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I thank the woman for her time and leave, feeling worried for Nat and dejected.
I could go to the police. But what would the police do? I don’t know where Nat lives. They couldn’t even do a standard welfare check if I said I was worried about her and her safety.
I start to walk home, but somewhere along the way, another idea comes to me. Instead of going home, I take the Red Line into the Loop, looking up the address for Tanner & Levine on my phone as the train swerves along the elevated track before soaring underground just south of Fullerton, the winter scene disappearing, pitching us into darkness.
As the train rasps through the snug tunnels, I steel myself for a meeting with Nat’s husband, Declan, thinking about what I will say to him when I finally meet him face-to-face.
I get off the train. I take the stairs up to street level, and then I walk to the tall, black building that houses Tanner & Levine. I let myself in through the revolving door. Someone in the lobby tells me which floor to find the firm on and then directs me to the correct elevator bank. I ride the elevator up to the forty-third floor and, when the doors open, let myself in through a set of glass doors to the modern, elegant office, feeling my heart hasten to know that Declan is somewhere within these same walls. I look around, letting my eyes roam, searching for him. The space is airy, bright, which is contradictory to how I’m feeling. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the wall, looking out over Lake Michigan. Under different circumstances, it would be beautiful.
“May I help you?” a receptionist asks, gazing up over a computer screen. I let my eyes go to her. She is young, pretty, impeccably dressed, so that I feel underdressed in my jeans and winter boots, though that doesn’t matter. What I’m wearing is the furthest thing from my mind.
I step in, making my way up to the desk, my eyes in flux, searching the face of everyone I see. “Hi,” I say, hearing my voice tremble. I take a breath, trying to get it under control. “I’m here to see Declan Roche,” I say, expecting that she’ll ask if I have an appointment with him, to which I’d have to say no because I don’t. But somehow I’ll have to persuade her to still let me see him.
But that’s not what this woman says. Her face darkens. “Is he...a paralegal?” she asks, cocking a head so that her long straight locks fall longer on one side.
“No,” I say. “He’s an attorney.” Soon to be partner, I think, finding it almost impossible, given his stature, that this woman wouldn’t know who he is. By Nat’s accounts, Declan has been at the firm for years, climbing his way up the legal ladder. But, I think then, that this law firm is massive. There must be over a hundred attorneys and maybe this receptionist is new. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t know who he is.
“Declan Roche you said?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re in the right place? This is Tanner & Levine.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, hearing the edge in my voice, thinking how Sienna would be embarrassed by it. “I am in the right place. This is where he works.” The receptionist just looks at me, deciding what to say, how to respond. I stare back, trying my best to stay calm but feeling my heart race. When she says nothing, I ask, “Can you check? Please? Because I think that maybe you’re mistaken. I think he does work here.”
Reluctantly she nods, reaching for a list beside the phone. The list is pages long, with the extension for each office. She goes through it, a long manicured fingernail sweeping across each page, down the list of names. “Declan Roche you say?” she asks, and I say yes.
“Sorry,” she tells me when she reaches the end, “but there is no one here by that name,” and I want to argue, except that as she was looking at it, I read the list of names upside down for myself and saw how it skipped from Rafferty to Schaabar.
My world spins. I widen my stance, because I feel suddenly like the office is moving around me.
She was right. I was wrong. He’s not here. He’s really not here. There is no Declan Roche at this firm.
“If that’s all...” she prompts, putting her list away, her voice drifting.
My words are a whisper. “Yes. That’s all. Thank you for looking.”
I turn to go. I feel dizzy, weak. I can’t make sense of this, because I know for sure, I remember explicitly, that Nat said her husband worked at Tanner & Levine. It’s possible I might have made one mistake—that I might have confused where Nat worked—but it’s impossible that I would have made two. Which means only one thing. Nat lied. But why?
And then it happens. I see something on the way out. Brochures for the law firm in the reception area, the name Tanner & Levine written across the front of them. A small stack of brochures sits fanned out on a side table beside magazines like Newsweek and The Economist.
They catch my eye as I walk past, and I gasp because there is an image of a man on the front of the brochures. I see his eyes first and then his smile, and the recognition hits.
On front of a threefold laminated brochure is an image of Declan Roche.
“It’s him,” I breathe.
I feel validated. I am right. I’m not losing my mind.
I swoop down to pick one up. “This. This is him,” I say, my voice too loud, conveying too much enthusiasm, as I carry the brochure to the receptionist desk, pointing sharply at it. “This is Declan Roche. I was right. He does work here.”
The woman takes the brochure from me for a closer look, letting her eyes run over his handsome face. “Okay,” she concedes, nodding. “Let me call down to human resources and see. Why don’t you have a seat.”
I take a seat on one of the smoke gray lounge chairs, my heart palpitating because it’s only a matter of time now until I really do come face-to-face with Declan.
What will I say to him? What will he say? What will he be like? I think he will be charming because that’s the way all sociopaths are. But I know better than to believe that. I think of the things he’s done to Nat, the things that he’s said, the text messages I’ve read.
You are nothing without me.
