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There’s a beat of silence while I digest that. ‘Um, why did you think something was going on between us?’
This time Emily laughs, as if the answer is obvious. ‘I don’t need George’s Facebook group to know what goes on in the store.’
‘But…’ I frown, thinking back on all our past interactions. All of them clipped and full of tension.
‘I’m ready!’ Mary shouts from somewhere at the back of the house.
‘Oh! I forgot I was supposed to count.’ The Moore grande dame shoos me away from the island. ‘You better hide well.’ Emily covers her eyes with her jeweled hands. ‘I’m pretty good at this game.’
Head swimming, I walk out of the kitchen barely noticing the empty bags and boxes in the foyer, trying to make sense of what Emily said. But between everything that’s happened since Friday, I don’t think I have the brain, or heart capacity to make sense of anything right now.
Arriving at the den, I look inside for a place to hide. Last night it contained a wingback chair where Thomas read his paper, and a side table. Though a stunning display of millwork, the rest of the room was bare. Not even a curtain to step behind.
Now, it’s full of Mike Hunt’s things. Apparently while we ate, Thomas’s housekeeper removed all of Mike’s things from the guest room to ready it for Emily to stay over. I shiver thinking of how Thomas is going to react.
‘Ten, eleven, twelve…’ Emily counts loudly from the kitchen.
Hurrying down the hall, I find a back staircase I didn’t notice before now. Unlike the front staircase, this leads lower.
I circle a small landing on my way down. Being a New Yorker, I’ve rarely been in a basement. Besides my apartment building’s laundry room, Moore’s inventory room is the closest thing to one I’ve been in. In my mind, house basements are creepy, dusty and full of broken furniture and scary furnaces. (Thank you Home Alone.)
So when I reach the bottom of the stairs and find a state-of-the-art fitness center, I’m almost disappointed.
‘Ready or not, here I come!’ Emily’s lyrical voice calls out from upstairs.
A giggle emerges from behind a large, grey exercise ball in the corner.
‘Mary?’
Her tiara pokes out from behind the rubber sphere. ‘Hurry. Hide.’
Hearing Emily’s footsteps above, I hustle to nearest closet.
But it’s not a closet.
Instead of opening when I push the door, it turns, spinning like a turnstile. The light from behind me vanishes and a split second later everything is red.
‘Holy photos, Batman,’ I murmur, my eyes squinting against the red bulb in the overhead light. The room is as large as the den above it but whereas the den is a study of millwork and sparse but expensive furniture, this room is cluttered with photographs hanging from wire strung wall to wall, with unfinished beat-up shelving units that look oddly like the ones in Moore’s shoe room but cut down to counter height.
But while the dented and worn shelving may be jarring against everything else in this house, it’s the photographs that capture my attention.
Photographs of skyscrapers, busy streets, pigeons, and street signs. I’m surrounded by New York City, but a New York City I don’t know. One that’s clean and crisp and artfully composed.
Moving closer to the string of photographs nearest me, I bump into a stack of bins, like the ones from airport security, against the wall.
Steadying them with one hand, I keep my eyes on Mike Hunt. Or rather a photo of him with his head tilted back in exultation as Chase scratches under his chin. Only the forearm and hand are visible but the hand belongs to Chase. I recognize the couch Mike’s on from his office. And honestly, what other man would pet Mike so affectionately?
I want to say it’s probably the monochrome filter that makes Mike look genteel and suave. The black and white style harking back to a heyday of glamor and refinement. But really, only a truly gifted photographer could make Mike look that handsome.
Next to Mike is a photo of Bell, resplendent in her wedding gown, eyes glassy with emotion, clasping hands with Chase as they lean into each other and dance. In the foreground, Leslie’s laughing. Though I remember standing next to Leslie during the bride and groom’s first dance, I’m not visible in the photo as I’m blocked by Chase’s shoulder. Which means the picture was taken on the opposite side of the reception venue from where I stood.
A light goes on inside my brain.
The pictures in Thomas’s office, the pictures in the rest of his home. I always thought he wasn’t in them because he didn’t like getting his picture taken or wasn’t present during the family events captured in them. But no.
Thomas took the pictures. My eyes travel left and right over the pennant-like banner of photos. There’s one of Raymond standing tall and proud in the middle of Moore’s main entrance. One of Liz, sitting in a window seat, reading.
One of… I suddenly can’t breathe.
