Steven’s bedroom door was cracked, and I nudged it open with a finger, surprised by the chaos on the other side. I’d expected to find the bed linens pressed and throw pillows artfully arranged. Had braced myself for silk flowers on the vanities and candles around the bathtub. But Theresa and Steven’s bedroom was a disaster. Their bed was a temple of unmade sheets. Bras and socks had been strewn everywhere, and the only thing adorning the tub was a pile of mildewing towels. A single framed photo of the two of them hung crooked on the wall. All this time, since I’d first caught them cheating, I’d feared the private spaces they shared would look far tidier than my own. But as I kicked a pair of Steven’s boxer shorts aside and stood in front of their open closet, their life behind closed doors didn’t feel much different from the way mine and Steven’s had, and suddenly it made sense to me why Theresa didn’t want me inside her home.
I crept to her side of the closet. Shirts, dresses, and skirts hung in no particular order—just enough space between them to keep her clothes from wrinkling so no one would suspect she was secretly a slob. Sliding the hangers over one by one, I paused at a little black dress. She had at least five of them, by my count. Slipping it from the rod, I draped it over myself in front of the mirror. With a tuck and a few pins, I’d look good in this. She probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.
I gnawed my lip, considering all the things she’d ever secretly taken from me. All the things she was still trying to take from me. Before I could change my mind, I rolled the dress into a ball and tucked it under my arm, leaving her bedroom door cracked exactly as I’d found it.
I called Delia’s name, insistent this time. Her heavy sigh reminded me more and more of her father, and her tiny feet tromped sluggishly down the stairs behind me.
“Can’t we stay longer, Mommy?” she whined.
“It’s time to go home.” I stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She stomped her foot as I wrangled her into her shoes.
“This is going to be my home. Daddy said so.” The words cut like a knife through my heart. I bit back a wince as I scooped up Zachary with his blanket and paci and grabbed Delia’s hand, careful to take every last trace of my children with me. And as I locked my ex’s house tightly behind me, I couldn’t help wondering what kind of custody lawyer fifty thousand dollars could buy.
CHAPTER 6
I stuck the kids in front of the TV with a bowl of Goldfish crackers and dialed Vero’s number as soon as I got home, afraid that if I thought about it too much longer I might lose my nerve.
I waited for the beep. “Hi, Vero? It’s Finlay. Look, I know Steven told you we wouldn’t be needing you to watch the kids anymore. That wasn’t my choice, by the way. Clearly, he didn’t ask me before he decided to … you know … let you go,” I said through a grimace. I had no business asking her for anything. I took a deep breath and asked anyway. “But something’s come up tonight, and I could really use a sitter. Seven o’clock would be great if you’re free. I won’t be out long.” But if I was going to pay for a sitter anyway and get all dressed up, I might as well give myself the evening off. “Eleven at the latest,” I added. “I know it’s last minute, but I can pay double your usual rate.” From Steven’s PayPal account. The password still worked. I’d been saving it for an emergency, but after the day I’d had, I was pretty sure my need for a drink qualified. “If you can’t”—or won’t—“I totally understand. I can probably take the kids to my sister’s. But if you get this message in the next few minutes, give me a call and let me know. Please?”
I set the phone down and watched the screen dim. Then I picked it up, checking it as I paced the kitchen and chewed on my thumbnail. Theresa’s little black dress hung from the knob on the pantry door. With a plunging neckline, a fitted waist, and a seductive slit up one thigh, it looked like something the heroine in one of my stories would wear. I bet it looked amazing on Theresa. I hadn’t seen a single pair of mom-sweats or practical underwear in those messy piles on her floor.
I swiped on the phone and dialed my sister’s number.
“Hey, Finn.”
“Hey, George. Are you working tonight?”
The heavy pause was telling. My sister’s a terrible liar. She’s honest. Too honest for her own good. Which is probably what makes her such a good cop. “Why?” she asked cautiously.
“I need to bring the kids to your place.” My sister wasn’t good with kids. She was good with criminals. Georgia had been single since she came out of the womb, and, according to her, she preferred it that way. She’d rather spend her nights busting down doors and issuing arrest warrants than watching Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer. For that matter, wouldn’t anyone? “Just for a few hours,” I pleaded. “I’ll feed them first and Zach will probably conk out for the night before we even get to you. They’ll sleep most of the time, I promise.”
A news broadcast played in the background. “Sorry, Finn. I can’t. Haven’t you seen the news? The local arm of the Russian mafia scored another win in court this morning. I’m supposed to meet up with a few of the guys from OCN tonight to talk about it.” OCN. Organized Crime and Narcotics. Georgia worked in Violent Crimes.
“You don’t work Narcotics.”
“No, but I keep them company when they cry in their beers.”
The channel changed in the background. A theme song played, reruns of some evening cop drama Georgia watched just so she could bitch about all the details of her job the writers got wrong. “Come on, Georgia. This is important.”
“Can’t you call Vero?”
“Steven laid her off this morning and she won’t even answer my calls. I don’t have anyone else. And I really need to do this.” Do what? What the hell was I doing? Jesus, was I actually doing this? Yes, goddamnit. I was actually doing this. “It’s research for a project I’m working on, and I can’t take the kids with me.”
“What about your friends? Can’t they help?”
“They’re not close enough.” I dug my fingers into my temple, thinking of the handful of people I probably could call, but wouldn’t. Steven had never liked my friends. Maybe because they had never liked him. And over the years, consciously or not, I’d let them all drift. I’d chosen Steven over all of them. And in the divorce, Steven’s friends had chosen him.
She muted the TV in the background and swore quietly. “Isn’t there a babysitter in the neighborhood who can watch them?”
Right. Like Aunt Amy? “My babysitter just hired an attorney to file for custody of my children, and he laid off my nanny! So no, Georgia, I don’t have anyone else to watch them.”
She heaved a sigh that could blow the doors off a meth lab. “Fine. But just for a few hours. If you’re not back by ten, I’m putting out an APB and organizing a manhunt.”
With a rushed thanks, I disconnected before she could change her mind. I popped a tray of chicken nuggets in the oven, bathed and fed the kids, and put a fresh diaper on Zach before rushing upstairs to get ready for the night. As I blew the dust from an old beaded black handbag and stuffed my wig-scarf and makeup inside, I wondered what Harris Mickler was like behind closed doors. What kinds of secrets did he and Patricia hide in their closet, and were Harris’s faults really worth fifty thousand to get rid of?