant, her face like stone.



No. Francie bounces Will up and down the hall, saying the word out loud. “No.”

She takes her phone from the counter and types. Are you getting my messages? We need to talk about this. I have an idea.

She needs Will to stop crying. She needs a moment to think. She goes into the kitchen, relieved to finally have the apartment to herself, Lowell on his way to the airport to drop off his mother. She hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and she’s faint with hunger, but there’s nothing she wants in the cupboards. She opens the freezer and takes a packet of frozen corn from the shelf, holding it to the back of her neck. The apartment is sweltering—confining—and she wants to turn on the air conditioner, but this morning Lowell asked her, his voice just above a whisper, to avoid using it to save money on their electric bill until she gets paid for the photography job she lied about having.

“No.” She says the word louder this time. They haven’t found his body. He could still be alive.

The doorbell rings again. It’s been ringing for the last two hours. Journalists seeking a comment. Mrs. Karan, her landlady, called Francie earlier, telling her she needs to make them get off the stoop and go away, complaining that somebody knocked over her potted geraniums. Francie checks her phone, impatient for a response from Nell and Colette, and writes again, typing with her free thumb.

I’m serious. We should talk to Scarlett. I think she can help.

That woman Francie saw on the balcony across from Winnie’s building, watering the plants: Francie thinks that may have been Scarlett. At first she wasn’t sure, but last night, while Lowell slept in their bed and Barbara on the couch, she locked herself in their hot, windowless bathroom, studying the notebook she keeps in her underwear drawer, searching for anything she may have missed. Thirty minutes later, naked in the tub, the shower water like ice pricks on her back and scalp, her hair like curtains down her cheeks, she remembered something: the last May Mothers meeting a few weeks earlier, when Scarlett told them that Winnie was depressed. Francie clearly pictures it. They were sitting on the blankets, sipping the wine Nell brought. Scarlett said how worried she was about Winnie. How they were neighbors, and had taken walks together.

Francie places Will gently into the swing, works the pacifier into his mouth, and flips the dial to the fastest setting.

Maybe Winnie told her something, she types. Something that could help.

She hits send, and her phone rings right away. It’s Colette. It sounds like she’s crying.

“Francie, you have to stop. You’re grasping at straws.”

“No, I’m not.” Francie begins to cry, too. “The blue blanket. The police didn’t even check Winnie’s trunk before last night?”

“No, that’s not what they said. They checked it again. Someone—”

“I was awake all night, thinking about it. If Winnie confided in Scarlett about her depression, maybe she confided in her about other things, too. Maybe there’s something there, something people are missing—”

“No.” Francie can hear the impatience in Colette’s voice. “You have to listen to me, Francie. I know this is hard. It’s hard for all of us. But I’m getting seriously worried.”

“I know. Me too. I’ve been worried—”

“No, Francie. I mean about you.”

“Me? This isn’t about me—”

“You need to get some rest, Francie. You’re not thinking rationally. You need—”

“But they haven’t said he’s dead. They haven’t found his body.” Francie’s throat is so tight, she feels as if she might choke. “Maybe he’s still alive. Maybe there’s still time to save him. He needs to be with his mother—”

“No!” The word is harsh in Francie’s ears. “He can’t be with his mother, Francie. His mother is the one who hurt him. Accept it. It’s over.”



Francie throws the phone onto the couch. Over?

The doorbell rings again, and then she hears footsteps on the stairs. There’s a hard knock on the door. It’s Mrs. Karan, coming to tell her she can no longer live with this chaos. She’s come to evict them. She, Lowell, the baby: they’ll have nowhere to live.