Chương 5
Vivienne set the empty glass on the marble counter.
She walked to the tub.
For an instant Elena believed she might pull the curtain fully closed.
Instead, Vivienne took the fabric in one hand and drew it open.
Then she picked up a folded towel, dampened it beneath the faucet, and knelt beside Elena.
“What are you doing?” Elena asked.
“Trying not to look like I left you here.”
She pressed the towel gently against Elena’s eyebrow.
Elena flinched.
“Sorry,” Vivienne said, and seemed startled by the word.
The bedroom door opened.
Marcus entered first.
The security officer followed him, a broad man in a navy suit with an earpiece and an expression carefully emptied of accusation. His eyes passed across the bed, the broken phone on the floor, the smear of blood near the door, then settled on the bathroom.
Marcus saw the open curtain.
He stopped.
Vivienne did not turn around.
The officer moved past him.
He reached the bathroom doorway and looked inside.
For one second he seemed unable to fit the scene into any category permitted by his job.
Elena lay in the tub, barefoot and visibly pregnant, her dress torn at one shoulder. Blood marked her mouth. One eye had swollen dark. Vivienne knelt beside her holding a wet towel. Marcus stood behind them in a tuxedo with Elena’s blood on the edge of his cuff.
The officer touched his earpiece.
“I need medical upstairs,” he said. “And police.”
Marcus stepped forward. “This is not what it appears to be.”
The officer raised one hand.
It was not a dramatic gesture. It was the calm, tired motion of a man who had spent years asking wealthy residents not to interfere with procedures they believed money had exempted them from.
“Please remain where you are, Mr. Vane.”
“She fell.”
Elena looked at the officer.
Marcus’s eyes found hers.
The threat in them was immediate and clear.
The officer crouched near the tub. “Ms. Ward, can you tell me if you’re hurt?”
Elena opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Marcus spoke behind him. “She’s disoriented. She’s been drinking.”
Vivienne stood.
“No,” she said.
Marcus turned toward her.
The officer glanced up.
Vivienne wiped her damp fingers on a hand towel, once, then again.
“She hasn’t been drinking,” she said.
Marcus stared at her.
Vivienne did not look at Elena. “Call the ambulance.”
The security officer had already done so.
The paramedics arrived six minutes later, though the time expanded strangely in Elena’s mind. She remembered the portable monitor being lifted over the edge of the tub. She remembered a woman with a soft Queens accent asking how many weeks pregnant she was. She remembered Marcus insisting that his attorney be called and a police officer telling him to step away from the bathroom.
She remembered Vivienne sitting on the closed toilet lid, hands clasped between her knees, staring at the champagne stain on her own dress where the empty glass had dripped.
Most of all, Elena remembered the sound of the fetal monitor.
Fast, steady beats filled the marble room.
For several seconds no one spoke.
The paramedic smiled at Elena, not with reassurance exactly, but with the acknowledgment that one important thing was still happening as it should.
“There you are,” she said quietly.
Elena began to cry.
No sobs came. No dramatic collapse. Tears simply slid toward her ears while the paramedic secured the monitor strap around her abdomen.
Marcus watched from the bedroom.
Something passed over his face when he heard the heartbeat. Regret, perhaps. Or fear of consequence. Elena was too tired to grant it a kinder name.
The police separated them before asking questions.
A young officer remained with Elena while the paramedics prepared the stretcher. He asked whether Marcus had caused her injuries. His voice was gentle but formal, and he repeated the question when she did not answer immediately.
“Yes,” Elena said.
“Did anyone else hurt you?”
Elena looked toward Vivienne.
Vivienne’s face lifted.
“No,” Elena said. “She watched.”
The words landed differently than an accusation of violence. Vivienne looked down.
The officer asked whether Elena felt safe returning to the residence.
“It isn’t my residence.”
“Do you live here?”
“No.”
“Why were you here?”
Elena closed her eyes for a moment. “Because I found a forged painting.”
The officer waited.
From the bedroom, Marcus said, “She is not well.”
Another officer told him to stop speaking.
Elena continued. “He wanted me to say it was real.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Vane.”
“What painting?”
“The Mirov.”
The young officer’s pen paused above his notebook.
“The one downstairs?” he asked.
Elena opened her eyes. “You saw it?”
“My mother reads the arts section.”
Under any other circumstances the answer might have made her smile. Instead, she pressed a hand against her abdomen as another tightening began.
The paramedic noticed.
“How long has that been happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many times?”
“Four. Maybe five.”
The room changed again.
The paramedics moved faster without becoming frantic. One spoke into a radio. The other asked Elena about pain, bleeding, dizziness, and fetal movement. The officer stepped aside, notebook lowered.
As they lifted her from the tub, Elena caught sight of the broken phone on the bedroom floor.
“The pieces,” she said.
The paramedic leaned closer. “What?”
“My phone. Don’t let him take it.”
The young officer followed her gaze.
Marcus spoke at once. “That is my property.”
“It has her name on the lock screen,” Vivienne said.
Everyone looked at her.
She stood near the sink, arms folded across herself.
Marcus’s voice became almost tender. “Vivienne. You should call your attorney.”
“I imagine you’ve already called yours.”
The stretcher rolled toward the hall.
Elena watched the bedroom recede: the white flowers, the ivory bedding, Marcus beneath the amber lamps, Vivienne in black against the marble, the dark pieces of the phone scattered where he had tried to destroy what had already escaped him.
The apartment doors opened.
May you like
Cooler air met her face.
Building employees stood back against the walls. A night manager she recognized from previous visits stared at the floor. Two residents had emerged from their units in robes despite repeated requests to return inside. One held a small white dog that trembled with excitement at the activity.
