Something was burning. As Imani emerged from the shower, she noticed a haze beyond the reach of any evaporating steam. It hovered in the sunlight seeping through her bedroom window, a fog perfumed with the unmistakable notes of smoke, flame, and a pungent mystery odor belonging to the thing being scalded.
Imani squeezed the excess water from her hair and grabbed her robe. She tied it while hurrying downstairs, shame fueling her speed. Vivienne had to be making breakfast. Not only had her daughter taken care of Ava the prior night, but she was also preparing a meal for the entire family, including her scattered, oversleeping mother.
“Vivi, honey?” she called out. “Sweetheart, you got up early, huh?”
“Usual time,” Philip called over his shoulder before returning his attention to the task at hand. He stood in front of their range oven, the top of his head nearly level with the hood dangling from the ceiling. Imani realized that he hadn’t flipped on the overhead fan, hence why she’d smelled the cooking instead of heard it.
Seeing her husband at home should have brought relief. But it didn’t. When she’d woken without him, she’d assumed that all the talk of closing Banque Gauche had been little more than dramatics on Philip’s part to excuse his prior absence. But his broad body crammed into her cooking corner meant that he hadn’t been manipulating her. He wasn’t working. Things were just as dire as he’d claimed. They might really lose their home.
The realization stoked Imani’s anger. As she watched Philip monitoring pots on each of the stove’s four burners, she had the urge to complain that he was doing something wrong, burning the bottoms of the copper cookware or preparing exotic proteins that the kids wouldn’t touch. Unfortunately, her chef husband didn’t abuse pans, and plain old bacon graced the griddle.
“You really should use the fan so the whole place doesn’t stink of meat.” It was the only criticism that Imani could think of other than lambasting him for secretly using their home to prop up his business. She still lacked the energy for that fight.
Philip leaned right to flip a wall switch. The fan whirred loudly. “Didn’t want to wake you before,” he said.
“Are the kids up?”
Philip stirred a sauce pot, releasing the scent of stewing strawberries. “They will be once I get these crepes going.”
France’s pancake was Philip’s specialty. He made them buttery yet light. Never chewy. Seventeen years of marriage and Imani had yet to properly execute his recipe. Her efforts always resembled stretched-out pancakes with one extra-crisp side and another doughier edge.
Philip knew that everyone loved his crepes. Preparing them was a form of apology, Imani supposed, a consolation prize for failing to provide emotional support or consulting her about the home loan. But she didn’t want an edible mea culpa. She wanted Philip to acknowledge what he’d done wrong. More than that, she wanted him to make things right.
“I don’t know how much anyone will feel like eating,” Imani mumbled, even though the food smells had already drawn out her own appetite.
Philip flipped the bacon pieces with a pair of tongs. “Jay’s always hungry.” He shrugged. “I got up at five thirty and went to the restaurant only to remember that I’d told everyone to forget about brunch service last night. As long as I was there, figured I’d bring home some ingredients. No sense in letting food spoil.”
He was trying to keep his voice light and nonchalant, Imani realized, to avoid adding his sadness to her burden. She reminded herself that, as worried as she was about Melissa and the state of their house, Philip was dealing with his own tragedy, watching twelve years of blood, sweat, and tears evaporate due to circumstances beyond his control.
Imani relented. “Everything smells delicious.”
Philip flashed a small smile. “Maybe I should have done an all-day-breakfast diner.”
“A Michelin-starred diner,” she quipped.
Philip returned his attention to his pots. “A Michelin-starred takeout joint.”
Imani couldn’t think of a clever comeback that might counter Philip’s dejection. “I should get dressed,” she said. “We don’t know if the police will come back today.”
Philip stiffened, a rabbit sensing a coyote. Cops unnerved her husband. He blamed it on all the cases of unnecessary force that made the news. But Imani believed the roots of Philip’s discomfort with law enforcement ran deeper. The police who’d informed him of his parents’ deaths had made an indelible, negative impression.
“You all right?” Imani asked.
Philip’s posture relaxed. “Yeah.” He chuckled. “I wonder if they’ll want crepes.”
* * *
They were finishing breakfast when the bell rang. Jay sprang from the table, a racehorse reacting to a retracted gate. Imani figured that he would have jumped at the chance to do just about anything. Of the group, her jokester son was the least equipped to deal with the dining room’s oppressive silence.
Talking had become taboo. No one dared discuss Nate’s death for fear of upsetting Ava. However, compared to murder, no other subject was sufficiently serious to warrant a mention. As a result, they’d eaten without a word, entombed in dead air while trying not to watch Ava’s feeble attempts to stomach small bites.
It wasn’t until Imani heard the slurp of the door seal breaking that she realized she should have answered the bell herself. Police needed an invitation to enter, and Jay was too young and polite not to provide one. Imani would at least establish some ground rules before allowing detectives Calvente and Powell to question Melissa’s daughter again.
“Hello?” Jay’s uncertain greeting echoed in the small vestibule.
Imani was up before their visitor—or visitors—could respond. She strode over to her son and tugged his shirtsleeve, signaling him to step back from the threshold.
On the opposite side stood an older man and woman, perhaps in their seventies. Rather than police uniforms, they each wore peacoats that appeared too thin for the season. The man, at least, had a tweed cap covering his head, which rose a full foot above Imani’s own. The woman lacked any scalp protection but her short, silvery hair. Neither stranger wore a mask.
The man extended a veined hand. Imani regarded it as though shaking were a foreign custom.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “May I help you?”
The hand dropped to his side. “Right. Um. Bill Walker, Nate’s father, and this is his mother, Nancy.”
The woman struggled to hold a tight smile. “The school said you took in Ava.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.”
They were the wrong words, but Imani couldn’t fathom the right ones. Etiquette demanded that she say how sorry she was for their loss and invite them inside. Fear, however, urged her to walk back her subtle confirmation that Ava was even in her house. For all Imani knew, this nice older pair were opportunists seeking a chance to nab the child of a famous couple who could then be auctioned off in some sick, underground sex market. Her best friend was missing, and that friend’s husband had been shot in the face, in a brownstone fortress located in one of New York’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Nothing made sense anymore.
“We’ve come from Tennessee for our granddaughter.” Bill stood straighter as he made his announcement, adding another inch to his already-imposing figure.
Nate had indeed hailed from Tennessee. But his birth state was the kind of celebrity trivia that could be verified via Google. Anyone willing to research for a few minutes would know it.
Imani nodded, still wrestling with the idea of welcoming them in. She needed to keep Ava safe. But what harm did she really expect from a seventy-something man and woman when her husband was in the house? Bill was a big guy, but Philip was a fit, decades-younger former marine.
“I-I’m sorry. It’s only that we’ve never met,” Imani said, stumbling over her words. “And I’m so sorry for your loss—”
“I understand.” Bill stepped forward. “But—”
“And with the case being so publicized and Nate’s fame,” Imani added, unable to cut off the stream of excuses, “I’m only trying to do what Melissa would want. She’s my best friend.”
Nancy grasped her husband’s arm, either holding him back or holding on for support. “And we’re Ava’s grandparents. We need to see—”
“Ava!”
Jay’s voice echoed behind them. At some point during Imani’s babbling, her boy had possessed the good sense to call for the one person able to verify their visitors’ identities.
“I think your grandparents might be here,” he shouted.
Bill took another step forward. Imani moved left in response, positioning herself in front of him. She grasped the door edge, ready to slam it at the slightest sign of confusion on Ava’s face.
Philip approached with Ava a step behind. Seeing her husband relaxed Imani. If these people weren’t who they said, Philip would get rid of them without a problem.
“Nana?”
Imani rotated, enabling Ava to better see their would-be guests.
“Pop!”
Ava picked up her pace, spurring Imani to relinquish her hold on the door’s edge. “Please come in,” she said, stepping back.
Nancy and Bill didn’t seem to appreciate her belated hospitality. Ava’s grandma extended her arms without entering the house, calling Ava into the cold despite the girl’s socked feet and thin school sweatshirt.
“Honey, we’re here.” Nancy’s voice recalled a tuning fork, high and trembling.
Ava fell into the woman’s arms, her composure shattering. Bill immediately closed ranks, wrapping his bulky body around both wife and granddaughter, a human shield against the cold and whatever else might come.
They held each other like that for what seemed a full minute, tears streaming down cheeks, shoulders shaking. Imani studied the family portrait with regret. She should have held Ava this morning, she thought. She should have given her a shoulder to cry on rather than a glass of orange juice, a tense family breakfast, and a weak promise to call the cops later and ask if they’d learned anything more.
“Grab your things, sweetheart,” Bill commanded. “We’re taking you home with us.”
Ava withdrew from her grandmother’s chest. “But school—”
“We’ve spoken with St. Catherine’s.” Nancy grasped Ava’s arm as though she feared the child stepping out of reach forever. “They said many students already log on remotely because of the pandemic. We have that fiber internet. You can attend virtually for the remainder of the year until we figure out what to do long-term.”
“But I can’t just go,” Ava countered. “Everything I have is in my house.”
Bill rubbed the back of his neck. “The police said we can pick up whatever you need.”
Ava seemed to fold into herself, a paper crane crumpling into a ball. The defeatist body language made Imani question whether she should be fighting on behalf of Melissa’s daughter. If Ava wanted to finish out the school year, Imani could provide a loving, safe home near St. Catherine’s. She could ensure that Nate’s parents didn’t run off with Melissa’s only child. But was that her place? Being a designated emergency contact was not the same as being entrusted with custody. Surely Nate’s will had stipulated with whom Ava should stay in the event that his wife wasn’t around.
“I can mail anything you need.” Vivienne spoke from several feet behind them, where the foyer melded into the living area. “And I’ll call you every day.”
Ava hurried over to Vivienne and wrapped her arms around her. There was a desperation to their embrace, as though both girls believed that this might be the last time they saw each other. Looking at them, Imani saw herself and Melissa, saying the good-bye that Imani had never had a chance to give or get. That she wouldn’t need, Imani mentally assured herself—not since Melissa would be found.
When the girls broke apart, Ava told her grandparents that her things were upstairs. Imani watched all the kids ascend to the second floor before turning her attention to Nate’s parents.
“Would you come inside for a minute?”
Nancy pointed to her exposed mouth. “Not sure of the rules. We just got off a plane.”
“We can put on masks,” Imani offered, hating to add yet another negotiation to the looming one of where Ava should remain. “I have plenty of disposables.”
Nancy looked to Bill for permission. He grasped his wife’s hand and then entered the house, barely clearing the way enough for Imani to close the door behind him. “Please sit,” Imani said, heading to the junk drawer repurposed as PPE compartment.
“That’s okay.” Bill stood his ground by the exit. “I guess Ava slept here last night as it is, and we really can’t stay more than a couple minutes anyway. We have to help her pack and then head out. We don’t want to stay at a hotel given everything.”
Imani abandoned her errand to join Philip at the edge of the living room. She gave him a pointed look, silently asking permission to suggest that Ava stay with them. Melissa’s daughter was Vivienne’s best friend, after all, and she clearly didn’t want to leave their school.
If Philip understood her stare, he ignored it. “I understand about the hotels,” he said, directing his attention to Bill. “Some have rooms that share ventilation, so you can’t be—”
“We’re always happy to have Ava,” Imani interjected. Philip hadn’t asked her about taking a loan out on the house, she decided. Perhaps she didn’t need his permission for this. “She’s been friends with Vivienne since they were little, and she’s often here anyway. We could—”
“It’s best that Ava come home with us,” Nancy said, heading her off before she could get to the point. “It’s what Nate would want.”
Imani didn’t doubt that was true. Able-bodied grandparents, uncles, and aunts were the usual suspects when it came to custody, and in Ava’s case, there was only one real blood option. Melissa’s mother was in a nursing home with early onset dementia, and her father was long estranged. There was a sister in her thirties. But she’d never been married and didn’t want kids, which wasn’t a great résumé for the guardian of a teenager.
Still, Nate’s wishes were not necessarily Melissa’s. Though Imani had never before met Mr. Walker and his wife, their reputation preceded them. Melissa had griped many times about her Kentucky in-laws’ refusal to spend a single holiday in Brooklyn, always insisting that Melissa, Ava, and Nate head to their house for a “real” Christmas or Thanksgiving, one that involved cutting down their own tree, shooting their own turkey, or criticizing “Hollywood people’s” political opinions.
“Maybe Ava should stay local until we know more about Melissa,” Imani suggested. “She might come back soon, and she’d want—”
“I doubt that.”
Bill’s tone was matter-of-fact and not particularly sad. Imani stared at him, waiting for some sign that he was struggling with the idea of his daughter-in-law’s disappearance.
“You mean you think she’s…” Imani trailed off, unwilling to utter the word dead lest it somehow sink into the universe and change Melissa’s fate. “You think whoever hurt Nate—”
“Who hurt him?” Bill made the question sound rhetorical.
“Do you know?” Imani asked.
Nancy glanced at the empty staircase before speaking. “Melissa was seeing someone.” She glared at Imani, her blue eyes turning to slate. “Did you know?”
Imani knew that online commentators didn’t need facts to weigh in with their opinions. “People are only saying the affair stuff online because of their careers,” she countered. “Melissa played some ruthless female characters in the past, so they’re confusing her roles with her real life. She—”
“The police asked us if Nate had said anything about problems in the marriage or her being unfaithful,” Nancy interrupted. “It’s clear they suspect something.”
Imani looked away from Nancy’s disgusted expression, struggling to bring an imaginary cement wall into focus. “The cops are only speculating, looking for motive anywhere.”
“She was privately messaging some guy on Instagram,” Bill grumbled.
Imani shook her head, even as she considered the implication of Bill having such a specific piece of information. Germaphobe that she was, Melissa wouldn’t have started seeing a stranger during a pandemic. However, if she were completely honest with herself, Imani could imagine Melissa growing bored and possibly flirting online. She and Nate thrived off of attention, and they hadn’t been able to get much adoration from strangers lately.
“I’m sure it was nothing,” Imani said.
Bill’s nostrils flared. “Well, they’re trying to track him down. For all we know, she’s hiding out with him.”
Imani closed her eyes, trying to force the friend that she knew into the character the police had created. On some level, she wanted Bill to be right. If Melissa was hiding out with a lover, then she was definitely alive. But even if Imani threw out everything that she believed to be true about Melissa and Nate’s relationship, she still couldn’t reconcile Melissa the mother with a woman who would leave her daughter to mourn her disappearance as she galivanted around with a lover.
“Or this guy kidnapped her.” Imani said it too loudly. She looked nervously up the stairs and then turned the dial on her voice down to sotto voce level. “I’ve known Melissa for more than a decade. She would never hurt—”
“Then where is she?” Bill roared.
“Hey.” Philip stepped forward, hand raised like a traffic cop. “I imagine this is hard, but—”
“I wish I knew,” Imani said, matching Bill’s tone if not his volume. “But I can tell you with absolute certainty that she wouldn’t run off somewhere without Ava. I’m sure you know how hard she tried to have her and that she couldn’t have any more children. She’d never leave her daughter.” Imani lowered her voice another notch. “The fact that she’s not here means that she’s in trouble.”
Bill’s fair complexion revealed all the blood rushing to his head. “She’s in more than—”
“Mom.”
The call stopped all conversation. Imani spun toward the staircase, expecting to see a devastated Ava beside Vivienne. Blessedly, only Imani’s lanky girl fidgeted atop the fourth step. “Um, Ava says she can’t go to the house. She’s afraid she might see something.”
Nancy’s face crumpled. “I understand.” The strain from fighting tears showed in the older woman’s taut neck. “I’m not sure I want to go myself.”
“I’ll go.” The words were out of Imani’s mouth before she considered the implications. Confronting anything that might make her fear more for Melissa’s life would be devastating. But she did want to ask the cops about Melissa’s supposed internet boyfriend and the rumors that they were spreading. She also wanted to make them see the real Melissa: a woman who’d suffered a miscarriage and then, realizing she couldn’t have more children, scaled back her career at the height of her fame to focus on her only child. Secretly, she also wanted to see the crime scene. Perhaps there was something in the house that would strike her as wrong, something that only someone close to Melissa would realize.
“I know the house’s layout and what teenage girls need nowadays,” Imani said. “And Ava can text me a list of anything special that she wants.”
Bill gave Nancy the same pointed look that Imani had tried with Philip moments before, communicating via pupil intensity. Nancy blinked slowly in response, an almost imperceptible movement that Bill, apparently, knew how to interpret. He turned to Imani. “Hopefully the detectives don’t turn you away.”
Imani went for her coat. Twenty-four hours was all the time she’d had for hope and despair, she decided. The period of mourning was over. It was time to help the police find her friend.