Whisper Network Page 8

  Ardie gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Just between us.”

  There was a brief moment where Sloane thought it might be the time to make her small, little nothing confession, but then Ardie’s phone buzzed and her ride was pulling into the bend, and honestly, it was the tiniest betrayal. Hardly worth mentioning. After all, it wasn’t exactly a matter of national security. This little social affair she was having. No, god, wait, it wasn’t an affair. Could it be an affair if it was just platonic? Probably not. And it wasn’t as though Ardie and Sloane were in a committed, monogamous relationship. They had other friends. They were adults. Anyway, she could always tell her later. Or better yet, not at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  23-MAR

  Rosalita placed the envelope addressed to “Ms. Valdez” on Ardie’s keyboard. She was glad that Ardie wasn’t in her office. It was simpler this way.

  Ardie had offered her services to Rosalita “pro bono.” At the time, Rosalita hadn’t known what that meant, not exactly, but her son, Salomon, helped her to look it up on Google and what it had meant was “free.” Rosalita didn’t like free. Or rather, she didn’t trust it. Even a free sesame chicken sample at the mall was an invitation to buy a meal. The free sample acted as bait. And Rosalita had no desire to get lured in. Her first instinct had been to refuse Ardie’s help outright. She would have, were it not for the nagging sight of her little boy, leaving her no choice but to accept. So she scraped together savings from the meager money she made off this job and stuffed the envelope with dollar bills.

  The biggest problem had been figuring out exactly how much she should pay. This, too, she’d searched for on the Internet and the hourly rate seemed to range from the expensive to the exorbitant. Rosalita could pay neither, so she put together what she thought was fair. A stack of wrinkled cash thinly disguised in a mailing envelope. The recklessness of abandoning that amount of money scrambled her insides like an egg.

  “What are you doing?” Rosalita’s entire body hitched at the sound of a man’s voice behind her. She turned and there he was, the man from the corner office, the white streak of hair running away from his forehead. Goose bumps rose on the backs of Rosalita’s arms.

  “Nothing.” Rosalita laced her fingers together and held her hands in front of her waist. She stood for inspection, his eyes covering the length of her. “Cleaning,” she corrected. He hadn’t entered the office, but the weight of his body blocked her exit. Her pulse thrummed at her eardrum. She could tell him the truth, but on principle, it was none of his business. Or maybe it was, but, in either case, she had already begun the lie and so now she was stuck with it.

  She thought of the envelope behind her and how it would look if he studied more closely what was on the desk, how ridiculous it would sound to say that she was leaving the money instead of taking it. He wouldn’t believe her.

  “No supplies?” He scratched behind his ear, as though the question meant nothing to him when clearly it did, or else he wouldn’t be asking it.

  Rosalita drew herself together, mentally wrapping a tourniquet around the anger and humiliation that threatened to bleed into her voice. A man passed in the hall, casting a sideways look. She was familiar with the built-in assumption that she and the rest of the cleaning staff were dying to get their plastic-gloved hands on whatever spare shoes and noisy bracelets people left on or under their desks. Her last cleaning partner, LaTisha, told her about a memo that had been passed around the upstairs offices encouraging everyone to lock their belongings in a safe place and log off their computers to avoid theft. Reduce temptation by hiding belongings out of plain view!

  Jesus Christ. Temptation.

  “I don’t need supplies to empty the trash cans. The other cleaning will be done during night shift.” She thought to explain further but doubted whether he could pay attention for that long. Once or twice every month, Rosalita would pick up a day shift, during which there was only a skeleton crew, kept on the clock to attend to light housekeeping and the inevitable spill of an entire cup’s worth of coffee that occurred at least once a morning. She wished only to end this interaction as quickly as possible.

  His eyes traveled from the trash can in the corner to where Rosalita stood, directly in front of Ardie’s desk. She was lying and, probably, they both knew it. She waited, like a cocked pistol, to learn what was going to happen next. One second. Two seconds.

  If she had been someone else would he have—

  “Everything all right?” Ardie appeared behind the man and Rosalita should have been relieved to see her.

  “Everything’s fine.” His hand slid over his cheeks. “Just checking in on things.”

  “In my office?” Ardie asked with wide-eyed innocence. She squeezed past him, her oversized purse pushing against him so that he was forced, out of politeness, to move to the side. His face read visibly annoyed. But he’d ceded the ground.

  He stood for a moment and then lifted an open hand to Rosalita and said, “Have a good afternoon,” before striding away.

  Ardie pushed the door closed without debating the matter with Rosalita. “What was that about?” she asked, foisting her bag onto one of the two guest chairs.

  Rosalita twisted the ugly yellow fabric of her polo shirt between her fingers. It was rough on her skin. Her thick ponytail fell across her back. “Nothing.” She felt small and inconsequential, like a child watching the adults work.

  “It didn’t look like nothing.” Ardie plunked her rear end into the rolling chair. “Sorry. Were you looking for me?” But now, on the other side of the desk, Ardie saw the envelope resting on the keyboard. She held it up. “What’s this?’

  Rosalita didn’t reply.

  Ardie folded her hands over her stomach. She let out a long exhale as she thumbed through the contents of the envelope. Then, once finished, she tapped the edge of the envelope on her open palm and stared out the window.

  The fact that the two women had struck up a friendly acquaintance wasn’t as weird as it seemed. It had happened naturally, over many months. Years, by now. The first time that Ardie had spoken to her in Spanish, Rosalita worried that maybe the woman was a lesbian. But she had a little boy and a husband who later became an ex-husband and then Rosalita felt like a bitch. ¿De dónde es usted? Ardie had first asked and it had turned out that Ardie, the daughter of two doctors, was from McAllen while Rosalita went to high school in neighboring Rio Grande City. Their conversations never lasted more than five minutes, but there was something lovely about getting to speak to another adult person in Spanish, which was usually discouraged at work for fear that the building’s tenants would think the cleaning staff were gossiping about them (they were). It was the comfort of not having to funnel through the extra layer of translation, to feel that she was being understood and sounded intelligent and like herself around a person like Ardie that filled her with a sense of self-confidence that escaped her throughout most of her interactions at work, at the grocery store, at the bank, with the cable repairman.

  Ardie sighed again. “Rosalita, I will accept this money on one condition,” she said. “I would like to hire Salomon to help at my son’s birthday party.”

  Rosalita met Ardie’s eyes. “How much?”

  “One hundred dollars,” said Ardie.

  This was more than the amount in the envelope. Rosalita frowned, nearly forgetting the man. “One hundred and fifty,” she countered. It was her mother who had taught her never to be grateful for someone’s first offer. Her mother had been a tiny woman with a nasty bout of early-onset dementia caused by a head injury suffered during a minor car accident. For the years leading up to her death, her mother’s love had felt to Rosalita like barbed wire. But, as a result, Rosalita had grown calluses. And looking back, she was often surprised to find that some of the most important skills she’d learned in her life had come from that very same crazy, no-sense mother.

  Ardie paused. “One hundred and twenty-five. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes.” Rosalita nodded.
“We have a deal.”

  Ardie extended her hand and Rosalita told herself that this deal was simple enough. That was what she’d told herself then, too. Of course, back then it had been about her survival and she had forced herself to boil what that meant down into facts and figures. And yet it remained, to this day, the worst thing she’d ever done. A simple transaction that forever proved to Rosalita that she was, at her core, cold-blooded. That she would choose herself and her son over everything and everyone.

  It’s only money, she thought today. But … hadn’t it been “only money” the last time that she’d made a deal?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  27-MAR

  Desmond Bankole’s memorial service took place seven days after his death. Those days in between had passed in the usual blur of work, car, home, punctuated by the occasional urgent phone call, quickly drawn memo, and perfunctory meeting. Sloane arrived to a veritable Who’s Who, where everyone milled about in black dresses, recognizable though slightly out of context. Her heels had sunk into the manicured lawn when she’d taken a shortcut to the church entrance. She had a visceral hatred of funerals. At fifteen years old, she’d attended three in the same year. Her maternal grandmother, followed by both of her grandfathers. She’d disliked shaking the hands of elderly people, the touch of their wadded-up tissues hidden in their papery palms. The sense of uncontrollable tears, a swell of intimate emotion on display—and worse, expected.

  After Abigail was born, she and Derek had drawn up a will and Sloane left instructions: cremation, please, then pour her remains in the backyard while saying a prayer to Tina Fey. And okay, yes, she may have included a slightly overbearing suggestion for Derek that he consider marrying Ardie, who Sloane was certain would care deeply about Abigail’s education, remember to pack her lunch, and, a bit cruelly on Sloane’s part, not overshadow her in the looks department. But other than that—the Tina Fey prayers and the marrying of one of her closest friends—Sloane planned to be a low-maintenance dead wife and mother. Honestly.

  As she sat in the pew, her back aching from the hard wood, she kept her arm looped through Grace’s and an Altoid pinched to the roof of her mouth.

  “Last song.” Ardie pointed to one of the final lines on the program.

  “Hallelujah.” Sloane lifted her eyes skyward.

  Grace glared at them. “Is this how you two would act if I died?” she whisper-scolded them. She dabbed her eyes with a wadded tissue and sniffled loudly. The tip of her nose had turned an unattractive shade of red. Sloane rubbed her friend’s shoulder. Grace wore a beautiful black cashmere shawl around her shoulders. Her frosted hair was pulled up into a prim French twist. Perfectly put together, as always. But goodness, she was sensitive lately.

  “That depends,” Ardie whispered back. “Would it be before or after you finished the regulatory analysis on the subscription box acquisition?” She checked her watch. “And to be fair, we’ve been here over an hour already.”

  “She’s teasing, Grace. We’d be devastated.”

  Grace untangled her arm from Sloane’s and folded it across her body.

  Grace kept her eyes trained ahead at the pastor, who was offering closing remarks, and bowed her head to join the rest of the congregation in some sort of prayer.

  “We’d wear black for a year,” Sloane murmured. “We swear it.” She placed her hand on one of the Bibles in the pew. It was quite convenient.

  Grace lifted her chin. “I’m not being ridiculous, you know. It could happen.” She met Ardie’s eyes, too. “To any of us.”

  “Sure,” Sloane said softly, watching her friend. Natural, she told herself, to confront your own mortality after the birth of your first child. “But it won’t.”

  The organ boomed through the chapel and Sloane rose to her feet with the tide of mourners. Her ring caught on the sheer black hose underneath her dress. A short, severe run raced to the top of her kneecap. “Shit,” she whispered. Louder than she thought.

  “Are you okay?” Ardie turned to Sloane.

  “I’m fine.” There was no saving the hose. She’d simply have to live with it until she could remove them in the bathroom and hope she’d remembered to lotion her calves this morning. She wished Derek could have been here, his hand resting on her back. He had nice hands. Basketball-palming hands. “I just want to get out of here.”

  * * *

  Outdoors, the day was glorious. The grass smelled freshly mowed. There were actual butterflies flapping about between the assortments of plants decorating the church’s exterior.

  As the crowd filtered out of the church like a herd of cattle, Sloane overheard collegial greetings, saw handshakes, heard lunch dates being set. She should be mingling, too. Seize the moment. Tables of refreshments were set up on the lawn and people were picking up plastic glasses of orange juice or water.

  “Do you want anything?” Ardie asked, heading for the table. Ardie could never resist a free spread.

  “I’m all right, thanks.” Sloane’s stomach felt unsettled. Grace had vanished, maybe to touch up her makeup, which was a mess after the service. Grace must be a better person than she was, thought Sloane, who had managed not to cry at all.

  There was a tap on her shoulder and Sloane turned to see Elizabeth Moretti, her arms already outstretched to envelop her in a hug. Elizabeth had big brown hair and a smile that showed off too much of her gums. But she had beautiful clothes and today wore an expensive-looking, scallop-trimmed shift dress that Sloane imagined still had the tags fixed to it only a few hours before. “I thought I’d see you here.”

  Naturally, Sloane had thought the same thing of Elizabeth. Though it made less sense, given that she didn’t work for Truviv.

  Elizabeth looked around, clucking her tongue. She was so noisy. “Tragic,” said Elizabeth. “Lovely ceremony, though. Flower arrangements to die for, pardon the unfortunate pun. Do you see that guy over there?”

  Sloane subtly looked across a planter filled with purple and orange pansies toward two men talking beneath the shade of an oak tree. Both early forties, lucky because they still had their hair, but the telltale alleyways of shiny peach flesh had begun to stretch, making inroads past the original hairline.

  “The shorter one,” Elizabeth continued. “He came in as a lateral, so I don’t think you knew him. Jacob Shor. He made partner at Jaxon Brockwell a couple years ago. He was on the BAD Men List. I thought I knew everything. But nope, right next to his name it said, ‘tried to solicit sex in his office with a summer associate.’ I nearly died. Sorry. God.” She crossed herself, staring up at the steeple. “But can you believe it?”

  Could she? Sloane looked at the man, who seemed genial enough. A friendly face. She could imagine him as a beloved PE teacher. A predator? Not as easily.

  “So.” Elizabeth drew out a compact, checking her reflection. Casual. “Was he on the list?”

  Sloane was mad at herself for forgetting her sunglasses. The day was heating up, and she had a terrible poker face. “Who said I was looking for someone?” An edge in her voice.

  “An educated guess.”

  Sloane was sweating underneath the hot mid-morning sun.

  She could have added him herself. It was anonymous. A shared document floating in the nebulous cloud of the Internet. Anyone could add or edit and she had started to. But, then, she hadn’t. Why?

  “Fine, fine, you don’t have to tell me. None of my business.” Everything was Elizabeth’s business. She snapped the compact closed. “But you should add him. Might help someone. Take the bull by the testicles.” She cupped her hand to demonstrate. “Know what I mean?”

  Sloane didn’t want to talk about this right now, not with her. Hadn’t Elizabeth been her own sort of list, back in the day?

  Watch out for Ames Garrett.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I have a terrible run in my hose. I need to excuse myself to the restroom.” Sloane sounded too formal. What was wrong with her? She had officially lost track of both Ardie and Grace now. She needed to pu
ll it together, though she really did hate funerals.

  She hugged Elizabeth. Sloane rarely liked hugging other women she knew professionally, but she still remembered Elizabeth was the sort of person that enjoyed hugs.

  “Clear nail polish,” Elizabeth called after her.

  Sloane turned her head back. “What?”

  Elizabeth looked at her appraisingly. She cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. “Will stop the run.”

  Sloane lifted a hand in gratitude.

  * * *

  Inside, the church was much emptier than before, thank goodness, with only stragglers milling and talking in low voices. Her footsteps echoed along the hall as she followed signs to the bathroom, which she’d been told was located somewhere in the East Wing.

  She was rounding the corner when she saw it. That skunk streak of white through dark brown hair always stopped her short. Her heart rate quickened. Ames’s head was lowered, as though in prayer. But he was talking to Katherine Bell, her slender back pressed up against the wall. Sloane’s first instinct was to interrupt, but as was often the case in work-related scenarios, her mind immediately began cycling through a slew of tricky possibilities. She retreated around the corner to watch from a distance while pricks of warning shot up her arms.

  What was he saying?

  And then—did she really need to know exactly? Sloane could likely transpose her twenty-eight-year-old self into Katherine’s shoes and take an “educated guess.” Sloane had no idea how long the two of them had been talking, but it took less than a minute for the conversation to end. A thin trickle of sweat had pooled in Sloane’s bra. She felt her nostrils flaring in that repulsive way she could never quite control when she was a certain version of angry.