THIRTY

You look like shit,” Bruce said as Marco sat down beside him on the bench.

Marco was numb. He’d screwed up his courage to ask, but he hadn’t actually considered that Richard would say no. The business could be saved, Marco was sure of it. There were some bad debts, clients who hadn’t paid. But there was some new business he was chasing—they were just being slow about making a decision. It could still all come right, with a little money to tide him over. He still had his ambition. He still believed in himself. He just needed some breathing space. He needed some cash.

“I need some money,” Marco told Bruce. “Know any loan sharks?” He was only half joking. He knew how desperate he must seem.

But Bruce took him seriously. He turned sideways to look at Marco. “No, I don’t know any loan sharks. And anyway, you don’t want to do that,” Bruce said.

“Well, I don’t know what the fuck else I can do,” Marco said, running his hand through his hair, staring angrily out at the river.

“You could declare bankruptcy, start over,” Bruce said after some thought. “Lots of people do.”

“I can’t do that,” Marco said stubbornly.

“Why not?” Bruce asked.

“Because it would kill my wife. She’s . . . she’s fragile right now. Post-baby. You know.” Marco leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and put his face in his hands.

“You have a baby?” Bruce said, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” Marco said, glancing up. “A baby girl.”

Bruce sat back and looked hard at Marco.

“What?” Marco said.

“Nothing,” Bruce said quickly.

“No, you were going to say something,” Marco said, straightening up on the bench.

Bruce was obviously turning something over in his mind. “How do your wife’s parents feel about their little granddaughter?”

Marco said, “They dote on her. She’s the only grandchild. I know what you’re getting at. They’ll give her money for her education, probably settle some money on her when she’s twenty-one, but they’ll tie it up in a trust so I can’t get my hands on it. No help there.”

“There is if you’re creative about it,” Bruce said, cocking his head at him.

Marco stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Bruce leaned in and lowered his voice. “Are you willing to take a little risk?”

“What are you talking about?” Marco cast about to see if there was anyone who could overhear, but they were alone.

“They won’t give you money, but I bet they’d pay up pretty fast to get their only grandchild back.”

“What are you suggesting?” Marco whispered. But he knew.

The two men eyed each other. If Marco hadn’t already had a couple of drinks, especially the miserable one he’d shared with his father-in-law, he might have given Bruce a firm no and gone home to his wife and told her the truth, as he’d planned. Declared bankruptcy and started over. They still had the house. They had each other, and Cora. But Marco had also stopped at a liquor store on his way to the river. He’d brought a bottle in a paper bag with him. Now he cracked it open, offered some to his friend, and took a long gulp straight from the bottle. The alcohol blurred things a bit, made everything seem less impossible.

Bruce lowered his voice. “You stage a kidnapping. Not a real kidnapping, a pretend kidnapping. No one gets hurt.”

Marco stared at him. He leaned in closer and whispered, “How would that work? It wouldn’t be pretend to the police.”

“No, but if you do it right, it’s the perfect crime. Your wife’s parents pay, you get the baby back, it’s all over in a couple of days. Once the baby comes home, the police lose interest.”

Marco turned it over in his mind. The booze made it all seem a little bit less crazy.

“I don’t know,” Marco said nervously.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Bruce chided him, handing him the paper bag with the open bottle.

They discussed the details, hypothetically at first. He could pretend to kidnap his own child. Hand her over to Bruce, who would take her up to his cabin in the Catskills for a couple of days. He had three kids of his own, grown up now, but he knew how to take care of an infant. They would each get disposable, untraceable prepaid cell phones and communicate that way. Marco would have to hide the phone somewhere.

“I’d need about a hundred thousand,” he said, looking out at the river, watching the birds circling in the sky above it.

Bruce scoffed. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What do you mean?” Marco said.

“If you’re caught, the penalty is the same whether you ask for a hundred thousand or a hundred million. At least make it worth our while. No point in doing this for peanuts.”

Marco and Bruce shared the bottle back and forth as Marco considered it. Richard and Alice Dries were worth about fifteen million as far as he knew. They had the money. If Marco got a million, he could save his business and pay off his mortgage, without any more help from Anne’s parents. At least not directly. It would be sweet to take a couple million off that bastard Richard.

They decided on a ransom of two million. Split fifty-fifty.

“Not bad for two days’ work,” Bruce assured him.

Marco decided it had to be soon. If he waited longer, he would lose his nerve. He said, “Tomorrow night we’re going out—there’s a dinner party next door. We’ll have a babysitter, but she always falls asleep on the couch with her earbuds.”

“You could go out for a smoke and sneak home and bring the baby out to me,” Bruce said.

Marco thought about it. It could work. They discussed the plan in more detail.

Now if he could choose the point at which he could go back and change everything, it would be the first time he met Bruce. If only he hadn’t taken that walk in the spring air down to the water, if he hadn’t sat on that bench, if Bruce hadn’t happened by. If only he’d gotten up and left that day when Bruce sat down and not struck up an acquaintance that had, over time, grown into a friendship. How different everything would be now.

He didn’t think the police would be able to find anyone who could put Bruce and him together. Their meetings were rather sporadic, unpredictable. The only people around were people occasionally jogging or whizzing by on Rollerblades. He hadn’t worried about it before, because no one was going to see Bruce again. Bruce was ready to retire—he was going to take his million and disappear.

But now Bruce is dead.

And Marco is completely fucked.

He needs to call Richard—that’s the reason he came to the office, to get away from Anne so that he could have a private conversation with her father. He has to know what’s going on with Cora, whether Richard has made new arrangements with the kidnappers.

He hesitates. He can’t bear the thought of any more bad news. No matter what else happens, they have to get Cora back. He has to trust that Richard can make it happen. He will deal with the rest later.

He picks up the phone and enters the number for his father-in-law. It goes directly to voice mail. Fuck. He leaves a brief message: “It’s Marco, call me. Let me know what’s happening.”

He gets up and starts pacing the length of his office, like a man already locked in a cell.

 • • • 

Anne thinks she hears her baby crying; Cora must be just waking up from her nap. She peels off her gardening gloves and goes quickly inside and washes her hands at the kitchen sink. She can hear Cora upstairs in her crib, crying for her. “Just a minute, sweetheart,” she calls. “I’ll be right there.” She feels happy.

Anne rushes upstairs to get her baby, humming a little. She goes into the nursery. Everything looks the same, but the crib is empty. She suddenly remembers, and it’s like being violently swept out to sea. She collapses into the nursing chair.

She’s not right—she knows she’s not well. She should call someone. Her mother. But she doesn’t. Instead she rocks herself back and forth in the chair.

She would like to blame Cynthia for all her problems, but she knows Cynthia doesn’t have her baby.

Cynthia has only tried to steal her husband, the husband that Anne herself is no longer even sure she wants. Some days she thinks Marco and Cynthia deserve each other. Anne hears Cynthia now on the other side of the wall, and all her hatred solidifies into a powerful rage. Because if they hadn’t gone to Cynthia’s that night, if Cynthia hadn’t said no children, none of this would ever have happened. She would still have her baby.

Anne studies herself in the shattered upstairs bathroom mirror, which they still have not replaced. She looks fractured, splintered into a hundred different pieces. She hardly recognizes the person looking back at her. She washes her face, brushes her hair. She goes into the bedroom and puts on a clean shirt and new jeans. She checks: there are no reporters in front of the house. Then she walks next door and rings the doorbell.

Cynthia answers, clearly surprised at finding Anne on her doorstep.

“Can I come in?” Anne asks. Even for a day spent at home, Cynthia is nicely dressed—Capri pants, a pretty silk blouse.

Cynthia looks at her warily for a second. Then she pulls the door wide and says, “Okay.”

Anne steps into the house.

“Do you want some coffee? I could put some on,” Cynthia offers. “Graham’s away He’s flying back late tomorrow night.”

“Sure,” Anne says, following her into the kitchen. Now that she’s here, she wonders how to begin. She wants to learn the truth. Should she be friendly? Accusatory? The last time she was in this house, everything was still normal. It seems like such a long time ago. Another lifetime.

In the kitchen Anne looks at the sliding glass doors that lead out to the patio and the backyard. She sees the chairs on the patio. She imagines Cynthia in Marco’s lap in one of those chairs, while the dead man drives Anne’s baby away. She is filled with rage, but she is careful not to show it. She has had a lot of practice feeling anger without showing it. She dissembles. Isn’t that what everyone does? Everyone is faking it, all of them pretending to be something they’re not. The whole world is built on lies and deceit. Cynthia is a liar, just like Anne’s husband.

Anne feels dizzy suddenly and sits down at the kitchen table. Cynthia gets the coffeemaker started, then turns around and faces her, leaning back against the counter. From where Anne is seated, Cynthia looks taller and more long-legged than ever. Anne realizes that she’s jealous, insanely jealous, of Cynthia. And Cynthia knows it.

Neither of them seems to want to start the conversation. It’s awkward. Finally Cynthia says, “Are they making any progress with the investigation?” She wears an expression of concern as she says this, but Anne isn’t fooled.

Anne looks at her and says, “I will never get my baby back.” She says this calmly, as if she’s talking about the weather. She feels disconnected, not rooted to anything. She realizes all at once that it was a mistake coming here. She’s not strong enough to face Cynthia on her own. It was dangerous coming here. She is afraid of Cynthia. But why? What can Cynthia do to her, after what’s already happened? Really, with all that Anne has lost, she should feel invincible. She has nothing left to lose. Cynthia ought to be afraid of her.

Then Anne understands. She is chilled to the bone. Anne is afraid of herself. She is afraid of what she might do. She needs to leave. She stands up suddenly. “I have to go,” she blurts out.

“What? You just got here,” Cynthia says, surprised. She looks intently at her. “Are you all right?”

Anne sinks back down into the chair, puts her head between her knees. Cynthia comes over to her and squats down beside her. She rests one of her manicured hands lightly on Anne’s back. Anne is afraid she might pass out; she feels as if she’s going to throw up. She breathes deeply, waiting for the feeling to pass. If she waits, and breathes, the sick feeling will pass.

“Here, have some coffee,” Cynthia offers. “The caffeine will help.”

Anne lifts her head and watches Cynthia pour the coffee. This woman doesn’t care about her at all, but she’s making her coffee, putting in cream and sugar, and bringing it over to her at the kitchen table, the way she used to. Anne takes a gulp, then another. Cynthia was right, it does make her feel better. The coffee clears her head, makes her able to think. She takes another sip and puts the cup down on the table. Cynthia has sat down across from her.

“How long have you been having an affair with my husband?” Anne asks. Her voice is matter-of-fact. There is a surprising neutrality to it, considering how angry she is. Anyone listening would think she didn’t care.

Cynthia sits farther back in her chair and folds her arms across her ample breasts. “I’m not having an affair with your husband,” she says, equally cool.

“Cut the bullshit,” Anne says in an oddly friendly tone. “I know all about it.”

Cynthia looks surprised. “What do you mean? There’s nothing to know. Marco and I are not having an affair. We got a little physical on the back patio the last time you were here, but it was harmless stuff. Teenager stuff. He was drunk. We were both drunk. We got carried away. It meant nothing. It was the first and only time we’ve ever touched each other.”

“I don’t know why you both deny it. I know you’re having an affair,” Anne persists, looking at Cynthia over the rim of her coffee cup.

Cynthia looks at her across the table, holding her own cup with both hands. “I told you, and I told the police when they were here, that we were fooling around a bit outside. We were drunk, that’s all it was. There’s been nothing between Marco and me before or since. I haven’t even seen him since the night of the kidnapping. You’re imagining things, Anne.” Her tone is patronizing.

“Don’t lie to me!” Anne suddenly hisses. “I saw Marco coming out of your back door yesterday afternoon.”

Cynthia stiffens.

“So don’t lie to me and tell me you haven’t seen him! And I know about the cell phone.”

“What cell phone?” One of Cynthia’s perfectly shaped eyebrows has gone up.

“Never mind,” Anne says, wishing she could take this last bit back. She remembers that the cell phone might have been for someone else. It’s so confusing, everything that’s been happening. She can hardly keep things straight anymore. She feels as if her mind is breaking down. She was always sensitive before, but now—now her baby is gone, her husband is cheating on her, lying to her—who wouldn’t lose her mind in this situation? No one could blame her. No one could blame her if she did something crazy.

Now Cynthia’s expression changes. The false concern vanishes, and she regards Anne coldly. “You want to know what’s going on, Anne? Are you sure you really want to know?”

Anne looks back at her, confused by her change of tone. Anne can imagine Cynthia as a schoolyard bully—the tall, beautiful girl who taunted short, plump, underconfident girls like her.

“Yes, I want to know.”

“Are you sure? Because once I tell you, I’m not going to be able to take it back.” Cynthia puts her cup down on the table.

“I’m stronger than you think,” Anne says. There’s an edge to her voice. She puts her cup down, too, leans forward over the table, and says, “I’ve lost my baby. What could possibly hurt me now?”

Cynthia smiles, but it’s a cold, calculating smile. She sits back in her chair and looks at Anne as if she is trying to make a decision. “I don’t think you have any idea what’s really going on,” she says.

“Then why don’t you tell me?” Anne snaps.

Cynthia stands up, pushes back her chair with a scrape on the kitchen floor. “All right. Stay here. I’ll only be gone for a minute.”

Cynthia leaves the kitchen and goes upstairs. Anne wonders what Cynthia can possibly have to show her. She considers making a run for it. How much reality can she stand? Maybe there are pictures. Pictures of her and Marco together. Cynthia is a photographer. And Cynthia is the kind of woman to have pictures taken of herself, because she is so gorgeous and so vain. Maybe she’s going to show Anne pictures of herself in bed with Marco. And the expression on Marco’s face will be entirely different from the expression on his face when he’s making love to Anne. She stands up. She’s about to let herself out the sliding glass door when Cynthia appears in the kitchen holding a laptop.

“Losing your nerve?” she asks.

“No, I just wanted some air,” Anne lies, sliding the door closed again, and turning back to the table.

Cynthia puts the laptop on the table and opens it up. They sit down and wait a couple of minutes until it boots up.

Cynthia says to her, “I’m really sorry about this, Anne, I really am.”

Anne glares at her, not believing her for a second, then turns her reluctant attention to the screen. It isn’t what she expected. It’s a black-and-white video of Cynthia’s backyard and, beyond that, Anne’s own backyard. She notes the date-and-time stamp on the bottom. She goes utterly cold.

“Wait for it,” Cynthia says.

She’s going to see that dead man taking her child. Cynthia is that cruel. And Cynthia has had a video of it the whole time. “Why didn’t you show this to the police?” Anne demands, her eyes locked on the video, waiting.

In disbelief, Anne sees Marco appear at their back door at 12:31 and twist the lightbulb on the motion detector; the light goes out. Anne feels all the blood leaving her extremities. She sees Marco go into the house. Two minutes pass. Then the back door opens. Marco is coming out of the house with Cora in his arms, wrapped in her white blanket. He glances around as if to see whether he’s being observed, looks right into the camera, and then he walks quickly to the garage and lets himself in through the door. Anne’s heart is banging wildly against her ribs. A minute later she sees Marco come out of the garage without the baby. It is 12:34. He walks across the lawn toward the house, where his image disappears from view briefly and then reappears on the Stillwells’ back patio.

“So you see, Anne,” Cynthia says into the shocked silence, “it’s not about Marco and me having an affair. Marco kidnapped your baby.”

Anne is stunned, horrified, and cannot answer.

Cynthia says, “You might want to ask him where she is.”