She smelled like a storm drain. It was the clothes, Tonya realized. Garments, hastily piled into paper bags, had spilled onto the grimy floor of the moving truck. Every scrap of clothing she owned stunk of the runoff water that had coated her mattress. Even the off-shoulder T-shirt and pajama bottoms she’d slept in the prior night, which had always been in the suitcase, balled and stuffed between breakable frames, had the odor of stale, dirty water and sweat.
During the prior night’s drive home, Philip had offered use of his house’s washing machine. Still, as she carried an armful of clothing to the closet at the end of the second-floor hallway, Tonya couldn’t shake the sensation that she was stealing something. If she’d been renting a real apartment, she’d be expected to visit a laundromat or put quarters into a basement machine.
The front loader made a cringe-inducing popping noise as she opened the door. It also released the musty smell of wet newspaper. Someone had apparently run the wash and then forgotten about it. A white-and-black lump lay inside the barrel, drying in a damp ball.
She shook out the dark garment, revealing a pair of men’s trousers. Tonya opened the dryer door below and tossed the pants inside. She then pulled out the bunched white fabric. The texture of the collar’s terry-cloth lining told her it wasn’t a normal garment before it unraveled to reveal the embroidered Banque Gauche logo and cursive Philip Banks beneath.
Philip’s chef jacket needed another go-round. Rust-colored flecks, no doubt from some splattered sauce, dotted the jacket’s right sleeve and chest. Tonya spread it on top of the washer and then gathered the clothes that she’d dropped by her feet. She tossed them inside, grabbed the detergent off the narrow shelves crammed beside the machines, and squirted some into the bottle’s cap.
She was figuring out where to pour it into the machine when she heard another door crack, followed by a slam. Tonya listened for some sign of who had entered the house. It was too early for the kids to return from school, which meant either Philip had come back from wherever he’d gone earlier or Imani was home from work.
Keys hit a counter below. Footsteps approached the stairs. Their lightness indicated that they belonged to a woman.
Tonya figured out the location of the soap tray and, with the speed of shame, filled it and started the cycle. She started toward the stairs before realizing that footsteps were already on the lower staircase. They would reach the landing before Tonya could escape to her floor. Imani would find her just outside the master bedroom, a pedestrian caught in the crosswalk as the light changed.
She retreated to the laundry area. As Imani appeared, Tonya grabbed Philip’s jacket and a spray bottle of stain remover. Helping remove the spots on Philip’s laundry would justify her throwing in her clothes instead of rerunning the load that had already claimed the machine.
Imani noticed her immediately. Her chin retreated into her neck before she adjusted her posture to something more welcoming. “Hello, Tonya.”
“Philip said it would be fine if I put in a load. I hope that’s okay.”
Imani’s stance stiffened, but she didn’t object. Instead, she pointed to the jacket in her hand. “Is that Philip’s?”
“It had a few stains on it,” Tonya said. “Figured I’d spray them and let it soak.”
The invisible screws at the edges of Imani’s tight mouth rotated another turn right. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”
Tonya lay the garment atop the washer. “I was trying to be helpful.”
The vein throbbing in Imani’s thin neck belied her cheery tone. “I mean, you don’t have to do our laundry. I hope Philip didn’t make you feel like you should.”
“Not at all.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Imani marched over, as if to inspect the jacket. “I’ll deal with my husband’s clothes.”
Duly chastened, Tonya sidestepped out of her way before turning toward the stairs. Imani did not want anyone messing with her family’s stuff, especially the new boarder. The next time she had to do laundry, Tonya resigned herself to scrounging together enough quarters for the laundromat.
“So, Tonya.”
The call stopped her retreat. Imani held the stain spray bottle, perhaps ready to repeat the work that Tonya had already done. The prior plastic smile stretched her mouth. “It was nice to hear that you are at St. Catherine’s. I really love the school.”
“Us too.”
“What teacher does Layla have?”
Was she testing her or simply making polite conversation? Imani’s expression was a cinched veil, obscuring whatever she was really thinking.
“Ms. Brown,” Tonya said.
“She’s good. I know her.” The smile pressed Imani’s large brown eyes into almond slivers. She was a pretty woman, Tonya found herself thinking. Pretty with a PhD, if Tonya remembered correctly. And a handsome celebrity chef husband. And a giant carriage house in Brooklyn.
“I actually have to go to the school later today,” Imani continued. “I’m on a bunch of committees. When I was trying to get my kids in, I thought volunteering was the best way to get an edge, you know? But once you’re in, you can’t get out. It’s like the Mafia.”
Imani winced as she said the last word, like she’d made an off-color comment.
“I should do more of that,” Tonya said. “It’s just that—”
“You’re a single working mom. I have some flexibility. Some days, like today, I only have a handful of patients. Got to do something with my time. I don’t have many hobbies.”
Tonya wasn’t sure if the comment was an invitation to ask Imani about her extracurriculars or share her own outside interests. She couldn’t get a read on the woman. Imani was like a gas fire. Her presence gave off a heat but didn’t exactly crackle with warmth.
“So, um, does Layla see her dad much?”
The question felt like Imani had grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled. “Not at all, actually.” Tonya heard the edge in her tone, though she couldn’t control it. She hated Layla’s father too much. “He was never really in Layla’s life. She doesn’t know him. We don’t discuss him.”
Tonya caught the warning in her tone as she said the last part. She’d intended it, though perhaps not as blatantly as it had come out.
Imani’s eyes went wide. “Oh. I was only wondering if he might be coming here to pick her up or, I don’t know, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Her guard was too high, Tonya decided. She was reading too much into Imani’s forced politeness. The woman was simply trying to establish a rapport with the strange adult female in the house. “So, you saw patients this morning?”
Imani’s face relaxed. “Yes. A woman overwhelmed with homeschooling and having some issues with her husband because of it all. Not that unusual really…”
Suddenly, Imani’s full lips pressed together. She blinked up at the ceiling.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Imani covered her mouth. “I’ve been emotional lately. My best friend was Melissa Walker. I’m sure you heard about what happened.”
Tonya tried to look saddened even though she didn’t actually feel much of anything—save for that awful twinge of relief that so frequently accompanied thoughts of Nate Walker’s absence from the earth. She mustered what she hoped resembled compassion. “It’s awful.”
Imani wiped a knuckle at the corner of each eye. “They were St. Catherine’s parents too. Did you ever meet them?”
For the millionth time, Tonya tried to deduce the reason behind Imani’s question. Were they still having a polite conversation? Was this a test? Had Imani heard anything?
Again, the woman’s expression revealed nothing except a forced earnestness. The quicker she could exit this conversation the better, Tonya decided. She might have been an actress, but faking sympathy for Nate Walker would be too difficult.
“Nope. I never met them.” Tonya covered her lie with the same pained expression painted on Imani’s face. “I do hope they find your friend.”