CLEO

Cleo

FOURTEEN HOURS GONE

"I'm sorry about your mom," Will says after we've walked along the Hudson for a while in silence. His broad shoulders are hunched against the chilly wind. "I know that things with the two of you are not the best. I'm sure that makes it all … worse. Or, at least, more complicated. When you have mixed feelings about someone and then something bad happens, you feel … guilty, on top of everything else."

Exactly.

Things with Will might not be perfect, but God, can he articulate things in a way that I could never. My feelings have always been this huge, tangled mess. Like my emotions don't always pass through my brain. My therapist, Evie, has helped me see that doesn't mean there is something wrong with me. But it's satisfying also hearing it from someone who isn't on my mom's payroll.

"You're right," I say to him as I move out of the path of a child wobbling on a bike. "It is complicated. I'm really worried but still mad and also confused because I'm not even sure who I'm mad at anymore."

"What do you mean?" Will asks, fixing his bright blue eyes on me. Sometimes those eyes are all I can see.

"I don't know … these things I'm learning about her that don't even seem like her."

"Like the dating?"

"And her childhood."

We are quiet for a time. Watching the runners, and the bikers, the families pushing strollers. I like being here with Will. Away from school, away from everything.

"Also, a kidnapping with no ransom demand doesn't exactly make any sense."

"What do the police say?" he asks.

"They think my dad is suspect number one. And maybe me number two."

"That seems like a good use of their time."

"My dad apparently told Detective Wilson about my mom and me arguing about the Kyle situation."

Will raises his eyebrows. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know." I tense—if I talk too much about my dad betraying me, I may lose it.

"I'm sorry." Will reaches for my hand, wrapping his strong, sure fingers tight around mine. "I'm sorry," he says again. Like it's an action instead of a word.

"There's money stuff with my dad, too."

We've stopped walking at the spot where the Hudson walkway hits City Vineyard, a wine bar. To the left, a pier extends into the water; to the right, the pathway continues along up the river for miles and miles. We step to the left in unison, toward the empty pier. Will leans his body against mine as we make our way down to the end. The warm weight of him makes me feel small, and safe. It's so nice to be walking together, out in the fresh air.

"Money stuff sounds … not good."

"Nope." My throat feels raw just thinking about the rest. But I think I need to say it out loud. To admit it to someone. Maybe the words won't feel as heavy once they're outside me. "And my dad's been having an affair with his assistant," I say. "And he lied about it to my face."

Will frowns, but then his face softens.

"Okay …" he says finally. Lots of guys have affairs —that's what he means.

"Also, he wanted a loan from my mom. That's the money stuff. A loan for one of his movies, like a lot of money. And my mom said no." I look at Will pointedly. "And now, he magically has the money."

"Oh … wow," he says, grimacing. "But that still doesn't necessarily mean that …"

"I know. Not necessarily. But it doesn't look good."

"No, it doesn't," he agrees as the wind picks up again, tossing his shaggy hair in front of his eyes.

"They definitely don't think she just took off. Because of the"—I can't get out the word blood —"scene. Not that she would do that anyway. I don't think."

"A robbery maybe?"

"Nothing was stolen. And there were glasses, like she'd invited somebody in for a drink."

"Somebody she knew?"

"I mean, somebody she knew enough to let inside. She was dating a bunch of random guys she met online," I say. "So there are lots of possibilities."

Will rests his forearms on the railing, turns to look at me. His bright eyes so filled with … love? Maybe. "If there's anything I can do to help … And I mean that, really. Absolutely anything."

I rest my hand on top of his. "I think maybe walking would be good?"

"Absolutely." Will nods, looping his arm through mine, even though that's the kind of thing we never do.

"I feel so guilty."

"Guilty?"

"I knew about some of these things in my mom's life," I say. "I never bothered to ask about the details. Honestly, I'm not sure I really cared all that much. That makes me a bad person, doesn't it?"

Will shrugs. "I think that makes you a person, with a mom. Mine died of cancer a few years ago."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

He nods. "Thanks … Anyway, for a long time, it seemed like she would be okay. And there was this one huge fight we got into, about me wearing muddy sneakers in the kitchen, of all dumb things. She was screaming at me, probably because she was stressed about her illness. I called her a bitch. Yelled it right in her face. That's when she told me the cancer was back. That it had spread everywhere. She only had weeks left."

"That's awful." I squeeze his arm.

"It was, and I felt so guilty for so long," he says. "But she specifically told me before she died not to hold it against myself, that she understood I didn't mean it. Your mom knows that, too."

"I hope so."

"If she's anywhere near as thoughtful and generous as you, I'm sure of it."

Back in my dorm later, I try to hold the memory of Will's body against mine, my fingers tangled in his hair. For ninety whole minutes I didn't worry about my mom, or my dad, or the police. Even as the glow is wearing off, I feel calmer, my head clearer.

I close my mom's laptop and pick up my phone. It makes no sense that I haven't heard back from Jules. Maybe she's avoiding me; knows something she doesn't want to share—something about my mom and that dating site maybe? In a way, Jules does know more about my mom's life than any other person in the world—all that access to her messages, contacts, her schedule. My mom used to joke that it was like she was really married to Jules.

Now I wonder if that was less of a joke and more the way my mom really felt: alone. My dad was having an affair. He was arguing with her about her money. And then there was the fact that she'd grown up in that awful place, alone. At least my dad had my grandmother and Uncle Robert and Aunt Alice. My mom didn't have any family. She hardly had any Facebook friends. In the end, she didn't even have me.

I'm sorry to bother you again, Jules. But I really do need to talk .

Three dots flicker across the screen. Thank God.

Sorry, Cleo. Super busy at work. Will call as soon as I can!

Seriously? She's too busy ?

I wanted to know whether you have ANY idea what might have happened to my mom?

Another set of ellipses appear, and then vanish.

I'm really worried, Jules. Please. I'm headed to the office now. I'll see you there? I promise it will be quick.

I stare down at the phone, willing Jules to respond. A third set of ellipses flashes across the screen and then … nothing.

And now I am convinced—Jules knows something.

The lobby of my mom's office building has thirty-foot ceilings, immaculate polished marble floors, and a fancy security desk. It's even nicer than I remember—it's been a few years. When I was little, I always jumped at the chance to go with her to work. And I'd loved every second of being there, watching my mom do her thing. Being with her, period. It's amazing how easily I forget about that. But we were that close when I was younger. Sure, my dad was always better at the messy fun and games, even back then, but I adored my mom. She was my person.

"Can I help you?" the security guard behind the desk demands before I've even reached him. He eyeballs me like maybe I'm there to rifle through people's purses.

"My mom is a partner at Blair, Stevenson," I offer.

"And who's your mother?" He looks doubtful I have a mother, much less one who works at such a fancy law firm. He's even picked up the phone in a way that suggests he's literally trying to call my bluff.

"No, no, she's not here. Because she's missing. She's an official missing person. Her name is Katrina McHugh. The police know. It's a serious situation." I'm going for sympathy, which, from his scowl, doesn't exactly seem to be working. "But I need to speak with her assistant. Her name is Jules Kovacis."

"Mmm." He looks down at his old-school watch, then brings the phone to his ear. "Most support staff is at lunch until two."

He twitches a little and leans forward when someone answers right away. "Ah, yes, I have a Cleo McHugh down here. She wants to speak with a Jules Kovacis about a Katrina McHugh." His eyes flick up to mine. "Oh. Well, okay. I'll send her right up, then." He points without looking at me again. "Last elevator on the right. Floor forty-six."

An older woman with an angular face and a silver bob is standing in the hall when the elevator doors open. She is not Jules.

"Cleo?" she asks, as if she's not sure. When I nod, she steps forward and hugs me like we know each other. Her hair smells of lavender and vanilla and her arms are warm. I don't want to let her go. "I'm Diana Perlstein. Head of Human Resources. We're all so sorry about your mom."

"Thanks," I say into her silver hair.

She releases me, hands still on my upper arms as she looks me in the eyes. "Your mom is going to be fine, Cleo. Just fine."

"I know." I press my lips together as that now familiar burn rises in my throat. I really wish people would stop saying shit like that when they have absolutely no idea whether it's true. "Uh, where's Jules?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Jules isn't here." She smiles, sort of. It's actually more of a grimace.

"Do you know when she'll be back?" I'm trying not to seem annoyed. But the guy downstairs could have told me that and saved me the trip.

Diana Perlstein sucks some air in through her very even, very white teeth. "I'm sorry, but Jules is no longer with the firm."

"She was fired?" I ask. Is that why Jules is being weird?

"Oh, no, no. Nothing like that," she says. "I do know that our managing partner, Mark Germaine, is anxious to meet with you. He was so glad to hear you were in the building. As I'm sure you know, he and your mom are very close. He wants to see what the firm can do to help find her. Can I take you to see him instead?" She gestures down the hall.

"Okay," I say. "That would be good, I guess." As she steps forward, my phone vibrates. "Sorry, hold on a second," I say as I dig it out from my back pocket.

A text from Jules.

If you're at Blair, Stevenson, leave. It's not safe. As I quickly darken the screen, blood rushes to my ears. I don't think Diana was close enough to see the text, but I can't be sure.

"Sorry, that was … my dad." To me, it's clear that I'm lying. Hopefully not to this Diana person. "He's outside. Can you tell Mark that I'll come right back or he can, um, call me if there's a specific time that's good?"

She pats my shoulder. "Of course, sweetheart," she says kindly. "You do what you need to do. Whenever you want to come back is fine. I'm sure Mark will make the time."

I ride the packed elevator back to the lobby, staring at the wall of navy and khaki suits in front of me, brain buzzing. I look around to be sure no one is watching me before I respond to Jules.

What is going on? What do you mean, not safe?

Did you leave?

I'm headed down in the elevator.

There are two men outside in a black car. I was there a minute ago. I saw them.

What? Who are they?

Go somewhere safe. Don't let them follow you. There are people watching you, Cleo.

I can't get myself to move when the elevator doors open. People watching? It sounds paranoid. And yet my mom is missing. As the doors start to close, I slip out into the lobby and then through the revolving doors and onto the sidewalk. I brace myself. But I don't see any black car with two men in it. There's a box truck, double-parked, cab empty. Lots of parked cars—also all empty.

Jules, there's no one. What's going on?

"Cleo, what's wrong?" When I turn, Mark is heading toward me, face flushed with concern. Relief—the instant I see him. "Why did you rush out? Diana told me that you came looking for Jules. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. But we had to let her go."

Yes, Jules and my mom are close, but so are she and Mark. I've known Mark for years. He and his wife, Ruth, have been sending me birthday cards since I was little. They were at my high school graduation party.

"Oh," I say. "That woman said she wasn't fired."

"We've been trying to keep it confidential, for Jules's sake. She's had something of an episode. Manic. Your mother knew. She'd been trying to help. For the sake of the other employees' well-being, we had to let Jules go." He steps closer. "I'm sorry. I know the last thing you need is … well, something else."

Jules's texts did sound kind of delusional. And there aren't any guys out there waiting for me like she said. Also, she hasn't responded to my last text. I swallow hard. I really do not want to cry, but the longer Mark stares at me, the tighter my throat feels.

He steps forward and wraps an arm kind of awkwardly around my shoulder. "Come back inside, Cleo," he says gently. "We have hot chocolate."

A few minutes later, I'm sitting in Mark's office as his assistant, Geraldine, hands me a mug of cocoa. I feel like a kid and it's such a relief.

"You sure you don't want anything else, sweetheart?" Geraldine asks. When I shake my head, she, too, puts a hand on my shoulder. "We all adore your mom here. And we're all worried. But she's going to be okay. I know that she is."

For some reason, it finally makes me feel better when Geraldine says it.

Mark takes a seat across from me as she closes the office door behind her. "Have the police turned up anything yet? We at the firm can certainly help in many ways, but I also don't want to interfere with their progress or step on any toes."

"They don't know anything yet," I say, and I sound annoyed. "They're mostly focused on my dad and me."

But I do think Detective Wilson is trying. Maybe I just want some sympathy and comfort right now from a dadlike person who isn't my dad. Somebody who might actually step up and help.

"They're focused on you?" Mark laughs.

I shrug. "Because my mom and I argue a lot, I guess," I say. "I don't think they really suspect me. I'm not so sure the same is true for my dad …" I don't want to air my dad's dirty laundry. On the other hand, I could use some information. "If I tell you something, could it be confidential?"

"Of course. You're family as far as I'm concerned," he says. "Also, I am a lawyer. And starting now, you are my client."

"My dad was having some kind of affair. Also, he wanted a loan from my mom. And, well, she said no—but now somehow he has the money." It comes out in a rush.

"I see." Mark looks troubled. "There's an explanation, surely." He hesitates. "I mean, is that what you think—that there's an explanation?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

"Yes …" Mark hesitates. "That's certainly understandable."

"Would it be possible for someone here to find out how he got the money? Maybe my mom decided to give it to him in the end?"

"We can certainly try," Mark says. "I'll reach out to our forensic accountants—they're very, very good. Anything you can give me in terms of your mom's account numbers or bank names would be helpful, though. Or your dad's."

"Okay," I say, though my mom is careful. She wouldn't leave that kind of information lying around. "I'll look."

Mark stands and walks over to open his door. "Geraldine," he calls out to the assistant pool. "Would you give Ross Jenkins at Digitas a call, let him know we'll be needing some help on a rush basis? It's a top priority. I can call Ross myself if necessary."

Geraldine replies, but I can't quite make it out.

"Okay, so we'll get that started while you get me the accounts," Mark says, seeming pleased to be doing something. "What else?"

"My mom wasn't working on anything here that might have been … I don't know …"

"You mean dangerous?" Mark asks.

"I guess." It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud.

He makes a face. "Your mom specializes in patent litigation, cases involving big companies that mostly never see the inside of a courtroom. It's not especially sexy. Certainly not dangerous." Mark considers for a moment. "What about that place she grew up in?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know specifically. But it always sounded like that home was filled with some real rough characters. Your mom is very successful now. Doesn't seem entirely impossible that someone from her time there might resurface. It's something to consider. Desperate people can have very long memories."