Page 10 of The Unraveling

“Here is fine, thanks.” I take the nearest table, a little two-seater in the middle of the restaurant. Not exactly unobtrusive, but he can’t see me. As long as I keep my head down, even if he leaves first, he’ll never know I was here.

“Need time to look at the menu?” She sets it in front of me.

I look down at it. “I’ll take the caprese salad. And a glass of pinot, please.”

She disappears. Seconds later, a glass of wine is at my fingertips. The glass sweats, it’s so cold, and I take a tiny sip, watching the back booth. Gabriel’s hands are gesturing—tanned skin, creased with whatever hobby exposes them to frequent sun—and across from him sits a petite woman with blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Young. Pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. Her gaze is focused on him very seriously.

It’s probably a meeting with a fellow professor. Maybe she’s new—that explains the skin young enough to not have met wrinkles yet. Or she could be a family friend. Perhaps even a business meeting of some sort, given the way she’s watching him so intently. A lawyer or an accountant or—

He does it again.

He throws his head back, deep laughter coming from his gut, and she smiles, clearly pleased with herself for garnering such a reaction.

I take a long sip of the wine and let its sweet, tart flavor roll over my tongue.

He’s so good at pretending.

I wish I was better at it. I’ve just barely gained back the ability to eat, to do something other than force myself through the motions. I’d love to actually enjoy food again, order an appetizer and dessert rather than a single dish I know I won’t even make a dent in. Then again, I don’t deserve to enjoy anything after what I did. What I didn’t do. I exhale forcefully, then startle when a hand is suddenly right in front of me.

“Oh, my apologies. I thought you saw me.” The waitress. Setting down my salad. “Can I get you anything else?”

I shake my head. “No. Thank you.”

I ignore the salad, pull out my new notebook, and scribble more notes. Maybe if I search through them later, I’ll find a pattern. I’ll recognize something, some semblance of a hint that will allow me to see the truth underneath the mask he wears.

Eventually, I pick at the salad. I study the spread of the oil and balsamic, eat a piece of cheese, nibble on a tomato. At least I’m getting my veggies. Kind of. But all the while, I’m listening—catching bits and pieces of their conversation, though not enough to make sense of it. Something about a mutual friend, I think. A problem at her work, which may also be teaching. And then he says, “Storage unit,” and my ears perk up. I look over, but the blonde notices me staring their way. So I flash a vague smile and force my gaze to move elsewhere, like I’m just a diner alone admiring the restaurant and fellow diners.

I’m more careful after that, not wanting to meet the eyes of the woman a second time. Then a couple takes a table between mine and theirs. The new couple’s talking drowns out any chance I have of more eavesdropping. Except for when I hear the woman’s energetic laugh come from the booth in the corner. I chance a quick peek. It’s a fraction-of-a-second look, yet I come away with a new revelation.

Maybe she’s a girlfriend.

My mind catches on that idea. Maybe he and his wife were about to get divorced. Maybe he really is happy because she’s dead—

But no. Even if he had been ecstatic to be rid of her, he also lost his little girl.

His beautiful little Rose.

Even I had to click away when the picture came up on Google. The sweet, innocent face that would never grow old, too much for anyone to bear. Except maybe a monster. Which Gabriel Wright wasn’t. I saw the devastation on his face that night. His world had shattered into a million pieces. He’s pretending to be happy. He’s just mastered the art of camouflaging his feelings. His misery is lurking under the disguise he wears. Soon I’ll see it.

Sitting here alone, pushing salad pieces around my plate with a fork to make it look like I’ve eaten more than I have, I realize it’s the first time I’ve been in a restaurant since—well, you. We spent three hundred bucks on dinner and barely uttered two words to each other that night.

Emotion swells in me. I set cash on the table and gather my things, leaving before they do, before Gabriel can lay eyes on me. And before I start sobbing, gaining the unwanted attention of everyone around me. Because I feel it coming. Feel the emotions whirling around like a tornado building strength, ready to touch down where it’s least expected.

I don’t bother waiting for them to come out. I know where he lives, where he works, and the one place he seems to frequent in between—that storage unit that holds God knows what. Instead, I walk east, ignoring the cold sprinkle of rain from the sky. A subway station appears, and I descend beneath the city, hopping on the first train I see. I ride for what feels like too many stops, then climb the stairs back to the street.

The Financial District.

I guess I did ride pretty far downtown. I start walking, no particular destination in mind. But when I see the street sign for Maiden Lane, I remember that’s where the Office of Professional Misconduct is. I still have the paper Dr. Alexander signed in my purse, so I might as well make something about today productive.

The sign on the front door is imposing, the letters larger than necessary. Professional Misconduct. It’s the adult version of how I felt going anywhere near the principal’s office as a child. Still, I take a deep breath and walk in.

“Hi. I need to submit a paper for a case. It came with a return envelope, but I was in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d drop it by.”

“Sure,” the clerk says. “Do you have the case number?”

I nod. “It’s on the top of the paper.”

She takes the form and scans it. “Oh. That’s funny. I was just working on this file earlier today. I had a FOIA request on it.”

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