Page 52

FIFTY-ONE

NATALIE

Today is my day off. Alternatively, I might’ve been let go, but I’ve yet to find out.

Yesterday, before I left The Splendors, Julien said they wouldn’t need me today. I argued. I texted Nick. Nick didn’t reply. I called him multiple times but didn’t get a response. I gave up, and Julien walked me out to my car after my shift—I guess he finally forced me out.

I still didn’t get what I wanted on Rosenberg. I have no choice but to wait for Nick to call back. Maybe I pushed it with sneaking booze to Rosenberg, but I’m pretty sure I can talk Nick into letting me work there longer.

It’s Monday, and I try to sleep in, but come seven o’clock, I’m staring at the ceiling above my bed, the thoughts in my head a pack of flies. Eventually, I get up, walk to the living room, and plop myself on the couch.

I’m wearing a tank top and a pair of underwear, the way I usually am, and I have no desire to put on any clothes or do anything. The apartment needs cleaning. I need to run errands. After Julien paid me, I have enough for rent for the next month. I should be grateful, but after working for days, after all the pressure and stress, I feel drained and lonely.

I call the hospital, but there’s no update on Cara.

“She might come to any day. Or not.” That seems to be the usual answer.

It all depends on her strength, and I pray that she has it. She’s always been a strong girl. I will go to see her later, spend some time with her. I’ve been so caught up with The Splendors job for the last several days that I completely disregarded everyone else. I’ve ignored calls and texts from friends who were asking about Cara. What do I tell them? To pray for her?

A message dings on my phone—from Cara’s boss. She is asking for an update.

There are no updates. One day you have a friend, the next, your friend is in some type of mental purgatory, and the void in your life is an infinite gaping hole. If Cara doesn’t pull through, several months will go by, and everyone will forget about her. The world will carry on, just like it did after Lindsey had passed.

Except me.

Even Trixy the Rat is suspiciously quiet today. Maybe she’s just happy that I’m finally home.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to shoo away the welling tears and the ache in my chest. I play with the phone, twisting it in my hands, when it starts vibrating with the incoming call.

Detective Dupin.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Miss Olsen?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Dupin here. How are you?”

I’m sure she didn’t call for small talk. “Did you look into Geoffrey Rosenberg?”

“We have, we have.” She clears her throat, her tone not reassuring at all. “This is a complicated matter, you see. Geoffrey Rosenberg is a very high-profile man.”

Why am I not surprised that she’s started the conversation with that exact statement?

“He is well-connected and not easy to reach,” she continues.

“Did you try to reach him?”

“Anything that has to do with Mr. Rosenberg goes through his lawyers. Right now, we have absolutely no evidence of his connection to your friend. Nothing less than a legal summons will work with a man like him.”

I curse to myself—I knew it from the start.

“The fact that your friend left the club with him doesn’t prove his involvement,” the detective continues.

“What about the other girl? The one I told you about?”

“I didn’t find a record of any admission to any local hospitals or New York City hospitals. Not with those symptoms.”

I chew on my lip, swallowing my anger at Julien. Did he lie? Everyone at The Splendors lies and cheats and commits crimes that go unpunished.

“So what do we do about him?” I ask.

The hesitation from Detective Dupin gives me a clear answer.

“Nothing?” I say at the same time the detective says, “Nothing.”

“I figured,” I say bitterly. Nothing is happening, and nothing will happen. “What now?”

“Where are you right now?”

“Home. It’s my day off.”

“You are not planning on going back, are you?”

“Goodbye, Detective,” I say sharply, hang up, and toss my phone onto the table.

Once again, the silence in the apartment is depressing.

I should turn on Spotify, but Cara has always been in charge of the music choice. Strange how you take for granted the smallest things your roommate does for you. Until she’s gone, and the realization kicks in that the choice of your breakfast muffins’ flavor wasn’t in fact yours, and you are not sure where she put the laundry detergent the last time she used it, and you need to send the rent money to the landlord, but she was the one who used to do the cash transfers, so you don’t even know the landlord’s email.

This is so way past music and muffin choices.

Cara doesn’t talk to her parents much, not after the big Thanksgiving fight they had two years ago. But I probably should inform them what’s happened to her. Though, to be fair, if she comes to and finds them next to her hospital bed, she’ll probably flip out. We, small-town folks, keep our small-town past an arm’s length away from our New York City life.

I lower my face into my hands and take a deep breath, trying to hold myself together.

What was the point of the last nine years?

When we ended up in the big city, only nineteen, broke but full of hopes, we learned to hustle. We picked up random jobs. We graduated college, and by then, we upgraded to upscale workplaces, learned the ins and outs of the big city, made friends, partied, went through multiple heartbreaks, tried nine-to-five jobs, quit, went to tipping jobs because the misery of nine-to-five didn’t justify our fancy college degrees. We wanted to experience life, party, have it all. We saw the rich and the poor, and the rich hadn’t necessarily gotten to where they were because of a college degree. We thought we could screw up and start again. We took risky chances and made questionable decisions. Because we were young, pretty, and invincible. Or so we thought.

Until our smartest friend died of cancer.

Until my prettiest and most talented one ended up in a hospital with “little brain activity.”

And my world as I knew it came to a halt.

My melancholia gives way to anger, slow and thick, getting thicker by the second. That anger pushes away the sadness and Trixy’s annoying scratching at the metal cage bars.

“Nope. Not today,” I tell myself. “I won’t just fold and wait for what’s to come.”

I might’ve screwed up yesterday by losing the letter, but it looks like the stalker guy is my only way to nail Rosenberg. Cara deserves this revenge.

I open the laptop on the coffee table and power it up. I search the web for the free apps to call a number from a computer. If I can’t use my phone, that should do it.

When I press the Connect button, the phone receiver emoji on the screen starts jiggling. Three rings into it, the guy picks up.

“This is Natalie,” I say right away.

There’s a pause. I wonder if he’s trying to remember who I am.

“I’m working for Geoffrey Rosenberg, remember?” I jolt his memory.

“Where are you calling from?”

“It’s an app on my computer.”

“I told you not to call me from home,” he hisses.

“It’s an app. Untraceable, right?”

“Your fucking IP address is traceable!”

I’m pretty sure he calls me something inappropriate under his breath.

“Why are you home?” he snaps.

“Day off,” I snap back.

“You got that letter to Rosenberg?”

I can’t tell him that it might’ve been stolen by someone at the mansion. “No. I lost it.”

“You what ?”

“By accident. We need another plan.”

A row of curses follows. “Listen. Don’t call me from home, your home computer, or anything like that. I don’t want to be tracked.”

I roll my eyes.

“Let’s meet,” he says curtly. “Jersey City. The gas station on West Side Ave. One o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“How am I?—”

The audio bubble on the screen bursts, indicating the end of the phone call.