Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,77

place? Is that why Ruth lives nearby?

Ruth’s grandparents live in Hoboken. She made such a point of it. Her granny baked the sticky buns for Ruth in her Hoboken kitchen.

For protection, Ruth said.

Granny Edith.

Is it a coincidence that Ruth lives next door to a bakery that sells a pastry with the same frosting design that her grandmother uses? Or did the pastry come from here? Was Ruth lying even about that? Has she lied from that very first evening? How many warnings did Charlotte miss?

Why didn’t Charlotte tell Rocco what Chef Basil reported about Ruth and the baroness? Why didn’t she question Ruth more closely about the swarm of children and the driver? They had missed so many chances to cut her out of their lives, to protect themselves.

To protect Daisy. What has Ruth done with Daisy?

It’s only a sticky bun. A pastry in a bakery window.

Evidence, in a way.

A lie has been told, then another lie. A crime is being committed. Daisy is missing.

And part of Charlotte still believes (has to believe) that everything will be all right.

A bell clangs as Charlotte walks into the steamy, yeasty-smelling bakery. Two women—both blond, both young—stand behind the counter. Charlotte glimpses two Latino guys stacking trays in a back room.

It’s all extremely old-fashioned. Not faux vintage but truly old-school. Time travel is how Ruth described her grandparents’ house.

“Can I help you?” one of the women says.

Charlotte points to the sticky buns. “Those look delicious. Do you bake them here?”

“I don’t bake,” says the woman. “I just work here.”

“Do they bake them in back, or are they shipped in—?”

The woman eyes Charlotte warily. Is she from the health department? Do the guys in back have immigration issues? She glances at her coworker. Now they both look suspicious.

Charlotte has been trying to act like an ordinary customer, chatting about the pastry. But she’s not good at it. She isn’t fooling anyone. She’s in hell.

The woman sees that and takes pity.

“Not much is baked on-site. Most of it comes from this mega-factory in the Bronx. Don’t you love that crazy thing they do with the icing? What genius invented a machine that can do that?”

Charlotte says, “I’ll take a dozen.”

She should taste one. But if she does, she’ll be sick. She holds the bag at arm’s length.

RUTH’S NAME ON the buzzer seems like a good sign. Ruth exists. She has an apartment to which she might still return with Daisy.

That would be too good to be true.

Charlottes buzzes more forcefully than she has to, and when someone—Rocco?—buzzes her in, she runs up the two flights of stairs. She’s out of breath, and yet she finds the strength to pound on the door like a cop on TV. She imagines the door swinging open and there will be Daisy, sipping hot chocolate with Rocco and Ruth at a kitchen table.

Charlotte will forgive Ruth. She’ll chalk it up to a misunderstanding. She will never say a mean word or have a negative thought about anyone. Not even Ruth.

Rocco opens the door. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He’s newly showered, his hair is wet, a shaving cut on his chin is sending up a trickle of pinkish blood.

He looks terrible. His face has a yellowish cast, and spider veins have turned the whites of his eyes a hideous sunset pink. She’d know that face anywhere. It’s the face of the guy who held a knife to their mother’s throat. Charlotte flinches when he steps forward to hug her. He smells of alcohol.

Poor Rocco! Charlotte blames herself. She stole Ruth’s passport. If he’d been on the plane with them, he would have stayed sober. Anyone would need a drink after being stuck in Mexico with Ruth.

But still, how could he do this? How could he make all those years of sobriety count for nothing?

It’s Charlotte’s fault. It’s Rocco’s fault. It’s no one’s fault. He’s her brother. She loves him.

It’s Ruth’s fault.

Hugging her brother is comforting. Charlotte wishes she could stay like that, with his arms around her, until her panic subsides. But she needs to pull away and look past him for what she knows she’s not going to see.

Daisy. Ruth. Where are they?

Ruth’s place is tiny, but everything is unexpectedly chic, furnished with good mid-century modern pieces—Ruth mentioned getting furniture from her grandparents—mixed in with knickknacks that are whimsical without being cloyingly cute. A brace of pens sticks up from the back of a ceramic pig. A pagoda and pines trees are carved on a large abalone