Francie feels a twinge of worry. She told Lowell to give Will the bottle of formula she’d prepared only if the baby was upset. It was Will’s first time ever having formula. She’s been setting her alarm the last few mornings, hoping to wake before him to pump extra milk, but she’s gotten hardly anything, not even half an ounce.
She types Does that mean he was very upset, but then someone sits on the chair next to her. She looks up, hoping it’s Winnie returning to the table. But it’s Colette.
“I just did a quick round of the bar,” Colette says. “I can’t find Winnie.”
Francie drops her phone into her purse. “It’s so strange. She can’t still be talking to that guy.”
“Why not?” Colette asks. “She is single. Maybe she went home with him.”
“Went home with him? She wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because she wouldn’t leave without her phone and key. And because she has to get home to Midas.”
“I don’t know. The others are beginning to leave. I kind of want to go too.”
“We can’t leave without her,” Francie says, looking increasingly concerned. “And now where on earth is Nell?”
A group of young women comes noisily onto the deck, lighting each other’s cigarettes off a shared lighter, planting themselves on the laps of young men claiming the chairs left vacant by the May Mothers who’ve since gone home to their babies. “I’m going to look for her,” Francie says.
Inside, she circles the bar, checking the side room, weaving her way around dancing couples, the beat of the bass thudding inside her chest. Winnie isn’t there. She isn’t by the bocce ball courts either, or on the sidewalk out front, or, as far as Francie can tell from peering under the stalls, in the bathroom. She pauses at the mirror; two glasses of champagne have left her lightheaded. She sponges a wet paper towel along her neck and returns to the table, nearly bumping into Nell on the way.
“There you are. Where have you been?” Francie notices a wobble to Nell’s step, a darkness in her eyes.
Nell holds up a glass. “Getting a drink.”
“This whole time? Were you with Winnie?”
“Winnie? No. I haven’t seen her since, well, you know.”
“No, what do you mean? Since when?”
“Since before. When I saw her.”
Francie takes Nell’s elbow. “Come on.”
Colette is alone at the table. “Where is everyone?” Nell asks.
“Everyone left. It’s time to go.”
“Already?”
“Yes,” Colette says. “Can I have Winnie’s phone?”
“Her phone?” Nell sits down. “Right. Her phone.” She lifts her purse but then drops it, the contents spilling onto the floor. “Shit,” she says, dropping clumsily to her knees. She tosses a scuffed wallet and a travel pack of wet wipes back inside. “This bloody purse. It’s too big.”
Francie crouches down and retrieves a sunglasses case. “Is it in there?”
“No,” Nell says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I wish they’d turn the music down. My head is killing me.”
“Call Winnie’s number and see if we hear it ringing,” Colette suggests as Francie and Nell rise to stand, Nell holding on to the table to steady herself.
“She didn’t come back here and take it, right? One of us would have seen her.” Francie looks around the room again. “Do you think she went home? That would be such a bummer. I really wanted her to have a fun night.”
“Winnie told Alma she’d be back by ten thirty,” Nell says. “She has a one-year-old and doesn’t like to babysit at night.”
The waiter approaches. “Another round?”
“No,” says Nell, waving him away. “No more drinks.”
“We’re all still walking home together, right?” Francie says. “I know it’s not far, but I don’t want to walk home alone.”
“I’m ready,” Colette says. “I’ve had one too many, and I have to work tomorrow.”
A phone rings from inside Nell’s purse. “Oh thank god,” Francie says. “Is that Winnie’s phone?”
Nell is again fishing inside her bag. “No, that’s mine.” She closes one eye and squints at the screen. “That’s weird. Hello?” She puts her finger to her ear. “Slow down, I can’t hear you.” Nell is silent, listening. And then something changes in her expression.
“What?” Francie asks. “Who is it?”
Nell is nodding slowly.
“Nell,” Francie says. “Say someth—”
But before she can finish, Nell opens her mouth, her voice strangled with terror, the sound coming out like a moan. “Noooooooo.”
10:32 p.m.
“What do you mean, Midas is gone?”
“I don’t know. That’s what Alma said.”
“Gone where?”
“I don’t know. Gone. He’s not in his crib.”
“Not in his crib?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. She went to check on him, and his crib was empty. It was hard to understand her. She’s a mess.”
“Is Winnie there? She must have gone home and taken him somewhere.”
“No. Alma called her, but it went to voice mail. Where the hell is her phone?”
“Did Alma contact the police?”
“Yes. They haven’t arrived yet. She’s there, waiting.”
Francie grabs her bag. “Come on. Let’s go.”
10:51 p.m.
The sound of their feet beating the pavement and their gasps for breath echo through the streets, which are uncharacteristically deserted, everyone away for the holiday weekend, or gathered along the river, collecting overtired children and empty coolers of beer, having waited longer than they’d expected for the fireworks to begin.
“Up here,” Colette yells, steps ahead of Nell and Francie. “One more block.”
She stops in front of an ornate Gothic building on the corner. The address plate, No. 50, throbs red and blue from the flashing lights of a police car parked nearby. “Is this her building?” Francie asks.
“Number fifty?” Nell’s out of breath; her words are slurred. “That’s the address she asked me to give Alma.”
Colette climbs the L-shaped stoop to the front door. She searches for a row of buzzers. “There’s just one doorbell. What is her apartment number?”
“Wait, look.” Francie is pointing and then running around the corner to a landscaped path that leads to a red door, left slightly ajar, on the side of the building.
Colette and Nell are close behind as Francie steps quietly into an entrance foyer. A dozen oversize Rothkoesque paintings hang on the pale gray walls, the ceilings are at least twenty feet high, and four wide marble steps lead to a hallway, down which they can hear someone sobbing.
“Oh my god,” Nell says. “This entire building is her house.”
They follow the sound, making their way down the hall and into a large chef’s kitchen, off which is a skylit staircase. A uniformed police officer, his name badge reading Cabrera, stands on the steps, listening to a crackling radio attached at his shoulder.
“Who are you?”
“Winnie’s friends,” Colette says. “Is she here?”
“Get out,” he says, visibly annoyed.
“Can we just—” Francie says.
“Out,” he says, probing his pockets for his ringing cell phone and turning abruptly to rush up the stairs. “This is a crime scene.”
They ignore him and continue on into a large living room. When they enter, they see her.
Winnie has curled into herself on a chair in front of a wall of night-blackened glass, her arms wrapped around her knees, a blanket the color of cream draped over her shoulders. Her eyes are vacant as she tugs at her lower lip. A detective is sitting a few feet away, writing in a notebook, a forgotten takeout coffee on the floor beside him.