Henry Butler hurries out of his brownstone, looking every inch the sullen murder suspect on his way to Starbucks to write some crappy fiction, only to be harangued by a crowd of merciless reporters. But do they want to hear about his novel? NO! Those mournful pundits only want to know where his sugar-momma famous-architect possibly-dead-by-foul-play wife Gemma is. Jerks.
Okay, as Bridget watches the news glumly, and Andrew turns it off saying, “You’re stressing yourself out; it’s not good for the baby” (and we all shout WHAT BABY??), I must stop and say think of the children. Namely, Henry and Gemma’s children. Who still have not been spotted at all, or even name-checked of late in a whole, “Sure, they set fire to the window treatments, but we think they miss their probably-murdered mom, you know?” way. Listen, Ringer Writers, do you think you can just quietly stop talking about those kids and make like they never existed, because the task of figuring out how to smoosh mom-less toddlers into these increasingly tangled storylines is starting to wake you with night terrors? Because if so, I am on to you.
Anyway, Bridget thinks they should hire a private investigator, and Andrew says when you’ve got a dad as rich as Gemma’s is, the cops are sure to do your bidding! Oh, and hey, make sure to dress nice for that benefit/grand-opening of some building Gemma designed and oversaw construction for. But before they can discuss what Bridget will wear, the detective on the Gemma Butler case interrupts to ask if Bridget!Siobhan will come down to the station to answer a few questions. It’s a federal case now, yo, though she won’t say whyyyyy. Andrew threatens them not to over-task his wife, because she’s pregnant and all the stress cannot be good for this fetus. If I had been more organized, I would have made up a drinking game for us all so every time someone worries about Bridget’s non-existent (and Siobhan’s very existent) baby, we could all take a swig.
While Andrew is strong-arming the cops, Bridget sneaks off to her spacious closet, which is possibly larger than the size of a Manhattan studio I once shared with a sexy grad student who was a great writer (take that, Henry). God, I hope she’s there so she can change, because what the hell is that on her? Is it a leather tunic? Or is it a dress? Do not try to pretend this is the height of fashion, Bridget. I’m guessing it’s probably the protective smock Siobhan had to purchase for her trendy welding class. But no, instead of getting out of that hot mess of an outfit, Bridget fishes a phone out of her boots (*pauses* those are nice boots). She calls someone, saying, “Hey, it’s Bridget, I’m not sure what to say or how to explain, but I think I really messed up this time.”
Juliet shows up, to keep the teen character quotient on schedule for the CW, and announces she wants to spend the weekend with a friend in Connecticut. God, Juliet, rehab would be more interesting than Connecticut (sorry, CT-ers). Andrew gives in and says she can go hang with her friend Monica, and we all brace ourselves for this inevitably leading to another almost!overdose/boring club scene/landscape of angrily broken vases. Oh, and Andrew has to come down to the station too, because “the last phone call Gemma Butler made before she went missing was to your husband.”
At the precinct, Bridget spots Henry walking to another investigation room, looking very betrayed and very puffy. Maybe Henry’s puffiness is a barometer of something. Entertain me by telling me what in comments! Meanwhile, Agent Machado totally wants to help with the investigation, no question — that’s why he’s forbidding the police to release Bridget’s name and picture even though right now she’s the primary suspect, because obviously Bodaway would van it off to Manhattan to kill, baby, kill if he so much as catches her scent.
Cue Bridget, Henry, and Andrew all in different interrogation rooms, and hey hey hey, we’re getting to some drama, because in the course of what’s actually a really impressive back-and-forth side-by-side mirrored confrontations with Andrew and Henry separately, detectives ask, “Can you identify the woman in that photo?” showing a picture obviously of Bridget, not Siobhan. And we wait for Andrew and Henry to say, “Why, that’s Siobhan Martin, gorgeous socialite, charity organizer, and owner of one of the more enviable Upper East Side walk-in closets,” but no! “Bridget Kelly,” they identify, in a side-by-side split shot that makes me burst into a tiny round of applause, because I thought neither of them knew jack about Bridget!
After the break, back to the disappointed detective asking Henry, “But you never actually met Bridget Kelly?” Flashback, one day ago, Bridget!Siobhan telling both Andrew and Henry about, well, herself — but not herself, you know how this goes — in another very cool sequence of shots (we get Bridget following Andrew out of one room, and in the next room/shot, it’s Bridget and Henry continuing the conversation). Bridget bad-mouths herself impressively, saying how she’s awful and an addict and she was so worried about what everyone would think of her, the non-addict twin, hahahaha, that she kept Bridget’s identity a secret. Bridget!Siobhan tells them both that the FBI suspect Bridget’s involvement in Gemma’s disappearance. “I don’t understand, why would she hurt Gemma?” Henry asks. Good question, Henry, because this makes no freaking sense whatsoever. You’re giving me some hope that you can see through plot holes. Now go edit that tanking manuscript of yours.
During the course of this, Andrew insists to Bridget!Siobhan they must tell Juliet about this evil addict prostitute stripper criminal twin. Juliet says, “Oh God, there’s two of them?” and Juliet gets the title once more! Confetti rains down, stage-hands wheel out the Title Cake of Victory, and someone hands her keys to a brand new car! Okay, switch it up, Ringer Writers, because that’s Juliet getting title three times in a row here. I want to see one of Gemma’s twins lisp out the title next week, okay? *meaningful look*
Agent Machado gets Bridget!Siobhan alone in a room, and says, “Let’s start at the beginning,” but the main detective interrupts for a moment. Machado stalks back in, annoyed that, “Your husband and Mr. Butler knew exactly who Bridget Kelly was,” even though they were kept in the dark before, and honestly, I don’t remember that Machado knew this specifically about them not being aware of Bridget, but whatever. He’s miffed that she stole their interrogation thunder, but Bridget trumps him once again by handing over her phone to him and playing the Bridget message she created earlier, adding, “I tried calling the number back, but it’s blocked.” Machado acts reasonably skeptical that Bridget made the call at the exact time the detective was waiting to bring Siobhan in to the precinct. Maybe Siobhan warned her, he suggests? He keeps right on suggesting, getting so mouthy with his tawdry (and mostly true) insinuations that Bridget snaps, “We’re done here,” and sweeps out.
Bridget bumps into Henry, who just wants to go home (maybe to your kids? Sorry I’m beating this dead horse so hard, but someone has to!), when Machado stops her with one more thing, this time about Malcolm Ward. Andrew agrees to wait outside while Machado tells poker-faced Bridget!Siobhan that Bodaway, in his search for Bridget, found Malcolm and now he’s missing. “Do you think he might be dead?” Bridget asks, and there’s that little tremble that shows she’s not completely stone cold! After Machado says there were signs of foul play, she heads outside, trying to call Malcolm but hearing that the number is not in service at this time. Hey, Bodaway’s thugs have tormented Malcolm for so long he missed his cell phone payment.
Switch to Wyoming, in a van with Bodaway’s thugs, and Malcolm in the back with a bag over his head. One of the thugs goes to check on him and slaps him until Malcolm starts. “He’s still breathing,” he tells the other dude. I am impressed with their level of thug-ly solicitude. As the thugs plan to get some lunch, we realize Malcolm can see outside his black hood, which goes to show you should never skimp on materials for your kidnapees, because later they might recognize your boots. *coughs* When the thug-a-roos decide it’s fine to leave Malcolm in the van because he’s high, Malcolm uses the chance to make a daring escape!
Cut to Bridget languishing dejectedly on the Windy Balcony of Angst (also, a great place to sip a trendy cocktail come summer). Andrew interrupts her to ask who Malcolm Ward is, since the police brought up that name. And another flashback, this time back to nine months ago in Wyoming, where Malcolm and Bridget are celebrating her three months of sobriety (so now she’s been sober a year?) with a grocery-store type cake. She gets a wish even though it isn’t her birthday, Malcolm tells her, and she wishes he would never leave. It’s great how she’s not an addict anymore (*cough* codependent *cough). She tells him she couldn’t have done all this without him, and leans in to kiss him. “Bridge, we can’t,” he tells her, but it’s unconvincing even to him, because he starts up again with the kisses, aww yeah. Mike Colter looks so, so good, y’all. Let’s hope Bodaway’s thugs don’t kill off that sexy body.
We see tears on Bridget’s face back on the balcony while Andrew realizes the reason Bridget!Siobhan knew so much about Juliet’s addiction issues was her sister’s struggles with addiction. He, very reasonably, asks if they’re safe, since people are wanting to kill Bridget and all. Bridget!Siobhan swears her sister said she left the country, to which Andrew shoots back, “She’s an addict and a prostitute. How do you know she’s telling the truth?” Bridget attempts not to get too huffy on her own behalf, while Andrew continues acting cold and throws in her face the fact that she had promised they would have no secrets but still didn’t tell him about her sister. Oh, Andrew. If you only knew the sexy web of lies of which you are a part!
Flashback once again (*hands out the Dramamine*). Malcolm and Bridget’s post-coital dressing includes a healthy dose of angst and regret, mixed in with a smidge of, “Hell, we already did it, let’s go for round two!” Okay, maybe that last bit is just me. “Say it,” Bridget tells him, pushing him to admit it was a mistake. “You know how I feel about you,” Malcolm says gently. “But we crossed a line.” “I want you to know I will be here for you in any other way,” he adds. “No matter what?” Bridget asks. “No matter what,” Malcolm answers, and he might be the most upstanding nothing-to-hide dude on this show. Of course we don’t have time to think about that, because Bridget is distracting us with all her betrayal of his commitment to her and such.
Bridget pages down her phone listing, and sees Charlie’s number. Time to call her new sponsor and get busy, er, get recovered!
Whoosh, back to Wyoming, where Malcolm picks up his keys under a doormat and lets himself into his apartment. He grabs whatever clothes are lying around and flees.
Charlie and Bridget meet in a coffee shop, and Bridget confides her best friend is missing, “Her name is Gemma Butler, have you read about it in the papers?” Okay, what what what? Bridget’s reasoning for changing her super-secretive stance with Charlie, giving him a huge tip-off to her current identity as Siobhan escapes me. Oh, wait, it turns out that Charlie, as a former cop, maybe can snoop around for her and tell her what’s in the evidence file. You don’t ask for much, Bridget, just total compromising of cop-ly principles! He grouses that it’s a tall order from someone who hasn’t even said her real name yet. “Siobhan Martin,” she tells him. “When I agreed to be your sponsor, I thought it would be a whole lot easier than this,” he replies. “That’s a yes?” she asks. “That’s an ‘I’ll see what I can do’.”
Malcolm stumbles off a bus into a roadside restaurant so he can splash water on his face in the men’s room and do something about that awkward bloodstain on his tank top. But while in there, he recognizes from another stall black boots tinged in red, belonging to one of Bodaway’s thugs, the one who was in the back of the van with him. How the hell did Malcolm stage his daring escape, make it back to his apartment, and end up at the EXACT SAME REST STOP as the guys who are drugging him/after him? “You didn’t think we were dumb enough to let you get away that easy,” the thug proclaims when he comes out of the stall, and I’m halfway mollified that supposedly they followed him instead of Malcolm returning to the same place where they left him. “We’re still going to find her,” even if Malcolm doesn’t lead them to Bridget, the thug claims. “Not if I can help it,” says Malcolm, who bitch slaps the sassy right outta that thug-a-roo.
Outside the precinct, Charlie has indeed conducted an immense breach of ethics by peeking into the case file for Bridget!Siobhan. Turns out the main question is where Gemma’s car is — at JFK, we all shout! “What if I told you I knew where it was?” Bridget asks coyly. “How involved in this are you?” he asks. “Again, too many questions.” Listen, there’s a thing called give-and-take, Bridget. We’ve all had enough with your taking all the time! Bridget must hear my finger wagging, because she tells him the car is in long-term parking at JFK. “And Charlie, if I haven’t already said it, thank you.” “You didn’t, and you’re welcome.” Anyone else think Charlie is a liiiiittle too quick to do all this to help someone he just met? *taps finger on chin*
Switch to a suburban teen party scene — there are actually beer bongs, and I believe that’s a Beer Pong tournament happening on the coffee table. Juliet’s there, actually seeming somewhat sober, trying to convince her drunk friend they should leave the party. “We should just go back to my place, and I’ll have my dad’s driver take us back to your apartment,” she tells Monica. What, they’re seriously still in NYC, with this every-teen crowd? Don’t their friends from Dalton pretend to greater sophistication than this? Anyway, Monica moans “I have to take the car I came in…My parents can’t know.” Nooo, Juliet, don’t get in the car with your drunk pal!
Bridget!Siobhan and Andrew stage a closet confrontation, each of them sitting at opposite (backs to each other) ends of their tufted padded wide wardrobe bench. Nice little triptych look with the panes of the large window separating them into their own little rectangles with a big space in between. Bridget tells him, “I didn’t tell you about Bridget because I was ashamed.” “You don’t have to be ashamed; it’s not like you did those things,” Andrew answers gruffly. Hur hur hur! “Can’t you give me a little more credit?” he asks after her confession that she was worried learning about Bridget would change how he felt about her. “Being honest makes you vulnerable, and that’s scary,” Bridget tells him, noting that it’s impossible that he’s told her everything about him.
Andrew makes his awful truth confession: “When I found out you were pregnant, I wasn’t happy…We weren’t in a good place, not speaking, barely having sex anymore. Getting pregnant seemed like a complication. But I realize now it was a blessing… This baby means everything to me.” Who else wants to go in on the bet that Andrew is going to find out there’s no bun in Bridget!Siobhan’s oven any episode now? “I lost so much already, I don’t want to lose you too,” Bridget says very genuinely — I really do think she’s falling for Andrew — and they’re about to kiss, the phone is ringing, oh my god, they kiss anyway, score for physical contact at long long last! But Bridget pulls back, saying the phone call could be important. Hey, it’s Mr. Carpenter on the line! *waves to Jason Dohring* He’s calling about Juliet, who, not at all shockingly, has been in a car accident.
Andrew rushes to the scene, where Mr. Carpenter is helpfully waiting. Okay, what the hell is he doing there? Is he the one who threw the party? Hey, kids, come get wasted at my place this weekend, and I’ll give everyone extra credit! “What are you even doing here?” Andrew demands, earning him so many points from me. Oh, it turns out Juliet called him (but how did she have his number, I ask? We’re moving forward in this teacher/student salaciousness, I tell you what!).
Mr. Carpenter leaves, Juliet and Andrew embrace, and he asks, “I don’t understand, why were you driving? You don’t have a learner’s permit.” Oh, so that’s how they ended up in a multi-car pile-up. He admonishes her for not going to Connecticut like she said and for going to the par-tay. “I had two beers, it’s not like I was doing coke,” Juliet bursts out in the worst-reasoned defense of addictive behavior ever. She lashes out that this is why she called “Mr. C.”, because he’s all hip and cool and understands her, unlike her mean old pappy. “This time I’m done,” Andrew announces. “What are you going to do, put me up for adoption?” “I’m taking away your trust fund. No credit cards, no allowance.” This actually seems like a good idea, though I think he should have cut the purse-strings several overdose-attempts ago. Juliet’s friend Monica calls out that she’s sorry, and Juliet snaps, “You owe me, bitch. Like, ten million dollars.”
Back with the detective and Agent Machado, where she tells him he’s a lucky man. Nope, they haven’t found Bridget, “but Missing Persons found activity on Malcolm Ward’s atm bank account in New York.” So he did escape from the thugs that last time! *applauds Malcolm*
Scene change to the dedication ceremony for Gemma’s building. Henry is there, but edges away from the press. Inside, he hears Andrew isn’t there because of Juliet’s car accident, and Bridget, spotting paparazzi, tells him he should move away from the window (and maybe not drink so much celebratory champagne while your wife is supposed to have died, guy). “We’re here to celebrate my wife’s work; I can stand wherever I want,” Andrew says petulantly. “I should have made more of an effort with Gemma,” he grumps. Oh, like more than zero? “You didn’t know how much you loved her until you couldn’t tell her,” Bridget guesses. I still haven’t seen anything resembling love from him toward Gemma, but okay.
Bridget lets him know she’s asked someone to help: “Trust me, this is going to be okay, we’re going to find her, we’re going to bring her back.” Bridget has obviously not listened to any reliable missing-persons stats recently if she thinks bringing Gemma back will be such a cinch. Henry leaves to get a cab, and hey now, is that our friend Malcolm peeking out behind a gaggle of socialites? Bridget sees him walking toward her, and she swoons down in a dead faint.
Bridget awakens in a hospital bed, with a pounding head because she’s got a concussion. Andrew jokes that Juliet is home, grounded until she’s fifty. Uh oh, kids, the nurses are wheeling in an ultrasound machine so they can check on the non-existent baby in Bridget’s belleh. She tries to say she doesn’t want the test just now. “Shiv, this is crazy; to refuse an ultrasound after a concussion is insanity.” She tries to explain she didn’t mean it that way. “This is about our baby,” Andrew says emotionally, while Bridget looks horrified and watches the ultrasound monitor.
Change of scene to someone breaking into Gemma’s car at JFK. Hey, it’s Charlie! Uh. Maybe his ethical breaches are even more excitingly huge than it previously appeared. You would think he ought to call the actual police, but nope, he takes out his phone to call — SIOBHAN! Bridget just has the worst luck with sponsors, guys. They’re always getting kidnapped, or participating in nefarious plots with her twin, or getting her grocery store cakes for her three month sobriety anniversary instead of nice gâteaux from bakeries. This does not reflect well on Narcotics Anonymous.
Charlie tells Siobhan there’s some blood left behind — not Gemma’s but HIS, from when Gemma hit him. “And everyone still thinks Bridget is me?” Siobhan asks brightly. “Don’t worry, Siobhan; she’ll never have a chance to tell anyone.” We watch poor Gemma trying to fight off murderin’ Charlie, crawling away from him inside her apartment, before we fade back to the garage scene. “Call me with the next move,” Charlie tells Siobhan, and slinks off like the rat-faced fake!sponsor he is.
You know, since we didn’t see Charlie actually whack Gemma for real and for true in that flashback, I’m holding out hope that our sassy best friend with the zippy one-liners and puffy bad novelist husband is still alive! If only for her sight-unseen kiddos’ sake, am I right?