Page 42 of Don't Tell

Gabrielle is already pulling up a kitchen chair for me to sit in. She looks at the dress, makes a small circle with two fingers to make me turn, and when I do, she makes a sound that means yes.

"Sit down. I'm doing your hair."

She doesn't ask how I want it. She just starts, fingers moving through my curls. She hums while she works, low and tuneless. I sit still. It's early, and the apartment is quiet, and there's something almost peaceful about having someone's hands in my hair.

"Does he do this often?" I ask. "Send someone."

"What do you mean?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. How exactly do I ask my question plainly without sounding like an overly attached girlfriend? I toss around a few options in my head, but none of them seem appropriate.

Finally, I ask, "Has he needed something like this before?"

Her hands pause for half a second. "No." She resumes her work.

I look at the mirror she's propped on the table. My own face looks back at me, less familiar than usual — the green dress and my hair almost finished.

She steps back to look. She adjusts one thing and steps back again. "There."

She's already repacking her case, moving with quick, precise motions. She zips the case, picks up the garment bag, and gives me one more look — the full picture, head to toe.

She kisses my cheek and walks out.

The door closes.

I stand in the kitchen for a moment. Then I go look in the mirror.

Maeve appears from her bedroom and walks to the kitchen. She stops. She looks at me. “You look nice, Suzanne.” She gets her mug from the fridge and raises it in a small salute. She turns and goes back to her room.

I pick up my bag. I check the time. I look at my phone once — Renée's name still sitting there unanswered — and put it away.

The black sedan is at the curb when I come downstairs. The driver says my name before I reach him and opens the door. That's the full extent of our conversation. I get in.

We drive. The city loosens outside the window, blocks traded for highway, then valley. I put my hands flat on my knees and try to keep them there. They don't cooperate. I press them together instead, look out at the road, and tell myself that I'm fine, almost believing it.

I don't ask where we're going. I realize that I haven't wondered about that. That's strange for me because I'm someone who likes to know things in advance — exits, schedules, exactly how much the light bill will be. The not-knowing should bother me.

It doesn't, particularly.

We take an exit I don't recognize. The road narrows and turns through a gate, then it opens onto a small airfield, where I see the plane on the tarmac.

I don't move for a moment after the car stops.

The driver opens my door. I get out. A man in a dark jacket is already walking toward me from the base of the stairs.

"Ms. Jenkins. Welcome." He falls into step beside me. "Mr. Nightingale will meet you at the destination. He flew out earlier this morning."

I stop walking. "He's not on it?"

"He had a matter to attend to first. He'll be on the ground when you land."

I go up the stairs.

The inside is quieter than I expected. It is smaller too — cream seats, a low table, windows letting in flat morning light. I take the seat facing the cockpit. The steward offers me champagne, but I ask for water. He returns with a bottle of water on a tray, and I take it and look out the window as the engines start.

The ground begins to move. The buildings shrink. The sky opens up, and I let myself, just for a minute, admire the view from above.

We land forty minutes later. The sky is different down here — bluer, lighter, and softer than home. I come down the stairs.