Miyuki’s body had taken over and she woke up from the deepest sleep she’d had since Patrick took the girls. She slept far longer than she planned.
After the police took the club hosts away, they offered to stay the night in the living room, but she sent them to wait outside. It wasn’t that she felt safe, she just had to be by herself. She couldn’t decide what to do as a victim, an account executive, a mother, or as a wife. She had to decide by herself.
She walked out to the kitchen she’d been so proud of. There was no one to feed. She wasn’t even sure if there was any food in the fridge. She texted her boss and told him she was taking another day off. She almost told him it would be the week.
She was still processing what Patrick had told her the day before, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. She was relieved about the girls, but she knew all along Patrick had them. She just wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Maybe he was being truthful about the need to get out of Japan. His voice was more serious than she’d ever heard it before. Maybe they were leaving for good. Or maybe she should talk to the detectives, tell them where Patrick and the girls were waiting.
Neither option sounded good. If she could just see Patrick, she would know. And she had to be with the girls. The three of them were her world.
Until Jenna and Kiri arrived, Patrick took up every spare minute of her time. They spent days enjoying the city, the worn wood of temples, the exhibits of sumi-e and ukiyoe, the standing bars, and the endless choice of food. They went to every matsuri festival, to kabuki, noh and kyogen. When a Japanese film didn’t have subtitles, she whispered translations to him in the dark and slipped her tongue in his ear. They ran in the Tokyo Marathon together.
Now, he was telling her they had to leave.
In their first apartment, she loved how the futon was never big enough to cushion all their positions. They slipped sideways onto the tatami, stood up in the kitchen, kneeled, and pushed against the table, the chairs, the walls. After, Patrick often had to lift her back onto the futon and hold her until she stopped shaking.
And then, their salaries climbed. Nine Dragons paid a lot—for longer hours and a lot more work. Her promotions at the bank took time and energy in trade for bonuses, perks, and pay. She was one of the first women to rise to a managerial position, but the bank was not mother friendly. Every day she considered quitting, but kept going instead. Their busy life became normal. It worked. Once they cut out sleep and sex and conversation.
Patrick paid cash for most of the apartment, and the remaining mortgage was still double what they paid for rent in their first place in Monzen-Nakacho. It was spacious and lovely, but she didn’t know her neighbors’ names. They had building meetings and no one introduced themselves. The area’s shops were convenient, but they tried too hard to be hip or foreign, and were snobbishly overpriced.
Her mother moved in with them, souring things further. But what could she do? She couldn’t leave her alone in the old house in the countryside. She couldn’t even drive. She took over the room with tatami, which had been their secret love nest, their last little pleasure.
Her mother was the one who pushed her to file for divorce. She had never liked Patrick, barely talked to him. She never asked what he said or what he was doing, but she was fine to live at his expense while complaining about foreigners every chance she got.
Except for that, she’d never known how her mother felt about anything. Or even if she felt anything.
She called the funeral company and told them to postpone her mother’s service and cremation. They explained the rescheduling and storage charges, and she said she understood, but another family matter had come up.
She wasn’t sure she could trust Patrick, but to find out, she went to the kitchen and pulled out a huge cleaver. They’d bought it at Kappabashi-Dori, the kitchen supply street where they both loved shopping. She carried it to the tatami room, ignoring the stain from Taiga’s blood in the woven threads. She pushed the cleaver between the mats and levered them up. It barely moved. The mats fit too tightly.
She went back to the kitchen and got a screwdriver and a bamboo spatula, laid them out on the tatami. She wedged the cleaver deeper down and got the screwdriver in beside it. She jimmied the spatula in, then moved down to repeat the process. The tatami was thick and heavy, and she started sweating. Finally, she got one hand under, and then the other. She braced herself, tugged, and the mat came free.
The underside of the mat was rough and dirty. The USB was inside several tight rounds of plastic wrap. When had Patrick done this? She peeled the plastic off and slipped the USB in her bra. She shoved the mat back in place and jumped on it to get it all the way in. She put all the tools in the sink on the way to Jenna’s room.
Why had she never looked up inside the closet before? She dragged a chair over and pushed the ceiling panel aside to feel around. She got hold of a strap and dragged the bag toward her. The bag fell into her arms, and she tottered on the chair for a moment, then dropped the bag onto the carpet, hopped down and unzipped it.
She scratched the plastic from one tight-wrapped brick and found hundred-dollar bills. The next stack was ten-thousand-yen notes. It was a lot of cash.
She dragged the bag to the bedroom, found a rolling bag in her closet, and fit the money inside. Around it, she packed clothes, practical things easy to wash.
Was she really going to go? Hadn’t she just filed for divorce? And now she was running to him like a schoolgirl? Was she going to fight him for the girls after they were safe? Call the police once she got the girls in sight? She wasn’t sure yet. Once she held the girls and talked to him, she’d decide.
She put more clothes in her bag, and went to the bathroom, but took just a toothbrush.
Or maybe he was lying to her, setting her up for something that she couldn’t even imagine? He wouldn’t do that, would he? She was sure he wouldn’t do that. She could trust him that far at least.
And maybe he didn’t trust her. He was on the run, surely worried the police would follow her to get him. She wanted to slip away from them. She didn’t mind Ota following her, but not the detectives.
At the front door, she grabbed an extra pair of shoes for the girls, slid two umbrellas in the side pouch, and slipped on running shoes. At the front control panel, she left one light on in the kitchen and one in the bedroom, lowered the thermostat setting, and set the timer for the other lights.
She moved the USB from her bra to her purse, then moved it back. Maybe it was safer where she could feel it. She glanced at the messages from her boss on the iPad and decided not to bring it. Either it’d be there when she got back, or she wouldn’t be back. She had to be with the girls no matter what.
She hurried to the elevator, and through the lobby. She knew the hotel. They’d been there three times to take the girls to Disneyland and DisneySea. She was thankful Jenna and Kiri weren’t as obsessed with Disney as some of their friends. They took it as the fun it was, but not the only fun there was.
She stopped by the front door to use her taxi app. Several circled nearby. She waited inside the lobby, looking out the window to be sure no one was there.
When the taxi came, she double-checked it was for her, and then ran to the opened door. She hoisted the rolling bag inside onto the seat and told the driver to hurry.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked.
“Disneyland.”
“Ah, a nice vacation.” He turned the satellite radio to the Disney Hits station.
She’d heard the songs so often from the girls she knew them all by heart, and started to hum along.
At the first turn, she looked through the back window to see if anyone was following. She couldn’t see anything, so she settled in and texted Patrick she was on her way. It felt good to text him, just to know he’d read her text.
He sent her a thumbs-up emoji.
She wondered if she could believe it.
When Miyuki ran to the taxi, Ota came out from the side garden, texting Shibutani. He pulled his leather jacket tight around him in the cold and hurried to the street to take a photo of the car that pulled out after her taxi. The car was not the detectives.
He hadn’t expected her to jump in a taxi so quickly, and he hadn’t expected anyone to follow her, a single driver, it looked like. He looked around for the detectives supposed to be watching, but didn’t see them anywhere.
Ota ordered a taxi on his taxi app but kept an eye on the busy street. An empty taxi came so he hopped in, typing a message to the driver to tell him where to go.
The old taxi driver had to change eyeglasses to be able to read the cellphone message. He held Ota’s phone up, and Ota wanted to scream. He nodded that he understood, looked at Ota, maybe the first deaf person he’d ever met, changed to his driving glasses, and pulled out.
Ota leaned forward to look out the front windshield. He saw the same taxi, he thought, at the turn for the Shuto Expressway east. If so, the car would be easy to follow, even for this elderly driver. Ota didn’t want to write another message. The old man would probably crash.
But once on the expressway, the old man took off his white gloves and put his foot down on the accelerator.
Ota sent a text to Shibutani. Shibutani could follow his coordinates the whole way from the tracking app Ota kept in his leather jacket. Shibutani would send Ota’s position to Detective Takamatsu.
If not, he’d be on his own, and so would she.