“I know,” said Graham, putting his head back down.
“You slept with the nanny,” said Will. “And now she’s missing.”
The words hung heavy on the air between them, all the implications swirling.
“It was nothing,” said Graham. “Stupid. A distraction.”
“Stop saying that,” Selena snapped. “Why do you think that makes it better than if it had meant something to you?”
Her husband looked at her with sad eyes. Once upon a time, that look could melt her. How many times had he used it to get himself out of trouble? Tonight, she saw it for what it had always been, probably. Insincere. Put on. Now it just made her angry.
“I don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, Selena.”
Selena could feel Will’s eyes on her, though she was staring at her husband. Graham was so slouched with misery that it looked like he could just slide out of the chair and puddle up in a pile on the floor.
When she finally turned to look at Will, she could almost read his thoughts.
You left me for this guy?
She’d had the same thought many times over the last few years. When her marriage was in crisis, when Will’s fell apart. Their friendship had endured and deepened over the years.
Wouldn’t we have been better off together?
Maybe. But then—no Oliver or Stephen. Will didn’t have children with his ex, so he didn’t know how complicated it could be to regret marrying someone.
“Will, man,” said Graham, in his most earnest “bro” voice. “Wherever she is, I had nothing to do with that. We agreed to stop fucking around. It wasn’t a thing—seriously. No emotion. No heat. She wasn’t making any threats.”
“Quite the opposite,” said Selena, taking another sip from her glass. “She couldn’t wait to get away from you.”
Will held up a hand to Selena. “Let’s all take a breath.”
But Selena didn’t want to take a breath.
“She probably just left this stupid town, with all its cheating husbands and clueless working wives,” she said.
Red wine made her aggressive; this was a known thing. She pushed the glass away. Then pulled it back and took another sip.
“You’re referring to the Tucker family,” said Will, looking down at his notes. “Geneva slept with Erik Tucker. Apparently, according to Mr. Tucker, there was some blackmail there. A new car to keep quiet and quit her job.”
The so-called “problems” with her former employers the Tuckers included an affair and extortion.
Apparently the other references on Geneva’s glowing résumé weren’t real. According to Detective Crowe, the phone numbers rang and rang, or were disconnected. Emails bounced.
“Did you call all of these people?” the detective had asked. They hadn’t brought her into the same kind of space where they’d apparently grilled Graham. He’d been in an interrogation room with Detective West and Will. Selena had been led to what looked to be Crowe’s small, windowless office.
Crowe had offered her a stiff, uncomfortable chair, a bottle of water. She sat, tense and upright, still in the clothes she’d have worn to work, the waistband of the skirt tight and uncomfortable.
“I knew the Tuckers,” she told him. “I wrote to them. They confirmed that she’d been a good nanny, that the kids loved her. But I already knew Geneva, from the park.”
He looked down at the paper in front of him, then handed it to her.
“And what about the others? Did you ever actually talk to any of these people?”
She glanced at the list he handed her; it had been a while since she’d seen it.
“I sent an email to this family—the Wrens. But I didn’t hear back.”
He frowned at her. “You didn’t think that was odd?”
She hadn’t thought it was odd, no. Men didn’t get it. They didn’t understand what a chaotic rush it all was, how much email flooded your inbox, how many administrative tasks passed by your eyes—work, school, the business of running a home, a family. Doctor appointments, dentist visits, haircuts, this request for a donation, that birthday party invitation. She didn’t think it was odd that she didn’t get an answer. In fact, she’d probably just forgotten that she’d sent the email at all. Checking references was just a formality. She knew—or thought she knew—the young woman she invited into her home to care for her children.
“Well, I knew Geneva. I tend to go on instinct.”
“And your instincts have served you well in the past?”
There had been more than a lilt of sarcasm there, an edge. She ignored it.
“Well enough,” she said. Well enough. Was that even true? Given her current situation, she