“Will, man,” said Graham, in his most earnest “bro” voice. “Wherever she is, I had nothing to do with that. We agreed to stop fucking around. It wasn’t a thing—seriously. No emotion. No heat. She wasn’t making any threats.”
“Quite the opposite,” said Selena, taking another sip from her glass. “She couldn’t wait to get away from you.”
Will held up a hand to Selena. “Let’s all take a breath.”
But Selena didn’t want to take a breath.
“She probably just left this stupid town, with all its cheating husbands and clueless working wives,” she said.
Red wine made her aggressive; this was a known thing. She pushed the glass away. Then pulled it back and took another sip.
“You’re referring to the Tucker family,” said Will, looking down at his notes. “Geneva slept with Erik Tucker. Apparently, according to Mr. Tucker, there was some blackmail there. A new car to keep quiet and quit her job.”
The so-called “problems” with her former employers the Tuckers included an affair and extortion.
Apparently the other references on Geneva’s glowing résumé weren’t real. According to Detective Crowe, the phone numbers rang and rang, or were disconnected. Emails bounced.
“Did you call all of these people?” the detective had asked. They hadn’t brought her into the same kind of space where they’d apparently grilled Graham. He’d been in an interrogation room with Detective West and Will. Selena had been led to what looked to be Crowe’s small, windowless office.
Crowe had offered her a stiff, uncomfortable chair, a bottle of water. She sat, tense and upright, still in the clothes she’d have worn to work, the waistband of the skirt tight and uncomfortable.
“I knew the Tuckers,” she told him. “I wrote to them. They confirmed that she’d been a good nanny, that the kids loved her. But I already knew Geneva, from the park.”
He looked down at the paper in front of him, then handed it to her.
“And what about the others? Did you ever actually talk to any of these people?”
She glanced at the list he handed her; it had been a while since she’d seen it.
“I sent an email to this family—the Wrens. But I didn’t hear back.”
He frowned at her. “You didn’t think that was odd?”
She hadn’t thought it was odd, no. Men didn’t get it. They didn’t understand what a chaotic rush it all was, how much email flooded your inbox, how many administrative tasks passed by your eyes—work, school, the business of running a home, a family. Doctor appointments, dentist visits, haircuts, this request for a donation, that birthday party invitation. She didn’t think it was odd that she didn’t get an answer. In fact, she’d probably just forgotten that she’d sent the email at all. Checking references was just a formality. She knew—or thought she knew—the young woman she invited into her home to care for her children.
“Well, I knew Geneva. I tend to go on instinct.”
“And your instincts have served you well in the past?”
There had been more than a lilt of sarcasm there, an edge. She ignored it.
“Well enough,” she said. Well enough. Was that even true? Given her current situation, she guessed not.
That’s when Crowe told her about the blackmail. That Geneva had slept with Erik Tucker, and according to the Tuckers, blackmailed Erik to keep it from his wife. She wanted a car; Erik got her one. Recently, Eliza Tucker had discovered the purchase. How, she wondered, did a man think he was going to keep the purchase of a car from his wife? Graham couldn’t even go to Starbucks without it popping up on their accounting software.
“That’s—terrible,” said Selena.
It was really hard to believe. It just didn’t jibe with the woman she thought she knew. It meant that Geneva, the girl who was always ready with extra wipes, or a spare bag of Goldfish in the park, was also an extortionist. Then again, Selena had seen the video of Geneva and her husband, and she had trouble reconciling that, too. The lovely person with the ready smile, the one who was an efficient and competent worker, a loving but firm caregiver, a respectful employee, was also someone who was sleeping with the husbands of hardworking moms.
Geneva, it seemed, was a shape-shifter, an actress. Selena wasn’t the only one who had been fooled.
“Are the Tuckers suspects in Geneva’s disappearance?” Selena asked.
Suspects. Disappearance. These were not words she wanted coming out of her mouth.
But Crowe didn’t answer. Just went on.
“So, nothing like that going on at your place?”
“No,” she lied. “No, she’s a fantastic nanny. Reliable, great with the kids, above and beyond with housework, errands—everything.”
Her throat felt dry. Didn’t cops know when you were lying? Wasn’t there some kind of training they received? She caught herself tapping her foot, something she did when she was nervous. She forced herself to stop by crossing her legs. Had he noticed?
“But your husband was home all day, right? Why did you even need a nanny?”
She laughed a little.
“Good question,” she said with a light eye roll, looking for a connection. But he remained neutral, watching her. She cleared her throat. “Graham was looking for another job. We didn’t plan for him to be home long. And he needed the freedom to interview.”
It sounded like bullshit. Because it was, essentially, bullshit. Graham hadn’t been caring for the kids, or working, or actively looking for another job, had he?
“He lost his last job. Is that right?”
It sounded really shady, the way he said it.
“He was laid off,” said Selena. “His division folded.”
“That’s rough.”
She didn’t like the note of pity in his voice.
“It happens,” she said stiffly.
He scribbled something, even though he told her the conversation was being recorded.
“You weren’t concerned about your husband and the nanny being alone together all day?”
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t.”
“How’s your marriage in general?”
“Good,” she said, her whole body rigid. A good wind and she’d snap in two. “As good as any long marriage. We’re—happy.”
She looked around his office for something personal—a photograph, a child-made piece of pottery, a team pennant. But there was nothing—just stacks of files, a laptop, his phone, an old mug filled with pens. There was a wilting plant on top of the file cabinet.
“No infidelity?” he pressed.
“Is this relevant?”
It felt personal, like he was prodding at her, and maybe he was. Will went in with Graham, but he told her before they separated to give the detective nothing. He offered to call a colleague for Graham and stay with her. But she’d waved him off. She had nothing to hide, she told him. Denial. Stupidity. Desperation. All three maybe.
“I think it’s relevant, given the situation,” he said, watching her.
“No,” she said finally. “No infidelity.”
Should she keep track? Of the lies, how many? Yes, a notebook of all the lies she was telling to others and to herself. It could come in handy.