The Vanishing Year Read Online Free

phone shrills, and I’m startled out of this thought. The clock reads exactly nine and I smile. Henry calls at exactly nine every day. Never a minute later or a minute earlier. I asked him once, what if he was in a meeting? Surely this could happen. At the time, he had only blinked at me and replied, “I can miss a few minutes of any meeting, regardless of the topic.” And his answer was so definitive, I never questioned it again, at least not out loud. It still strikes me every single day as odd. Who can say that they can carve out time, no matter the length, at exactly the same time every day, without fail?
    â€œHello?” I half-sigh and half-laugh into the phone.
    â€œAre you still sick?” His voice comes over the line, silky and deep like melted chocolate.
    â€œNo, I feel better. With enough sleep, I guess anyone would.” I say this sarcastically, but with a smile in my voice.
    Henry laughs softly. “Can’t you ever just let me take care of you? I love to, you know. And you said you do feel better.” I say nothing, because quite honestly, I do. When I’m quiet, he continues, “Okay, I’m sorry. I know you hate the sleeping pills. I try very hard not to recommend them. Am I forgiven? Meet me for lunch?”
    â€œMaybe. I have some odds and ends to tie up from last night. Can I let you know?” I trace the pattern of the coverlet with my fingertip, a manicured red fingernail on the bright white spread like a blood spatter. I pull the towel tighter around me.
    He harrumphs on the line, I can tell. I rarely say no to Henry. “You will eat, right? You’ll eat regardless. Why not join me?”
    â€œWe’ll see, okay? I’ll call you. Don’t worry. I love you.”
    We hang up and before I can second-guess myself, I call Francesca and request the final guest list. In thirty seconds, my email bings, I tap it open on my phone and scan it. It looks the same as it did the previous Wednesday, no mention of Molly McKay or Gunther What’s-his-name. I call Francesca back and ask her if there is a way someone could have attended the benefit without being on the guest list. She is flippant.
    â€œSure, I think some sets of tickets were purchased as comps from corporations. That’s pretty common, an out-of-town colleague, the boss wants to show him a nice event, see how swanky New York can be? Benefit events are used as networking opportunities all the time. Why?”
    I say no reason and we hang up. I log on to the computer with my phone still in my hand. I Google Gunther and the University of California, San Francisco, and the first hit has a picture. Gunther Rowe. The picture is dated this year. His face is sloped into his neck and his smile is wide, too ingenuous for a man approaching thirty. His teeth are gapped and the overall effect is cartoonish. He looks slightly older than my memories of him, a bit more rotund, but there’s no doubting who he is. A few more Google searches reveal Gunther and Molly were married a few years ago, a lavish west coast wine country wedding.
    A few more searches, including Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn reveal Gunther is currently living in Mobile, Alabama, as a pharmaceutical sales representative for Gencor Pharmaceuticals. Another quick search shows me the home office of Gencor is on Lexington Avenue here in Manhattan. I puff out a breath. Okay, that mystery is probably solved. I contemplate calling Francesca back to confirm, but betweenmy hasty exit last night and the phone call this morning, she probably thinks I’ve lost my mind. I feel irrationally stuck, claustrophobic. What if Molly and Gunther figure out who I am? It wouldn’t be difficult, really, I’ve become shamefully carefree. I imagine them staking out my apartment, possibly chatting easily with Walter, the doorman. How long have you known Zoe Whittaker? I put my head between my knees and take a few deep, calming breaths. I’m