The smell of fresh pine greeted me when I opened the apartment door.
It was the first time we’d gotten an honest-to-God Christmas tree in three years, and this year, we did it up right. Ethan and Nicky had lugged back a six-foot balsam fir from the Union Square Greenmarket while I served as the sidewalk lookout. And we had an even bigger blue spruce for the house in East Hampton, where we planned to spend Christmas Day.
I tossed my briefcase and the mail on the bench in the foyer, kicked off my boots, and hung my coat in the front closet. As I turned the corner into the living room, I noticed a strand of garland draped on the hardwood floor next to two ornaments that had come loose.
“Panda,” I called out as I tucked the decorations back into place. “Greedy Boy!”
He appeared from beneath the sofa, buzzing past the tree like a ninja, only to circle the room and disappear under the sofa again.
“You’re silly, baby.”
The rest of the apartment was unoccupied, even the kitchen, despite Nicky’s text to me that morning about a recipe she was excited to make. She’d promised an “epic dinner” when I got home from work.
I pulled my cell phone from my briefcase and composed a text. Where’s my dinner, woman?
I waited as dots appeared on the screen, followed by Sorry. We ran late Christmas shopping and are getting groceries now. Eataly! Epic, I promise.
I grabbed the mail from the bench and made my way back to the kitchen. I reached for a bottle of wine beneath the island and then opted for a martini instead. I had reason to celebrate. It was Friday night, and the bonus check I got that day made it clear my job at Eve was more than safe.
The first sip of gin burned, but the second went down smooth. I hit the remote control to watch the news on the little TV next to the fridge, and then turned my attention to the pile of mail. There had been so many last-minute holiday-shopping catalogs that the mailman had to leave a rubber-banded heap with the doorman.
When I reached the bottom of the stack, I found a brown mailing envelope addressed to Ethan. It was from the Cuyahoga County Clerk of Courts.
What could Ethan need from the court system in Cleveland? I told myself it was probably something Olivia had asked for in the course of the trial and that, regardless, I’d find out for certain once Ethan came home.
I made it through half my martini and two department-store catalogs before I opened the envelope. The cover document was a form letter, indicating the date of the request, the number of pages, and the amount charged. It showed a deposit of $25 in April to initiate an archive search, and then a recent charge for the balance owed for copying the resulting pages, forty-two in all.
The case was Adam Macintosh v. Nicole Taylor Macintosh. These were the records from Adam’s custody fight with Nicky before they settled. I vaguely recalled a $25 court system charge I had found on our credit card after Adam died. I had assumed he had once again used our personal card for a work expense, but the transaction had been Ethan’s. He was looking into the circumstances that had taken him away from Nicky.
I had read the file and was stashing the envelope into my briefcase when I heard keys in the door. I was still standing in the foyer when they entered, all four arms loaded down with bags.
“Hey,” Nicky said, nearly bumping me with the door.
“Hey,” I said, reaching for a few of the bags and setting them down on the bench. “I’m sorry. I forgot something at work that I need to do tonight. I just need to grab it, and I’ll be right back.”
Nicky threw Ethan a skeptical look. “I think someone’s trying to get out of cooking.”
“You’re the one with the epic recipe. We’re cool with takeout.”
“Fine. I’ll do everything. But you,” she said to me, “better be back fast. And you,” she said to Ethan, “are gonna DJ while I prep.”
My storage unit was by Hudson Yards. On the side of the brick building, the gigantic banner that carried the pithy ad of the month read “You’ll finally have enough space to pretend to do yoga at home.”
The movers had followed my instructions and left the desk so that the drawers were directly next to the unit’s entrance and could be opened without rearranging anything. I opened the pencil drawer and felt around until I found what I was looking for—Ethan’s burner phone. I tried powering it up, but the battery was dead.
I was halfway to the elevator when I turned around. I opened my desk file drawer and pulled out Adam’s file on Rives & Braddock while I was at it.
By the time I got home, the pine of the Christmas tree had been replaced by the smell of butter and garlic. I found Nicky and Ethan in the kitchen. She was pulling stems from a pile of peppers while he read off songs from his iPad, asking what she wanted to hear next.
“Oh god, I’m scared,” I said, eyeing her handiwork. I did not share Nicky’s tolerance for spicy foods.
“Don’t worry. They’re shishitos. Not hot at all, I promise. Wait, where are you going?”
“Just changing into chill clothes. I’ll be right back. I’ll even chop something.”
I closed my door, threw my briefcase on the bed, and opened my nightstand drawer. I still had the charging cord for the burner phone Jake had given me. I plugged it into the phone I had found in Ethan’s backpack. It fit.
I already knew what number I was going to find, but I needed to be sure. The screen lit up. It wouldn’t be long.