Chương 7
At some point, I ate Mrs. Alvarez’s chicken and rice cold from the foil tray with a plastic fork.
It was too salty and wonderful.
I realized halfway through that Maya had probably been able to smell it.
Guilt hit me.
I covered the tray.
She opened one eye.
“If you stop eating because I can’t eat, I’m divorcing you.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“What time is it?”
“Three forty-eight.”
“Then happy New Year.”
“You already said that.”
“I was delirious.”
“That explains marrying me.”
Her mouth twitched.
It was the smallest piece of our old life, and I almost ruined it by becoming emotional.
Instead, I handed her an ice chip.
At five, the surgical resident returned.
Maya’s fever had begun to come down.
The redness around the incision had not spread.
They wanted to keep her on IV antibiotics and monitor her through the day.
No one talked about discharge yet.
That was enough.
I stepped into the hallway while she rested and called a locksmith.
New Year’s Day pricing was painful.
I agreed to it without negotiating.
Then I called Mrs. Alvarez.
She answered on the sixth ring.
“Somebody better be dead.”
“It’s David.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“Is Maya okay?”
“She’s admitted.”
“Damn it.”
Her voice became fully awake.
“What do you need?”
“I’m sending a locksmith.”
“At five in the morning?”
“Closer to eight.”
“Good, because at five I would let him freeze.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“I need someone to let him into the building.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mother has a key?”
“Yes.”
“I wondered.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Alvarez was quiet.
“She came by my apartment yesterday.”
“Why?”
“She asked if I had seen Maya leave with the baby.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she say?”
“That Maya had been acting unstable.”
The word sat between us.
“She said if Maya tried to leave alone with Liam, I should call her.”
I leaned against the hospital wall.
“Why didn’t you tell Maya?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
I looked through the glass in the door.
Maya was asleep.
“She never mentioned it.”
“She told me Eleanor was stressed and overprotective.”
Of course she had.
Even exhausted and frightened, Maya had been translating my mother into something less ugly for everyone else.
Mrs. Alvarez sighed.
“I should have pushed harder.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I feel guilty.”
That sounded so much like something Maya would say that I nearly laughed.
“Fair.”
“There’s something else.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“Your sister was carrying boxes out yesterday.”
“What kind of boxes?”
“Brown shipping boxes.”
“Food?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How many?”
“Three, maybe four.”
“Was Mark with her?”
“Yes.”
“What was in them?”
“I didn’t ask because normal people do not interrogate their neighbors about cardboard.”
“Right.”
“But one of them split.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What fell out?”
“Baby things.”
“What kind of baby things?”
“Clothes, I think.”
She paused.
“One of those little monitors.”
I closed my eyes.
The baby monitor my company’s managing director had sent us cost nearly four hundred dollars.
It had disappeared from the nursery three days after I left.
My mother had told Maya she had moved it because the wireless signal worried her.
“Anything else?”
“A white machine.”
“Sound machine?”
“Maybe.”
“And they took the boxes where?”
“To a car.”
“Which car?”
“Black SUV.”
Not Maya’s.
I thanked her and ended the call.
Then I opened my messages and typed Chloe’s name.
My first draft was six lines of rage.
I deleted it.
The second draft was colder.
I deleted that too.
I finally wrote one sentence.
Do not enter my apartment or remove, sell, transfer, discard, or return any property belonging to Maya, Liam, or me.
The typing indicator appeared almost instantly.
Her reply came in under ten seconds.
What the hell are you accusing me of?
I took a screenshot.
Then I wrote, I am telling you not to touch our property.
She called.
I declined it.
Another message appeared.
Mom said those gifts were for the family.
I stared at the words.
I had not mentioned gifts.
I answered, Which gifts?
The typing indicator vanished.
It returned.
Vanished again.
Then Mark called.
I declined him too.
Five minutes passed.
Nothing.
That silence told me more than the argument would have.
At six thirteen, an email notification appeared from an online resale marketplace I had used once years ago to sell a drill press.
My old account was still connected to the same email address.
Someone had requested a password reset three days earlier.
The location listed in the security notice was Brooklyn.
I changed the password immediately and checked the account.
There were no active listings.
But the saved payout information had been modified.
The new bank account ended in four digits I did not recognize.
I photographed the screen.
Then I searched my email for automated marketplace messages that might have been filtered into spam.
Seven appeared.
Your item has sold.
Your item has sold.
Your item has sold.
Each email listed something from our apartment.
A bottle sterilizer.
The unopened baby monitor.
A designer diaper bag my coworkers had bought Maya.
A set of newborn clothes.
A portable breast pump.
The prices were low enough to move quickly.
The seller name was mine.
For several seconds, I could hear nothing but the fluorescent hum above the hallway.
My family had not simply taken things.
Someone had used my account to sell them.
I opened the order details.
The shipping labels had been printed from my home printer.
The payout destination matched the unfamiliar bank account.
One completed transaction showed the account holder’s first name.
Chloe.
I went back into Maya’s room.
She woke when I sat down.
“What now?”
I handed her the phone.
She read the first email.
Then the second.
By the fourth, she stopped.
“My pump?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I lost it.”
“You didn’t.”
May you like
She handed the phone back.
For a moment, she looked more bewildered than angry.
