Someone Else's Husband(105)

“Brooks?”

I do not feel relieved, though. Not at all. I feel a flash of hot, then cold. This is very bad. Brooks. Standing here in my apartment, looking exhausted and disheveled. As if maybe he made his way to my apartment from D.C. on foot. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Weeks.

“What are you doing here, Brooks?” I make a point of gesticulating with the paint scraper. Trying to draw his attention to the fact that I’m armed, with a maybe sharpish weapon. My body feels like it’s got an electric current running through it. Paint knife or not, I’m in serious, serious danger.

Brooks steps closer. “I’m here because we can help each other, Frankie. I just need you to hear me out.”

Brooks is between me and the door. If I try to run, he could grab me. And he seems unconcerned about the scraper—if he’s even noticed. He killed Van. Or at least Richard thinks it’s possible.

I need to stay calm. Try to talk my way to safety.

“Okay, Brooks. I’ll hear you out. But outside. This is making me uncomfortable.”

A flicker of something hateful moves across his face. “Oh, come on, Frankie. You must be used to that by now.”





After


Gretchen

September 19

Gretchen didn’t recognize the two uniformed officers—a tall woman and her much slighter male partner—from the search or the police precinct. She was relieved. That suggested they really were there about something else entirely.

“Gretchen Falk?” the female officer asked, flashing a badge in the hallway.

She waved them inside.

“Has something happened to Hilary?” She was too nervous for niceties.

“Hilary?” the man asked, checking his notes.

“You’re here about my friend Hilary Kaplan, right?” Gretchen asked. “Wait, sorry. Why are you here?”

“Do you know a Brooks Grace?” the female officer asked.

“Yes, I know— He’s a friend of ours.” A rising tide of dread nibbled at the edges of her confusion. “What about Brooks?”

All the calls and texts he left unanswered. Retreat or not, it was odd.

“Have you seen him in the past week?” The female officer was scribbling in a notebook.

“He lives in D.C.,” Gretchen said. “He’s on a company retreat. There’s no phone service.”

“Actually, he’s been in New York City for more than two weeks. Staying just down the street at the Plaza Hotel,” the male officer said.

Gretchen felt lightheaded. She pressed a hand against the foyer wall to steady herself.

“Do you mind if we…” Gretchen gestured behind her. “Can we just go to the kitchen for a second? I could use a glass of water.”

“Of course,” the female officer said.

Gretchen sat at the round kitchen table with its five chairs. Becks and Elizabeth came out from the living room to stand behind her. So many memories at that custom-made, raw-poplar table, so many good ones. And now this. All of this. Gretchen smoothed her hands over the intentionally worn tabletop, like she was tracing the complicated history leading up to this moment. She must have been doing it for a while. When the female officer spoke again, she sounded concerned.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Falk?”

“Mom?” Becks asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry. Becks, can you get me that water?” Gretchen said, then turned to the police officers. “As you may know, there’s been a lot going on with my family. It has me a bit overwhelmed. You coming here asking about Brooks—I didn’t even know he was in New York. He didn’t tell me, which would be very strange. He’s friends with my husband, but we’re also childhood friends. Anyway, our other friend Scotty told me he was at a retreat.”

“Well, he was invited to that retreat,” the female officer said. “As a courtesy. As of two weeks ago, he no longer works for Grace Chemical.”

“He’s about to be CEO. That’s not possible.”

“Apparently there were some issues,” the female officer said. “The board removed him.”

“It’s possible he stopped at the retreat to check in,” the male officer said. “But prior to that he also checked into the Plaza. They have him on surveillance video. He was supposed to check out on Monday. When he didn’t, housekeeping overrode the do-not-disturb and went in. They found all his personal belongings, passport included. No sign of him.”

The female officer held up a Moleskine notebook in a plastic bag. “They also found this journal, an accounting of his day-to-day, um, activities while he was here. It reveals his emotional state, in detail.” She nodded at her partner.

“Were you having a relationship with Brooks Grace?”

Gretchen shot the man a scathing look. “No, of course not.”

The officer proceeded undeterred. “He seemed to think you were.”

“I don’t understand.”

“His wife hasn’t heard from him, but they’ve apparently been separated for several weeks. There’s been no activity on his cell phone since late last Wednesday night. The signal dropped—turned off, destroyed. Or the battery died. Hard to say. No further use of his credit cards, either,” the male officer said. “And you haven’t heard from him?”