Annette took it and looked inside. At the bottom were a few shriveled mushrooms.
“Harriett says these will help your depression.”
“How does she know I’m depressed?” Annette wondered.
“If you weren’t, you would have kicked that asshole to the curb a long time ago.” Eric smiled again. “Those are her words, not mine.”
“Let me get my purse,” Annette said.
“No need,” Eric told her. “They’re a gift. And if you want some company, Harriett says feel free to stop by after business hours any time this week.”
After the Newsnight debacle, traffic briefly dipped at Furious Fitness. A handful of women canceled their memberships and a few were noticeably chillier. But most of Jo’s clients came and went as they always had. Some even made a point of stopping to tell her she had their support. The first time it had happened, Jo had sprinted straight to a shower stall and turned the water on cold. Then she stepped under the frigid spray in her workout gear and sneakers. Steam had risen from her skin as she cried.
Lucy had proven remarkably resilient, just as Harriett had predicted. The two of them had begun spending hours together each week. Jo didn’t know what they discussed, and when she asked, Lucy would find a way to dodge the question. But she seemed stronger and more self-assured every time she came home covered in dirt from Harriett’s garden. It was Jo who couldn’t forget what had happened. She ran ten miles every morning and worked out for hours after Lucy went to bed. Nothing she did seemed to help. The man they’d been after had escaped from justice. And most of Mattauk thought she was to blame.
The smug, satisfied face of Chief Rocca haunted her. It was his face she destroyed when she hit the punching bag. It was his face she pummeled with her fists when she ran. Not only was he a lying sack of shit and an accomplice to murder, he’d used the Newsnight interview to brazenly take credit for everything she, Nessa, and Harriett had done. None of them had expected to receive any praise. But to see their work ignored and their names besmirched—it was too much to take. Jo thought she’d left all that behind when she finally escaped the corporate world. But it didn’t seem to matter where a woman was—there was always someone waiting to shove her out of the spotlight and into a steaming pile of shit.
She spent less time at the gym now, and more time with Lucy. After the break-in at their home, Jo hardly let the girl out of her sight. Every morning, Art found them both asleep in Lucy’s twin bed. Jo had installed a security system, and new locks had been put on all the windows and doors. The house was a veritable fortress, but Jo never felt safe. Art understood, but she could see he was worried. At some point, Jo’s need to protect their daughter would do more harm than good. Unable to send Lucy away, she’d already canceled her sleepaway camp.
“It’s okay,” she overheard Lucy telling Art. “Mom needs me to be here right now.”
That night, Jo had spent hours on the Spin bike she’d had installed in the basement. She could have ridden to the moon and back—it wouldn’t have made any difference. There was no way to burn off her rage or the terror that fueled it.
On the last day of August, Jo got Lucy out of bed early. Art was headed to a meeting in Manhattan, so Jo took their daughter with her to open the gym. They were at the front door, with the key in the lock, when Jo spotted the reflection of someone coming up behind them.
Before Jo could react, Lucy wheeled around like a miniature ninja, her fists clenched and her arms poised to punch.
“Hey there,” said a woman in black leggings and a windbreaker. She held out a hand to Lucy. “I’m Claude.” There was nothing patronizing about the gesture.
“Lucy,” the girl replied, unclenching a fist to shake the woman’s hand.
“You’ve got quite a bodyguard,” Claude told Jo. “I wouldn’t want to mess with her.”