Page 26

Cleo

FIFTY-TWO HOURS GONE

Vivienne is already there, sitting in a red booth at the back of the narrow diner when I arrive an hour later. She summoned me with a text that was light on explanation. She has her hair back in a wide white headband, huge red reading glasses perched at the end of her patrician nose. And she’s smoking. Inside. She’s focused on her phone, punching out a text, gives no indication that she’s even noticed me as I slide into the booth and sit across from her.

“Fucking idiots. Think an MBA from Harvard makes them God.”

“You can’t smoke in here,” I say, looking around for the employee who is surely about to charge over to scold her. “Obviously.”

She gestures to the cooks in the open kitchen, the waitress standing nearby. “Do they look like they care? It’s late.” She peers at me through her reading glasses. “Our offices are around the corner. They always let me smoke when it’s empty. That’s why I come here.” She takes another long drag as the waitress appears, grim-faced, with a little saucer for her to flick her ashes in. “They don’t mind.”

“Pretty sure they do … What’s up?”

“I got a call from that New York Times reporter.” Her voice is quiet and serious now. “But this time she said she was looking for your mom, too. She wouldn’t tell me why, but she sounded … worried. Genuinely.” She hesitates and looks up at me. “I thought you should know.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

“She wouldn’t tell me much.” Vivienne stubs out the cigarette in the saucer. “But apparently your mom gave her documents related to something, something that wasn’t me. But your mom was stressed at the time, according to the reporter. And then she vanished.”

“Why did she call you and not my mom’s law firm? Or the police?”

“That’s what I asked … She wouldn’t tell me that, either. Practically hung up on me instead.”

“Oh,” I said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s like I said from the beginning. I think her job might be the point after all,” Vivienne says. “It’s not new information.”

But for some reason, this feels like terrible news. I look down at the table. I can feel Vivienne staring at me.

“Hey, what about that Reed Harding guy?” she offers. “You have any luck finding him?”

There’s no way I want Vivienne sniffing out Reed Harding’s trail; not when I have a pretty good idea where it leads. “No, that was a dead end,” I say, convincingly, too, I’m pretty sure.

“I can keep looking,” she offers. “There’s always something, somewhere.”

I shake my head. I need to divert her attention. “It would be a waste of time. There was someone blackmailing her, though. I think we should figure out who.”

“Blackmailing her about what?”

“I have no idea.” I keep my eyes focused on the sticky sugar dispenser on the table between us. “They said they knew something about her past. Anyway, I have the phone number the texts were coming from. Do you think you can find out who it belongs to?”

“Maybe,” she says. “It’ll depend if it’s a prepay or on a service, for starters. But I can—I will —do the best I can. I can probably find out something.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Can I ask you something else?” It’s something I’ve been wondering ever since Vivienne started helping me.

She lights another cigarette, takes a long drag, and eyes me through the cloud of smoke as she exhales. “Sure, why not?”

“If you can do all this stuff—hack in anywhere and all that—why did you even need my mom? Why not fix your situation yourself?”

Vivienne finally notices the waitress shoot a look her way. With a small rueful smile, she stubs out the cigarette. She carefully swipes up a few rogue ashes with the palm of her hand, then looks up at me.

“Because computers, information, data —it only gets you so far. You can figure out what happened, you can follow a trail to what’s next, but you can’t really fix anything, not usually. A problem that starts with people usually has to end that way, too. And your mom is good with people. Very good. Just like you.”

“Hey!” someone shouts as I pass a brownstone stoop on my way home from the diner. It’s dark, the street mostly empty, and it’s the kind of outsize New York City shout that makes you want to speed up. “Hey! Cleo!”

I turn warily. Annie. She’s marching toward me, crooked but determined. Like she’s concentrating hard to accomplish her mission. She’s definitely wasted. There is nothing good about seeing Annie at this hour, looking that angry and out of it. But I suspect that taking off will only make things worse.

“What’s up?” I ask as she stops in front of me.

“Tell your dad to leave my mom alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“ Your dad. ” She draws it out, stepping close enough that I can smell the alcohol on her—sour and stale—like she was drunk yesterday before she was drunk today.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” she says. “Your dad won’t stop texting her. And she wants him to stop. Obsessive freak,” she mutters.

“That’s not true.” But my heart is hammering in my chest. The affair. The affair.

“You McHughs are all alike. You come in and use people and ruin shit and do whatever you want. All you care about is yourselves.” She’s waving her arms around wildly as she talks. “Look at what you did to me,” she says, jabbing a finger into her own chest.

“What I did to you?” I ask, though I immediately wish I hadn’t.

“Yes! We were best friends—you totally ditched me!”

“We were twelve years old ! Annie, my mom is missing. And I’m really upset. I just—I can’t do this now. I need to go.” I start to step around her, but she blocks my path.

“Well, my mom is freaking out ! So tell your dad to leave her the hell alone, the sloppy-haired fuck. Or maybe I’ll tell him myself.” As she wobbles triumphantly away, she calls back, “Because maybe that’s what he needs, someone to make him back off—for good. I mean, look how well it worked with your mom.”