Instinctively, she glances over at the Range Rover, where Gil is radioing the advance team. Gil is their shadow, a big Israeli who never takes off his jacket. He is what people in their income bracket call domestic security. Six foot two, 190 pounds. There is a reason he never takes off his jacket, a reason that doesn’t get discussed in polite circles. This is Gil’s fourth year with the Bateman family. Before Gil there was Misha, and before Misha came the strike team of humorless men in suits, the ones with automatic weapons in the trunk of their car. In her schoolteacher days, Maggie would have scoffed at this kind of military intrusion into family life. She would have called it narcissistic to think that money made you a target for violence. But that was before the events of July 2008, before her daughter’s kidnapping and the agonizing three days it took to get her back.
On the jet’s stairs, Rachel spins and gives a mock royal wave to the empty runway. She is wearing blue fleece over her dress, her hair in a bowed ponytail. Any evidence that Rachel has been damaged by those three days remains mostly hidden — a fear of small spaces, a certain trepidation around strange men. But then Rachel has always been a happy kid, a bubbly trickster with a sly smile, and though she can’t understand how, Maggie is thankful every day that her kid hasn’t lost that.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bateman,” says Emma as Maggie reaches the top of the airplane stairs.
“Hi, thanks,” says Maggie reflexively. She feels the usual need to apologize for their wealth, not her husband’s necessarily, but her own, the sheer implausibility of it. She was a preschool teacher not so long ago, living in a six-story walk-up with two mean girls, like Cinderella.
“Is Scott here yet?” she asks.
“No, ma’am. You’re the first to arrive. I’ve pulled a bottle of pinot gris. Would you like a glass?”
“Not right now. Thanks.”
Inside, the jet is a statement of subdued luxury, contoured walls ribbed with sleek ash paneling. The seats are gray leather and laid out casually in pairs, as if to suggest you might enjoy the flight more with a partner. The cabin has a moneyed hush, like the inside of a presidential library. Though she’s flown this way many times, Maggie still can’t get over the indulgence of it. An entire airplane just for them.
David lays their son in his seat, covers him with a blanket. He is on another call already, this one clearly serious. Maggie can tell by the grim set of David’s jaw. Below him the boy stirs in his seat but doesn’t wake.
Rachel stops by the cockpit to talk to the pilots. It is something she does everywhere she goes, seeks out the local authority and grills them for information. Maggie spots Gil at the cockpit door, keeping the nine-year-old in sight. He carries, in addition to a handgun, a Taser and plastic handcuffs. He is the quietest man Maggie has ever met.
Phone to his ear, David gives his wife’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Excited to get back?” he asks, covering the mouthpiece with his other hand.
“Mixed,” she says. “It’s so nice out here.”
“You could stay. I mean, we have that thing next weekend, but otherwise, why not?”
“No,” she says. “The kids have school, and I’ve got the museum board thing on Thursday.”
She smiles at him.
“I didn’t sleep that well,” she says. “I’m just tired.”
David’s eyes go to something over Maggie’s shoulder. He frowns.
Maggie turns. Ben and Sarah Kipling stand at the top of the stairs. They’re a wealthy couple, more David’s friends than hers. All the same, Sarah squeals when she sees Maggie.
“Darling,” she says, throwing open her arms.
Sarah gives Maggie a hug, the flight attendant standing awkwardly behind them, holding a tray of drinks.
“I love your dress,” says Sarah.
Ben maneuvers past his wife and charges David, shaking his hand vigorously. He is a partner at one of the big four Wall Street firms, a blue-eyed shark in a tailored blue button-down shirt and a pair of belted white shorts.
“Did you see the fucking game?” he says. “How does he not catch that ball?”
“Don’t get me started,” says David.
“I mean, I could have caught that fucking ball and I’ve got French toast hands.”
The two men stand toe-to-toe, mock posturing, two big bucks locking horns for the sheer love of battle.
“He lost it in the lights,” David tells him, then feels his phone buzz. He looks at it, frowns, types a reply. Ben glances quickly over his shoulder, his expression sobering. The women are busy chatting. He leans in closer.
“We need to talk, buddy.”
David shakes him off, still typing.
“Not now.”
“I’ve been calling you,” Kipling says. He starts to say more, but Emma is there with drinks.
“Glenlivet on the rocks, if I’m not mistaken,” she says, handing Ben a glass.
“You’re a doll,” Ben says, and knocks back half the scotch in one gulp.
“Just water for me,” David says as she lifts a glass of vodka from the tray.
“Of course,” she says, smiling. “I’ll be right back.”
A few feet away, Sarah Kipling has already run out of small talk. She gives Maggie’s arm a squeeze.
“How are you,” she says, earnestly, and for the second time.
“No, I’m good,” says Maggie. “I just — travel days, you know. I’ll be happy when we’re home.”
“I know. I mean, I love the beach, but honestly? I get so bored. How many sunsets can you watch and not want to just, I don’t know, go to Barneys?”
Maggie glances nervously at the open hatch. Sarah catches the look.
“Waiting for someone?”
“No. I mean, I think we’ll be one more, but—”
Her daughter saves her from having to say more.
“Mom,” says Rachel from her seat. “Don’t forget, tomorrow is Tamara’s party. We still have to get a gift.”
“Okay,” says Maggie, distracted. “Let’s go to Dragonfly in the morning.”
Looking past her daughter, Maggie sees David and Ben huddled together, talking. David doesn’t look happy. She could ask him about it later, but her husband has been so standoffish lately, and the last thing she wants is a fight.
The flight attendant glides past her and hands David his water.
“Lime?” she says.
David shakes his head. Ben rubs his bald spot nervously. He glances at the cockpit.
“Are we waiting for somebody?” he says. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“One more person,” says Emma, looking at her list. “Scott Burroughs?”
Ben glances at David. “Who?”
David shrugs. “Maggie has a friend,” he says.
“He’s not a friend,” Maggie says, overhearing. “I mean, the kids know him. We ran into him this morning at the market. He said he had to go to New York, so I invited him to join us. I think he’s a painter.”
She looks at her husband.
“I showed you some of his work.”