The smell is stronger inside. Remy can see that the kitchen table has been set for dinner. Plates full of food, forks half-buried. Pots sit on the stove, dishes in the sink. But it’s the chairs that get his attention, both set at forty-five-degree angles from the table, frozen as if in mid-move. The story they tell is one of simultaneity, a mirror dance, chairs slid back in harmony and abandoned at once.
Remy examines the table. Chicken and potatoes, maybe. A potpie. There is a bowl in the center of the table, wrapped in a dish towel. Remy looks inside, recoils. It looks like rice at first, but the rice is moving.
How long does it take for maggots to grow? he wonders. Three days? A week?
“Babe?”
He turns. Margot is standing in the doorway.
“They’re not home,” he says.
“I know.”
“They haven’t been in a few days.”
“What’s that smell?”
Remy is trying to process what it means. A spontaneous getaway? Late for an outing. We’ll do the dishes later. A medical emergency—we should call the hospitals, he thinks.
Margot sees the maggots. “Oh my God.”
He takes her arm, leads her back into the living room. “When did you talk to her?”
“Thursday?”
“On the phone?”
“She texted.”
Hadrian calls out from the sofa, eyes still on his mobile screen. “What’s that smell?”
“Dishes,” says Remy.
Margot thinks about the exchange with Story. Thursday was US v Valice, a federal racketeering case. And then administrative meetings. She texted Story from the elevator.
Excited to see you.
An hour went by and then a response.
Who?
Very funny, she wrote. Did you pick a restaurant yet? I can have Barbara make a reservation.
She waited for a response, but nothing came. Then, as she put her phone in her robe pocket, it buzzed. She pulled out the phone, looked at it.
Ha ha ha.
What did that mean? She texted back, but got no reply. For some reason she thought about the silliness from her daughter’s youth. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. This obsession with skinniness, the oversize sweatshirts hiding weight loss, dinners unfinished, lunches uneaten, and then the realization that Story was literally starving herself to death.
Where did my daughter go? she wondered, sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, the girl who stood on that stage and sang with such bright innocence? And then she saw the number on the scale and nearly fainted.
“The police,” she says. “We should call the police.”
As if on cue, her phone rings. The number is unlisted. She answers.
“Judge Nadir, this is Chuck Malcolm. Is this a good time?”
“It’s—I’m not sure. We’re in Austin visiting my daughter, but she’s not here. And there are dishes on the table and bags packed in the living room. And I haven’t talked to her in five days.”
“You’re worried.”
“Yes.”
“She lives alone?”
“No, with her boyfriend. But he’s gone too. I don’t have his number.”
She breathes, mind racing. “There are maggots.”
A pause on the other end of the line. “I’ve just sent Randy to call the Justice Department. Someone from the FBI field office in Austin should be there within the hour.”
Relief, warm and overflowing, fills her. “Thank you.”
“Given the circumstances, should I put your flight on hold?”
She looks at Remy, who has been listening. He shakes his head, mouths, Go.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“I understand, and no one will fault you if you think you should wait until you know what happened to your daughter, but this thing is moving. And there’s no pause button I can hit. So—”
Remy squeezes her shoulder. “Go,” he says. “I’ll find her.”
She nods, her eyes watering of their own accord, looks to her son.
“We got this,” he says.
She nods. “No,” she says, “I’m still coming. Just tell me where and when.”
“Give me your daughter’s address. Someone from the field office will take you to the airfield.”
“The airfield.”
“It’s important we keep things quiet for now. The press knows the justice is thinking about retiring. They’ll be watching the airports.”
“What time is the flight?”
“Whatever time you show up. The plane’s en route.”