Besides, I figured Tim would be grateful for a little break. From Clara and me both.
I’m in, I wrote. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll meet you outside my apartment—86th and Amsterdam. I had never been to Vanessa’s apartment, but I knew she lived on West End Avenue in the high Seventies, making my apartment on Eighty-Sixth Street on her way to Isabel’s.
Vanessa texted me at exactly 2:50 p.m. Hi! We’re outside. Right on time—surprise, surprise. （Also, we were going to our missing friend’s apartment, but still, if you don’t start a text with Hi! you’re a bitch, right?）
I had ducked out earlier while Clara was napping to pick up some Levain scones and muffins to bring over to Isabel’s family. The solo time on this errand had rejuvenated me somewhat, though leaving the house without Clara was so rare that I’d felt like I had left a limb behind or was walking down the street naked.
As predicted, Tim was supportive about my going to Isabel’s—though he had been oddly aloof the night before when I’d told him about Isabel’s disappearance, swiftly delivering wisdom akin to “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” When I looked at him sideways, he realized that wasn’t a big enough reaction, and he recovered: “Crazy, though. How are you doing with it? Are you okay?”
I grabbed my Levain bag and gave Tim a peck goodbye before darting into the elevator, deciding to leave the stroller behind, Clara happy in her carrier, awake and sucking her thumb. Hopefully she would stay that way, but I didn’t exactly want to stay at Isabel’s all afternoon anyway, so if she did get fussy, it would give me an excuse to dart out. I also knew that there would be plenty of places for her to sit once we were there, since their house was obviously set up for Naomi and would have plenty of baby gear. My heart hurt when I thought of Naomi—if she was wondering where her mom was, when she would nurse again. While I （mostly） relished my occasional moments away from Clara, the idea of actually being separated from her in any real sense or for a long period made me nauseated and dizzy—especially thinking about whether it had happened against my will, which could be the case with Isabel. She could be kidnapped. Murdered. Lost. Anything.
Vanessa looked as polished as she usually did, in black high-waisted jeans （had she really given birth just three months ago?）， a long-sleeved white T-shirt, and white sneakers. Even her stroller was sleeker and more stylish than mine, beige instead of black, narrow and light for the New York City sidewalks it was navigating. Mine felt like I was pushing a minivan.
She pulled me in for a quick hug. “Ready?” she asked. I saw that she had two massive quiches from Kirsch in her stroller storage. The perfect choice. Classy as always. I was suddenly self-conscious of my scones. Did anyone even like scones, really? I suddenly remembered a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode about this very conundrum. I wished I had recalled it before choosing this as my offering.
I shook off my scone anxiety. “So, what did Connor say when you reached out to him yesterday?” I asked.
“I think he was surprised. I messaged his work email, since I didn’t have his number or anything. He definitely didn’t know who I was. I guess she didn’t talk about our group much at home. Which is totally fine, I don’t care or anything—our exchange was just a bit awkward. Isabel mentioned before that he travels for work a lot, so maybe he’s just out of the loop.”
“That’s kind of weird, though.” I took a breath, unsure how candidly I could talk to Vanessa about my theories. “Listen. I have to ask—usually they always look at the husband first, right? Is he . . . being investigated, do you think? Do you think there’s any way he could have . . . ?”
“I mean, I don’t know. I’m sure the detectives are looking into him—like you said, they always look to the husband first. But the fact that he’s home means he probably isn’t really a suspect, or he’d be at the station, I assume. In any case, we’ll be safe going there, if that’s what you’re worried about. There will be people around, I’m sure.”
It struck me then that, even though Selena, Kira, and I had joked about how perfect Vanessa’s husband probably was, I had never actually heard Vanessa mention a partner before. She usually didn’t come to the husband-talk second act of our mom meetings, over wine. Now seemed the wrong time to ask, but I made a vague mental note to casually revisit this sometime soon.
We walked up the stairs of the town house and knocked quietly on the door, as if we secretly hoped there would be no answer. As interested as I was in getting some firsthand knowledge of who Isabel’s people were, seeing her house, and diving into this crime as if it were a novel I was cracking open, I also felt like I was invading Isabel’s privacy by doing so. How would I have felt if these women, whom I’d only known a few months, showed up at my cluttered apartment? Then again, if Isabel were dead—and I prayed she wasn’t, but it seemed possible—perhaps the issue of her privacy was no longer relevant. I didn’t have too long to mull it over, though, because suddenly the long silver door handle I’d admired from afar turned, and the door slid open.