Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

Next was the gun. I’d wiped it clean of fingerprints, and kept it wrapped in a scarf. Even holding it for just a moment, cold and heavy and alien, gave me a zip of fear. The idea of Stella actually using it seemed ludicrous. But who knew what she was capable of? The weekend could have easily taken a different turn. Dropping it into the harbor was a relief.

There was one thing left. The jewelry in my pocket was recognizable by touch: the twin nubs of the diamond earrings, the railroad track of the bracelet, the knobbly ring. I had taken to wearing the ring when I was alone in the apartment. It fit perfectly, sliding snugly over my knuckle. I’d toyed with the idea of hiding the ring somewhere secure, keeping it for a while. I loved that ring. I would never in my life be able to afford something so beautiful. The thought of it disappearing forever into the muck of New York harbor made me melancholy.

But this was how people got caught—they were too sentimental. They let their desires get the better of them. I had learned the danger of beautiful things. There would be no loose threads in this story. My fist unfurled, and the jewelry vanished into the black water.

Detective Fazio hadn’t changed in the past three years. Tall and lean, threadbare across the scalp, a face sagging from too many late nights. Anne summoned him to the house on Sunday afternoon. Despite her threats to cancel their annual donation to the police memorial fund, the Bradley money and influence kept flowing, and the detective arrived promptly at 1 p.m.

As the five of us settled in the living room, Fazio looked at me. “You’re the friend, aren’t you? You were here last time?”

“Yes. I live with Stella.” I chose my verb tense carefully.

“She was the last person to see our daughter,” Anne said. “And that was a week ago. Over a week ago. We haven’t heard anything since.”

“There’s been nothing at all?” The detective looked at Thomas as he spoke. “No texts to other friends? No updates on social media?”

“Nothing,” Thomas said.

“Can’t you track her cell phone?” Anne said. “Wouldn’t that show her location?”

“Mrs. Bradley, I should be clear. I’m just here to have a conversation with you. But if your daughter truly is missing, and the last place she was seen was in Maine, the folks up there have jurisdiction. Have you contacted the local police?”

Anne frowned. “No.”

“You should call them. We’ll debrief the sheriff, and he can take it from there.”

“I was hoping”—Anne glanced at Thomas—“ we were hoping that you might remain in charge of this investigation. The house in Maine is in a very small town. They don’t have the same resources that we do here.”

Fazio’s smile was more like a grimace. “That might be… difficult.”

“He’s right, Mom,” Oliver said. “Matters of jurisdiction are cut-and-dried in cases like this. The Rye Police Department doesn’t have any standing.”

“Oliver, please,” Anne said.

“I’m just saying, there isn’t—”

“ Oliver! ” Anne snapped. “For God’s sake. This isn’t one of your law school seminars. This is your sister we’re talking about.”

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a moment.” Fazio took out his notebook and pen. Like last time, this had a calming effect on Anne. I wondered if Fazio ever wrote anything in that notebook, or if it was just filled with scribbles and doodles, enough to make the wealthy taxpayers of Westchester County feel they were getting their proper due.

Fazio asked me to tell him what had happened that weekend. Anne nodded along to my story. She seemed comforted by the familiarity, like a movie she had memorized.

“And was this typical of your daughter,” Fazio asked, turning to Thomas and Anne. “To get this upset about a boyfriend?”

“She could be… dramatic, at times,” Anne said. “But no. She never seemed to take her boyfriends very seriously.”

“But she’s done this before,” Fazio said. “Like that Christmas, when she—”

“This is different,” Anne snapped.

“I apologize, Mrs. Bradley, it’s just that—”

“Don’t apologize, Detective,” Thomas said, shooting a look at his wife. “You’re right. And the last thing we have from her is this e-mail, which states plainly that she wanted to take some time to herself.”

“She sent an e-mail?” Fazio said, jotting down a note.

“Not to us,” Thomas said. “To Ginny Grass. The president of KCN.”

“Stella’s boss,” Anne added, impatient with Fazio’s questioning look. “And a close family friend. She’s always taken such good care of our daughter.”

“Could I see the e-mail?” Fazio asked.

As Thomas scrolled through his phone, Anne leaned forward. “But this doesn’t change anything, Detective. That e-mail doesn’t sound like Stella.”

Fazio was now peering at the phone. “It’s very short,” he said.

“I can tell,” Anne said. “Our daughter didn’t write that.”

I pressed my palms, tacky with sweat, against my jeans. A tiny tremble in my legs. I’d known this was a possibility, that even though I could mimic Stella’s voice, I wasn’t perfect enough to fool her own mother.

“But, Mom,” Oliver said. “That’s the whole point. Stella wasn’t acting like herself last weekend. Right, Violet?”

I took a deep breath. “Right,” I said.

“This boyfriend,” Fazio said. “He was her coworker, correct? James Richter?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Richter. And with Ms. Grass, too.”

Thomas furrowed his brow. “You don’t suspect them of anything?”

Fazio closed his notebook. “I’d like to speak with anyone who was in touch with Stella last weekend.”

After Detective Fazio left, Oliver and I helped ourselves to lunch. The Bradleys’ housekeeper kept the refrigerator well stocked: neatly washed and cut fruit, pasta salad, roasted vegetables, cold-brewed iced tea, prosciutto-and-mozzarella sandwiches on hard Italian rolls. The food replenished itself like magic. The first time Stella and I went grocery shopping together, we left the store and she took a big bite from an apple we’d just bought.

“Don’t you want to wash that first?” I said.

“What are you talking about?” she said, her mouth full.

“That apple. It’s covered in chemicals.”

She raised an eyebrow and took another bite. “Is this one of your weird Florida things? I’ve literally never heard of anyone doing that.”

There was a bowl of apples on the kitchen counter. I thought of Stella as I picked one up. The Bradleys always had good apples, carefully selected and washed ahead of time. Somehow they were never mealy or bruised. This one was particularly perfect: the skin tight as a drum, the flesh tart and crisp. Maybe that accounted for the way Stella ate apples—comprehensively, even the waxy casing of the core, everything except for the stem and the seeds. Although if there wasn’t a garbage can handy, she’d eat that, too.

The trip wires of the past week were proving to be strange things. The memory of how Stella ate apples; the absence of her dishes in the kitchen sink; the gradually fading smell of her clove cigarettes from the living room. I was glad to be free of the cruel and sadistic person Stella had become, the way she warped the energy at work and at home, but I hadn’t accounted for the subtler ways her presence filled the edges of my life. It was calmer and easier without her. It was also lonelier.

“Do you want any of this?” Oliver said, gesturing at a container of broccoli slaw.

“I’m fine.” I shook my head. “Not that hungry.”

“Are you okay?” He squinted at me. “You look a little pale.”