Chapter 2 - The Scent of Lavender and Guilt
The Upper East Side townhouse was pitch black when I shoved the mahogany doors open. The quiet inside wasn't peaceful; it was a mausoleum. The echo of my frantic breathing bounced off the twelve-foot ceilings.
""Meline!"" I screamed into the darkness, switching on the foyer chandelier. ""Meline, please!""
No answer. Only Margaret, our sixty-year-old house manager, stood at the top of the sweeping curved staircase. She wore a dark woolen sweater, her eyes swollen red and rimmed with hollow exhaustion. In all the seven years she had worked for us, Margaret had treated me with absolute deference. Tonight, she looked at me like I was a murderer standing on her doorstep.
""She isn't here, Mr. Vance,"" Margaret said softly, her voice trembling with cold restraint. ""And she will never be here again.""
""Where did she go, Margaret? Her phone is off! Her accounts haven't been touched!"" I took the stairs two at a time, desperation making me manic. ""Tell me where she is! I need to explain—I need to fix this!""
""Fix this?"" Margaret let out a bitter, weeping laugh that sliced straight through my ribs. ""You walked out that door while she was bleeding on the dining room rug. Do you remember what she asked you, Damen? She held your sleeve and told you she was bleeding too. And you pulled your arm away because your phone rang. You left her with paramedics who had to cut her dress open because her blood pressure was crashing through the floor!""
I recoiled as if she had slapped me across the face. ""I thought the paramedics had it under control. Elena said—""
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""Elena had a minor ovarian cyst that required zero intervention!"" Margaret snapped, dropping all pretense of professional courtesy. ""I spoke to the admitting desk at Mount Sinai because I couldn't believe any human being could be so monstrous. While Mrs. Vance was undergoing emergency surgery to stop her internal hemorrhaging, while they cut your lifeless son from her womb, you were ordering room service flowers for a mistress who was sitting up watching television. Look around you, sir. Look at what you bought with your neglect.""
I turned toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. The door to what was supposed to be the nursery was wide open. I stepped across the threshold, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. The crib was assembled, painted soft gray. A mobile of tiny felt clouds and golden stars hung motionless above the mattress. On the changing table lay a single silver picture frame. It didn't contain an ultrasound. It contained the printed record of my incoming calls: twenty-five timestamps, all rejected. And beside it, Meline's platinum wedding band, lying cold and forsaken on the dresser.
