3 Beekman Place.

We landed in New York at 8 p.m. By the time we arrive at Simone’s apartment building it’s already well past 9 p.m. thanks to New York traffic. I get out of the Town Car and Stuart follows close behind me.

The neighborhood is surprisingly much quieter than I would have imagined for someone like Simone. Then again, prior to the reading of the wills, I hadn’t seen the woman in almost six years. Perhaps she’s matured from that nineteen-year-old who nearly fell off the chair she was standing barefoot on at Kevin’s wedding rehearsal dinner while delivering a tipsy toast.

“This seems like a nice enough place,” I say briskly, trying to put Stuart at ease. He gives me a meek smile and looks around the darkened, tree-lined street with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. I briefly wonder what it must be like to have your world turned upside down and then catapulted into a new environment halfway across the globe. It’s probably both terrifying and exciting at the same time. Hopefully, being with the aunt he seems to know far better than me will provide some sense of normalcy for him.

Then, I can get back to my own sense of normalcy.

I press the button for her apartment and wait. With any luck I’ve caught her at an inopportune time, maybe in a drunken stupor or entertaining a man who is completely unsuited to be around a five-year-old.

That last thought sparks a flash of sudden fury in me, mostly for Stuart’s sake, but also something else that I’d rather not think about. Before I can mull that one over, both Stuart and I flinch with surprise as the intercom hits us with a blast of music. I recognize the song, Raise Your Glass by Pink.

“Come on up, girlfriend!” a male voice with a sing-song lilt shouts.

It’s followed by silence that is almost deafening.

What the hell is going on up there?

I hadn’t heard the click of the door unlocking but I try it anyway just in case. Locked.

I press the button again. After a moment, we are assaulted with the same blast of music.

“That’s the wrong button CoCo!” someone yells over the music.

“Honey, you handle it then. Oh wait a—”

The silence hits us again as “CoCo” signs off. It’s followed by a short buzz from the door as it’s unlocked for us. It’s so brief and I’m so surprised that I don’t react quickly enough to open it.

As much potential as there is here for dirt to use against Simone, I’m getting damn frustrated. I press the button yet again.

The intercom crackles to life. “Sorry about that, he’s already had five cosmos. Come on up!” a female voice replies, actually giggling.

Oh, this is almost too good. Stuart is already blinking in surprise at this little introduction to his aunt’s life. Honestly, I can’t blame him.

The door clicks open and I grab it quickly before we have to go through another game of musical chairs via intercom. I practically pull it off the hinges swinging it open in exasperation.

Now that we are back in New York, my mind shifts into jaguar mode, hunting out any and every potential bit of evidence to use against Simone to prove that she is unfit to be Stuart’s guardian. The foyer is a bit dated but simple, clean, and well-lit, and the same goes for the elevator.

As soon as the elevator doors open on to Simone’s floor, I hear the same music. It’s muted behind the door to 7-B, where she lives. I note that there are three other doors on this hallway and file that away to give to Mike. If she’s throwing a party so close on the heels of her own sister’s death, then it must be a common occurrence. Disgruntled neighbors could be a gold mine for dirt.

The muffled music gets louder as we approach and I can sense Stuart move in closer to me with each step. By the time we reach 7-B his shoulders are actually pressed against my pants leg.

 I knock and wait.

And wait.

Perhaps they didn’t hear me over the music. I try the door and of course it’s open. I focus as I push it in, ready to take in any and everything, etching it to memory to be saved in the remove-Simone-as-guardian file.

As soon as the door is fully open, I’m so shocked I instinctively take Stuart’s hand, filled with an uncular protectiveness that I find surprising. He’s more than happy to firmly grip mine in return. It isn’t just because of the music that blasts our ears.

It’s the pink.

Everywhere.

The balloons hiding the ceiling from view range in color from magenta to a cotton candy color that’s almost white. Pink streamers crisscross the air above us. Another set of pink balloons cover the floor, making it impossible to walk without kicking or stomping on one. In fact, in the five seconds it’s taken me to absorb the picture before me, I’ve heard at least three of them popping.

It’s like a pink nightmare, filled with wall-to-wall guests, all wearing pink. Each of them is holding a glass in the air, also filled with one pink concoction or another.

There is a momentary lull as the song ends, which gives me enough time to recover and seek out the hostess of this little celebration.

“Hel-lo, Daddy!”

I turn and find a young man in his early- to mid-twenties who has taken the glaringly obvious color theme of the evening and run with it. Every detail has been covered, from the light pink frosted tips of his curly hair down to his pink and white saddle shoes. The pink frames of his eyeglasses show admirable commitment. I peer in closer. Good grief, is that pink glitter on his lips and eyelids?

He crosses one arm over his narrow waist and rests the elbow of his other arm on top of it. He gives me an assessing look then takes a sip of the pink liquid in his martini glass.

“I didn’t realize there’d be DILFs at this party,” he observes as he gives me a smirk.

“Stop it, CoCo,” says a girl approaching him in a pink t-shirt that is about three sizes too small. Under any other circumstance, my baser instincts might take over and let my eyes do a little inappropriate roaming. Right now, I find it absurd. I subconsciously give a quick squeeze to Stuart’s hand just to assure him that I’m still there.

“Who’s the hottie?” she asks ‘CoCo’ as she looks me up and down.

Before he can answer, Pretty in Pink from that 80’s Molly Ringwald movie blasts through the speakers.

“Ohhh I love this song,” the girl squeals, even though she doesn’t even look like she’s old enough to have been born when it came out, and runs off to dance.

CoCo comes in closer and places a hand—I note the pink nail polish—on my shoulder.

“F-Y-I, you are not allowed to mention Josh tonight,” he warns me above the music.

“Who the hell is Josh?” I ask in an aggravated tone.

“Exactly!” he says excitedly, before he downs the rest of his drink. “Una mas!” he yells, raising his empty glass in the air and wandering off.

 Jesus, who are these people?

I’ve already tallied up at least ten things I can use against Simone in court, but the way Stuart is squeezing my hand reminds me that there are more pressing matters to deal with. I’ve more than accomplished what I set out to do: paint Kevin’s sister-in-law as an unfit guardian. Now it’s time to go. I don’t want my nephew to be completely traumatized.

I turn around to head back out and I’m caught by a woman with an easy, laid-back vibe about her and a camera around her neck as she heads straight for us. Dressed in a filmy, pink blouse and black slacks, she’s the one ounce of sophistication and sobriety in this circus and is striking enough to stop me in my tracks. She has a head full of small curls surrounding her like a halo and facial features that almost make her look like a fashion model despite being the one holding a camera.

“You must be Archer. Aren’t you supposed to be arriving two days from now?” The look she gives me is cool and assessing as though she can see right through my game.

“We thought we’d come back early. Stuart was eager to see his aunt.” It helps that it isn’t technically a lie.

“Hmm,” she says, not buying it at all. The cynical look she is giving me transitions into delight as she leans down, placing her hands on her knees to greet Stuart.

“And you must be Stuart,” She says, smiling down at him.

Stuart wraps one small arm around my leg and presses his body into my thigh as he gives her shy smile and a nod. My body stiffens in response, unused to such intimate physical contact especially from something so tiny. Almost at the same time, another reflex kicks in, spurring me to instinctively wrap one large, protective hand on his small shoulder.

Perhaps it’s the long trip we’ve just endured together. Perhaps it’s the truth in the saying that blood is thicker than even the ice cold water that usually runs through my veins. Perhaps it’s because I’m too damn worn out to play the Jaguar of Wall Street any longer. Whatever it is, right now I just want to remove my nephew from this craziness.

“I’m Vanessa, your aunt’s good friend. She’s going to be so thrilled to see you!” Accusatory eyes roll up to meet mine for a quick second then brighten again as she brings her attention back to Stuart. “Would you like me to go get her?”

I feel his grip on me relax at that suggestion. Once again, the magic name has been spoken to draw him out of his shell.

“Yes, please.”

Vanessa laughs prettily at that formal request, then stands up. “She’s on the roof, taking a moment for herself. I’ll go get her and be right back.”

She casts one last accusatory glance my way before wandering off to get Simone.

So I guess we’re waiting. With Vanessa gone, Stuart is back to pressing his body into my leg again. It’s almost comforting, especially considering madness going on around us, which even I find a bit surreal.

Everyone here is young and tipsy and covered in pink. Balloons are being kicked about gleefully and bodies are gyrating to music that’s so loud I can’t even hear myself think.

This is ridiculous.

My initial goal of digging up dirt on Simone is slowly fading into an unfamiliar sort of moral duty. This situation isn’t fair to Stuart. I’m just about to turn around and take him back to the car when I feel the absence of his small body as he pulls away.

“Stuart!” my voice roars out with surprising alarm, drowning out the sound of the music.

The large crowd of people goes momentarily silent and the only subsequent sounds are that of my nephew and the music playing.

“Aunt Simone!”

I see him running through the crowd that easily parts for him. Straight into the arms of Simone Parker.