CLEO

Cleo

SEVENTY-ONE HOURS GONE

As I wait for my father in the dimly lit, very quiet, impeccably clean kitchen, I picture Janine's face when she swung open the door the night my mom disappeared. Eyes so wide, mouth in a big O. Was it all a bit too much? Her hand to her chest, a damsel in distress in her teenage clothes—the low-rise jeans, the white cap-sleeve T-shirt … I was wearing almost the same thing that night. And then it occurs to me: Maybe that's why George said he saw me going into the house earlier. It was actually Janine. Mistresses kill wives all the time.

And yet, I'm still hoping somehow my dad and I won't have to get into details about whatever has gone on between Janine and him. We all spent so much time together over the years—dinners and sleepovers and family vacations. Were they together the whole time? I look around, as if there might be an answer that has nothing to do with my dad floating in the air. Because even now, I'm holding out hope.

My dad is late, as usual. I check my phone. Nothing from him, but there are four texts from Wilson of increasing intensity. She wants to talk to me now . She wants to see me. Whatever. Maybe that's even fine. She can come out to Brooklyn and cross-examine me about my drug-dealing "boyfriend," as she keeps insisting on calling him. It doesn't seem like I've got much choice when Wil son's last message is essentially an outright threat. Tell me where you are, Cleo. Or I'm issuing a warrant for your arrest.

At home in Park Slope, I finally write back.

I send the call that follows straight to voice mail.

Stay there. I'm up in Washington Heights but I'm on the way. An hour, hour ten. I'm not getting into it here in case you're not alone, but don't move, Cleo. I'm serious.

Ok, ok

Then I text my dad: Where r u? It'll serve him right if Wilson shows up while he's here. Maybe he'd like to explain Janine to both of us.

Almost there! comes his quick reply.

Maybe he's at Janine's right now. I feel like he might actually have the gall to do that.

I head over to the windows, careful to stay out of sight as I look across the street. I see Janine—I think it's Janine—pass in front of her bedroom window. I swear she looks toward our house. But then I see my dad, rushing down the block on our side of the street. Thank God. I return to my spot at the island. A second later, I hear his keys in the lock.

"Hey." He calls out, then comes from the vestibule into the kitchen, tossing his keys back and forth between his hands. He smiles stiffly. He's nervous. He should be. "What's the emergency?"

I want to stall, to delay the many terrible ways this conversation could go. All of which involve my dad adding to his pile of lies. But I know I need to get to the point and get this over with.

"It's Janine you've been having an affair with, right?" I ask—before he's even sat down.

"What?" My dad laughs awkwardly. He's avoiding my eyes.

"Annie told me you guys were together, Dad," I say. "Please don't lie to me any more than you already have."

I see the moment he reconsiders denying it. He sighs as he drops himself onto the stool next to me. He rests his elbows on the counter, hands linked together. He presses his mouth to them as if he's keeping the words inside, before finally reaching down to grip the edge of the counter.

"You know the craziest thing about being an adult?" he asks, though it's not really a question. "You still manage to surprise yourself in all these ways. And some of those ways aren't good. They are not good at all." He smiles sadly. "I would have sworn I'd never cheat on your mom. Not because our marriage was so great—it wasn't. And I'm sure your mom would agree. Maybe we're too different. But I would have been sure that I was a better person than that." He gestures across the street, toward Janine's house.

"So it's true?"

He nods, eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry, Cleo," he says. "I am really sorry."

"Holy shit." My face feels hot as I grip the counter. I could have sworn that I'd already accepted the reality—my dad and Janine. But all these years, all this time?

"It was a mistake, obviously." My dad looks up at me, and I see that while he wants me not to be angry, he doesn't actually feel bad. There's something so flat about his expression. Calculating.

"What if Janine had something to do with what happened to Mom?" I ask.

"She didn't," he says. "I know that she didn't."

"But George saw somebody that night—I think it might have been Janine."

My dad shakes his head.

"Why, Dad? Because you think she's so great?"

"Because I know she didn't. She was actually mad at your mom, though," he says. "I'm telling you that because I don't want you to think I'm hiding anything anymore. Angry or not, it wasn't Janine, though. I know it wasn't."

"She was jealous, that's why she was angry?"

"No, your mom had Kyle's phone. Because he had pictures of you on there, I guess. She took it to protect you." Kyle showing up at my dorm, some cop going after him—that all makes a little more sense now. "Well, apparently, there are also pictures of Annie on there … So Janine wanted the phone. Your mom said no. They argued … And then Janine left."

"And then Mom just happened to end up …" End up what? I still can't bring myself to think dead is a possibility. Even though I know, at this point, it's the most likely one. "So you think it's a coincidence that Janine, who you were cheating with, was mad at your wife and now your wife … Are you fucking kidding me?"

"It wasn't Janine, Cleo."

"I get that having sex with Janine has made you delusional, apparently, but—"

"I was with her," he says, cutting me off. "I was with Janine, across the street, when something happened to your mom here."

"You were at the airport," I say stupidly. But my hands have tightened into fists. His lost time. There was lost time.

He shakes his head. "I was across the street," he says, looking me in the eye, and now it's with … self-righteousness? "I landed at four-thirty and went to Janine's. I got there around five-thirty, right after Janine left your mom. There wouldn't have been enough time for Janine to do what you're suggesting. To do something to your mom and then, you know … move her."

"Wait, was Annie there …"

"She came home at one point," he says. "She's known about us. You know how Janine and Annie are—more like friends than mother and daughter."

"How long has it been going on?" My voice is icy as I glare at him.

"Cleo," he says, with a shake of his head. "Come on, you—"

"How long?"

He's quiet again. "Years," he says. "Since you were little."

And I think of the beach that day, my dad not being there to make sure I didn't drown—not because he was off somewhere. But because he was off with Janine.

I might be sick, right there on the island. "Can you please go?" I manage. "I just—I need to be alone."

For a moment it looks like he's about to argue. But then he stares up at the ceiling, like an answer is written there.

"I'm sorry, Cleo," he says again as he gets up to leave. "I really am."

This time I know what I'm looking for as I search my mom's bedroom—Kyle's burner. It's small, a flip phone. It's possible that I missed it tucked somewhere, that the police did, if my mom was hiding it on purpose. I look again under her bed and in the drawers. Nothing.

But when I open the closet, my eyes snag on the top shelf. The small collection of fancy handbags—the only luxury I ever saw her allow herself. Maybe that's why I was obsessed with playing with them when I was little, because they seemed like a window into some secret frivolous side to her. I grab a stool and reach for the blue box-shaped bag that I'd always loved the most because it looked like an adorable little suitcase. I used to carry it around the house when I was seven or eight, pretending that I was "going on a trip."

As I'm stepping down from the stool, sure enough something shifts inside the purse. When I snap it open, a phone tumbles out. Kyle's phone. I sit down on the bed, clutching the square box to my chest. What if whatever happened, happened because of this? Because of me and my stupid choices?

The doorbell rings downstairs—Wilson made way better time than she said. I get up and make my way slowly down the stairs. I know that I need to turn Kyle's phone over to her, no matter what might be on it.

But when I finally look out, I see Will standing on the stoop. I jerk open the door.

He can't return my aggressive hug because his hands are full, a book in one, Whole Foods bag in the other. "I saw your dad leave, thought maybe you could use some company."

"I'm so glad to see you," I say. The rush of relief knocks the wind from me. I can't even remember why I'd felt so irritated at him earlier.

He lifts the bag of groceries as he steps inside. "I thought I could cook."

I take a seat on a stool at the island as Will unpacks the groceries—tomato, garlic, onion, pasta—on the counter. While he begins to chop, I consider the fact that he'll be here when Wilson arrives. But who cares? She can judge if she wants. It's not like we're committing a crime. Kyle is a much bigger problem.

As Will cooks, I tell him about what happened in New Haven. And then without really planning to, I tell him that I think my mom killed someone all those years ago. That she must have had a reason, but still … That maybe she's been kidnapped by someone blackmailing her. Or killed. That is possible, too. "So, in the end, it seems like you found more questions up there than answers?"

"Only what my mom apparently did," I say. "And that place she lived in was … horrible. I had no idea how bad. It's amazing she's as normal as she is, given what she's been through. Maybe I should tell the police about the blackmail at least. What if it really does have to do with what happened to her? If she did kill somebody, I know she must have had a reason—self-defense maybe. Whatever happened, I'm sure he deserved it."

"I don't know—as you said, the last thing you want to do is have your mom come back, only to get arrested … I mean, the reality is, you don't know what happened that night. It was a long time ago. What if that person deserved it but your mom is still somehow guilty of murder?"

He's right. Why is Will the only person in the world who seems to be able to be honest with me and not make me feel worse?

"I want to do something."

"Of course you do. How about a glass of wine?" he asks. "I think what you need most is a second to collect your thoughts."

He checks in a couple cabinets before he finds two wineglasses. Like we're a married couple. Like this is our home. I imagine myself older—at a place where the years between us no longer matter—Will cooking, me watching from the couch, feet tucked beneath me. And I feel so safe and calm. This is right. It wouldn't feel this good if it wasn't.

"A glass of wine would be great, thank you."

"Oh, and that's for you," he says, pointing at the book he left facedown on the island as he pours from an already opened bottle tucked in a corner of the counter.

I turn it over. Mary Oliver's A Poetry Handbook.

"Obviously, your mind is elsewhere right now. But I thought it could be a reminder. Despite all this, there are still good things in your life, things to feel hopeful about. You have a future, Cleo, that will extend beyond this chaos. You are a truly gifted writer. I believe that will light your way."

How, exactly, am I supposed to not be in love with him?

"Thank you," I say, and my eyes fill with tears that I don't try to hide. "Really."

As Will pours, some wine sloshes onto the marble counter. "Oh, shoot," he says. There are red flecks on his white shirt. "Ah, I'll be right back. Let me go take a look in the mirror." He gestures down the hall.

He disappears toward the bathroom and I flip the book open to the title page. There is a note from Will. Please promise me you'll be a writer. God gives the gift to few.