What You Don't Know, page 13
“Damn.” He cocked his head toward her. “But for real, you really from the Bronx?”
“Like I said, born and raised.” Blair paused, amused that her accent, the one that had smoothed out from traveling the world and twenty years surrounded by Midwestern twang, had crept in during this little exchange. Like knew like.
Maybe if he knew she was like him, she could use it to her advantage.
“It was just my mom and my sister. I never knew my father. I don’t know if me and Bridget even have the same father. Ma wouldn’t ever tell us. Anyway, she raised us on her own. If you could call it that. Sometimes, it’s like she was the kid. It was the three of us in that little one-bedroom apartment. Well, us and the roaches—”
“You ain’t never lyin’ about that, miss.” He chuckled. “Roaches.”
“Ma had the bedroom and Bridget—that’s my sister—me and Bridget, we shared a pullout in the living room until I was eighteen. But yeah, we used to get our groceries at the bodega.”
“Bo who? Bodega? What’s that?”
“It’s like the corner store. You know you go for like your milk, your bread, your cereal, your cigarettes. Your groceries. Bodega.”
Dio rubbed the back of his head. “Oh. I ain’t ever heard of no bodega.”
“It’s a New York thing.” Blair looked around, her frustration rising in tandem with her fear, yet proud of herself for not showing it. Maybe there was hope for her after all. “I can remember the first time I was ever in a grocery store like this. I thought it was like Candyland or something. It didn’t smell like incense or—”
He erupted into laughter, holding his hand over his mouth, tagging Blair on the shoulder like they were old buddies. “Right? Right? Man, the corner store stays smelling like incense. Worst damn thing you ever smelled.”
She pursed her lips to keep from gagging as another whiff of his BO sailed past her, the irony clearly lost on him. “Oh, I know, I know. It’s nasty, huh?” Blair looked down, scoffing to herself. “Yeah, you come into a regular grocery store and it’s clean. Smells nice, right? All the food is fresh. You know nothing’s moldy or black or whatever. And there’s a lot of it, you know? You don’t have to choose from just three kinds of cereal. There’s thirty.”
“Man, I wouldn’t know what to do with thirty kinds of cereal.”
Blair twisted her wedding ring around. “We can go. To the cereal aisle, I mean. Whatever you like. Whatever you want.”
His face lit up. “Anything? Anything at all?”
“Sure.” Blair swung the cart in the direction of the cereal aisle where a clerk was stocking the shelves.
“Hi,” the genial young man said, smiling. His nametag instructed her to call him Urv. “Need help finding anything today?”
Blair opened her mouth, desperate to tell him that yes, she needed a SWAT team at her house. To say, “Yes, Urv, I need you to tackle this kid to the ground and hold him there while I escape.” Dio gaped at the clerk, unaccustomed, it seemed, to common courtesy from a stranger. He flicked his eyes toward Blair, as if he knew what she was thinking.
“Naw, naw, man, we good,” Dio said.
Blair chewed on her bottom lip, watching helplessly as the clerk smiled and turned his back on them to resume stocking cereal. Should she try to make a commotion and send an avalanche of cereal boxes to the floor and in the confusion, get word to the clerk she was in trouble? There likely wouldn’t be enough time. Should she try to make a run for it? That wouldn’t work either. He’d call those two back at the house before she ever ditched the cart.
She still had no choice. She had to play cool, play along, play her part.
“You wasn’t lying about this cereal, though.” Dio stood thunderstruck in front of the shelves brimming with multicolored boxes.
His awe quickly dissipated, swapped out for frenzy as he scooped up every sugary, chocolaty, artificially colored brand of breakfast candy in his eyesight: loops, balls, flakes, crunches, crackles, jacks, and clusters, dumping them gleefully into the basket.
The beast was unleashed. Having dipped his toe in, Dio was going for it. He sprinted through the store, the fingers of one hand firmly locked around the handle of the cart, the fingers of the other gripping her wrist as he dragged Blair behind him. She was surprised at how adept he was at maneuvering around shoppers with essentially one hand, bounding down aisles in search of everything he’d ever wanted but had always been denied. Cans of potato chips, TV dinners, crinkly plastic containers of bakery cookies, rivers of pop. Blair was dizzy from being jerked all over the store, the excited puppy dog inquiries if he could really get this, get that too. All the while she looked. Looked at the busy Saturday shoppers. Looked for a face that knew her. Looked for a face to be puzzled.
Something. Someone.
Dio placed four barrels of ice cream on top of the bulge of food inside the cart and stood back, satisfied with his handiwork.
“Man, we gonna be eatin’ good tonight.” He motioned to the cart. “Come on. Push it to the front.”
Blair was silent as she pushed against the cart, skimming the lines and more importantly, the cashiers. These men and women—they knew her. She was here all the time. They didn’t know Dio. One of them had to—
Wait.
That one.
The chubby woman with the bubble of orange hair, cherry red lipstick creeping over the edge of her full lips, the mole on her chin, three stubbly hairs sprouting from the middle. She’d just seen Blair yesterday morning. They talked. What was her name? She knew Blair. Always mentioned her by name. “Good morning, Mrs. Gilbert. How are you today? And how’s your daughter? Oh, she’s such a beautiful girl. I hope she’s getting on well in college.”
She was the one.
Blair steered her cart toward the woman’s line, despite it being the longest. Dio tugged on her arm and pointed to another, shorter line.
“Not this one. Over here, where there’s no line.”
Before Blair could come up with an excuse as to why they couldn’t do that, three other shoppers with teeming carts joined the line. She exhaled.
“We should stay in this one. You know, every time you switch lines, it stops moving.”
He didn’t say anything, just shoved his palms underneath his armpits and went still.
Blair’s heart beat faster as they inched closer to the cashier. Dio grabbed a divider and began to throw groceries onto the conveyer belt. Blair half-heartedly helped him as she tried to make eye contact with the woman. Come on, come on, come on. Figure this out. She knew the types of groceries Blair bought—had commented on it countless times, inquiring about what organic, sugar-free, all-natural thing she was buying now, engaging her in conversation about the difference between steel cut oats and instant, almond flour versus wheat, whether it really was okay to use butter and not margarine. Blair unloading a cart of junk food would have to trigger a question, raise a red flag of some kind. She had to think it was odd, out of place. Had to ask her about it. She was standing here with a weird kid in cheap, ripped-up clothes.
Pay attention. Notice something is wrong.
Which one of these is not like the other?
The customer in front of them loaded their bags into their cart and departed. Blair was now standing in front of the cashier. She licked her lips and smiled at the nametag.
“Irene. Hi. How are you today?” She’d never referred to the woman by name before. This would have to activate something.
“Oh, I’m doing all right.” Irene smiled weakly as she grasped a bag of potato chips, the purple acrylic nails click-clacking against the scanner, her gaudy, green-tinged gold rings squelched by fleshy fingers. “Today’s not my normal day and I’m not used to working on Saturdays. I don’t care for it. Too busy.”
“Right, right. You mentioned yesterday you normally don’t work weekends. How come you’re here today?”
“Oh, someone called off sick and they couldn’t find anyone else to work, so I drew the short straw.” She sighed. “At least it’s a half shift, so that’s something.”
Blair watched Dio watch Irene scan the items, an odd intensity burning in his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. She dragged her still-shaking fingers across her forehead, trying to catch the woman’s eye.
Notice something is wrong, Irene.
“I remember you saying to me yesterday that you’ll be having Sunday dinner with your family tomorrow. Are you cooking?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, I don’t cook. God forbid anybody but my sister cook. Not that she’s any good at it. Carries on like she’s Julia Child or something.”
“That’s funny. Julia Child.” Blair stole another glance at Dio, still entranced by the mountains of food sliding past him. She turned back toward Irene, leaning in a little. “It’s so different in here on a Saturday. Since I usually come in on Friday. Yesterday.”
“Uh huh.” Irene frowned as she picked up a lumpy bag of frozen French fries and scanned them a few times, the price not registering. “Do you remember how much these were?”
“No, no I don’t, but I could—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll just charge you two-ninety-nine.” Irene winked as she keyed in the price and swiped the bag across the scanner, ice crystals flying into the air. “Our little secret.”
“That’s very nice of you, Irene,” Blair said. “I’ve always thought you were a really nice person. Every time I come to shop here, you’ve always been so nice to me, Irene.”
Irene stopped scanning and looked up at Blair, a wide smile on her face. “Well, that is so nice of you to say, Mrs. Gilbert. You’ve just made my day.”
Blair was about to say something else when a manager came over to inform Irene this was her last customer and to take her break. Blair’s chest tightened and her heart somersaulted anew. She was running out of time. This might be her last chance to make a move of some kind. Any kind.
She opened her purse, digging around frantically, shooting Irene an embarrassed look. “Can’t seem to find my wallet,” she murmured. “I may have to run out to the car, see if it fell under the seat. Gosh. I hope I didn’t leave it at home.”
Blair flinched when Dio plunged his hand into her purse, extracting the slender Coach wallet she’d tried to push to the bottom. Without a word, he pressed it into her hand.
Defeated, Blair could only smile half-heartedly as she pulled it out and handed Irene her credit card. There was no chance the card would be declined. No chance she’d have to try a number of cards before one took. No calls to the credit card company to straighten out a misunderstanding. No chance for any other delays.
“Don’t worry about it. Purses are black holes sometimes, aren’t they?” Irene said.
Blair kneaded her forehead. “Yes. A big black hole.”
The clerk bagging the groceries loaded the last of the sturdy brown paper bags into the cart. “Ma’am, would you like some help outside?”
“Naw, man, we got it. We cool,” Dio said, stepping between Blair and the clerk. He motioned for her to take the cart and she obeyed. She glanced over her shoulder at Irene in one last vain effort.
All for nothing.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Gilbert,” Irene called out as she departed her post and another cashier took over.
I expected better, Irene.
As they pushed the grocery cart through the parking lot toward the car, tears sprang to Blair’s eyes and she blinked furiously to keep them from sliding down her cheeks, the fading sounds of the grocery store behind her making her heart sink.
Things Fall Apart
Irene Tucker, Grocery Store Clerk: I didn’t understand why she kept talking about “yesterday.” Of course I remembered she had been in the day before, but I (sobs), I wasn’t paying attention. Yes, I thought she was acting strange and it was weird that she was with someone—she came in with her daughter sometimes, but that was it. I—I just didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me … I will never forgive myself. Never.
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: The family has panic buttons on their phones that’s connected to their home security system, which would alert the security company to call the police. Farrah pressed hers, Malcolm managed to hit his. Unbeknownst to them, though, one of the panels in the system was malfunctioning, so no signal was ever sent.
* * *
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: Surveillance footage outside the bank shows Malcolm Gilbert with a young man just before one p.m. About an hour or so later, Blair Gilbert is at the grocery store alongside another young man shopping.
* * *
Isabelle Ryan: Can you imagine grocery shopping in the middle of this nightmare? Unbelievable.
* * *
Zoey Patton, Friend of Farrah Gilbert: There was definitely a bizarre vibe happening at the house. The way Mrs. Gilbert was acting. Then there was that van parked out front, no logo or anything on the side. She said there was a lot going on, so I thought maybe there were workers at the house and that’s why she was being so rude because she was dealing with that. (Shakes head). She was trying to get me out of there to keep me safe.
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: So, now we’ve got Farrah Gilbert who’s supposed to be at a party downtown with her friends, Blair who’s missed a hair appointment, Malcolm who’s missed a golf game, Blair and Malcolm both MIA from a charity event. CCTV footage of Malcolm, CCTV footage of Blair. Unanswered texts and phone calls. A series of strange phone calls. All of it painted an incredibly disturbing picture of a family in trouble.
* * *
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: With cases like this, the trail either goes cold almost instantly and stays cold or it unravels real fast.
* * *
This case? It unraveled real fast.
5:45 p.m.
The walls vibrated with the thumping bass of a movie—something they’d found on one of the streaming services. A cinematic blight stuffed with fiery car crashes, booming gunshots, and indecipherable hip-hop screeching from the surround sound speakers every fifteen to thirty seconds. Their ashy feet lolled on the massive black leather ottoman. Gangly, foreign limbs reclined on the matching couch. Tree and Dio were higher than kites, having found Malcolm’s stash during another search of the house for a safe with more money. Cookie curiously had abstained from the Grade A Kush, though she must have had a contact high. God knows Blair felt like she did. Maybe Malcolm would get one.
Blair’s eyes jumped between Tree and Dio, skipped over to Cookie and back again, watching as they guffawed and screamed at the movie-theater screen built into the wall, jumping out of their seats to cheer the sneering, gun-toting, quip-spouting hero every time he blew holes into some well-deserving baddie’s chest. Her skin itched as she looked around at the disaster of the room and worse, as images of her kitchen, stacked high with dishes, smeared with splatters, drips, and crumbs, floated through her head. The theater room was a morass of crusty plates smeared with pizza sauce, rubbery cheese, stalks of crust and crumbs, crumbs, crumbs everywhere. Empty bottles of pop. Crinkled wrappers smudged with sticky frosting. The remnants of her phone still scattered across the kitchen floor.
She’d come home to find Tree in his boxers, about to go for a swim. An excited Dio had stripped down to a pair of dingy white boxers to join him. Blair cringed at the thought of that kid in her pool, images of brown scum floating on top of the water flashing across her eyes. There wasn’t enough chlorine in the world. But the biggest sin of all, was Fat Cookie, as she now decided to call her, parading around in one of Blair’s bathing suits, rolls of flesh looking for escape through every possible opening. Blair took smug satisfaction that whenever Fat Cookie got where she was going (Prison? Yes, prison. This girl was headed to prison), she wouldn’t be wearing any of Blair’s bathing suits or dresses.
Okay, maybe she wasn’t fat. She was short, though. Compact. Chubby. Perhaps that was the word. The girl was on the chubby side. Thick. A droopy stomach, chunky thighs, and high, round butt. She didn’t have Blair’s long lines.
Blair knew she was being bitchy and nasty by concentrating on this girl’s weight, but she really didn’t care. Being a bitchy and nasty grudgeholder was how she got by in life.
And so, after shoving the bags of food into the refrigerator and throwing the tubs of ice cream into the freezer, this terrible trio herded the family into the pool area, marveling at the skylight, the glass wall that disappeared into the ground below at the touch of a button. They stretched duct tape around Blair’s wrists and put each Gilbert on opposing sides of the pool, before cannon balling into the water. Over and over, they plummeted, dunked, and belly-flopped into the pool, splashing mountainous waves of water at each other, playing Marco Polo an asinine number of times. All of this was in between Cookie and Tree sequestering themselves in one corner of the pool and making out while Dio pretended not to look.
After an hour, they remembered their supposed hunger and demanded Blair cook for them. She managed to sneak a few handfuls of Cheetos and two tiny squares of pizza to her daughter. Blair herself wasn’t hungry. Even if she could eat, she wouldn’t eat this garbage. Malcolm refused the hot dog she tried to give him. Apparently, he couldn’t stomach anything either.
As she prepared the food, she tried not to look over her shoulder at the key ring holder fastened to the wall next to the garage door, the keys to all the cars hanging there like forbidden fruit. Tree had confiscated her purse and keys as soon as she walked in the door. Her phone was dust, obviously. None of them had seemed to notice the row of keys. If they could at least get into the garage with a set of keys, they’d be golden. The door would lock behind them, trapping the gang in the house. They wouldn’t be able to get out of the front door either, since the handle wouldn’t recognize any of their fingerprints. It didn’t surprise her that Dio hadn’t noticed that when she opened the door earlier for Zoey. They’d have to kick out a window to escape, which would take time and by then, the Gilberts would be long gone.
