A lump forms in my throat. “I know.”
“I mostly didn’t believe it. But sometimes I couldn’t keep my mind from thinking that it might be true.”
“Steph—”
She stops me. “No, that’s not why I’m telling you this. What I wanted you to know is that in some ways, especially because it all turned out all right, I’m grateful for the experience.” She shakes her head. “That came out wrong. What I mean is, I was glad you knew how much I loved you and how important you were to me. I knew that if you really were dead, at least I wouldn’t have any regrets about us.”
“Everyone has regrets.”
“I know, but I think maybe we should try to minimize them.”
“What are you saying? That I should live each day like it’s my last?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“You can’t live like that.”
“Some people do.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want to.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Can you answer that question?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“I know, but why do I have to live up to some standard no one else does? Just because of what happened to me?”
She rubs my back as I struggle for control. A few fat tears fall to the dusty ground, flattening into small moist circles in the dirt.
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I’m trying to be. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I don’t know, it just is.”
“It’s that stupid movie-plot thing, isn’t it?”
“That what?”
“All those movies where someone has a near-death experience? And then she realizes she always wanted to be a concert pianist or go skydiving, and the guy who teaches her to jump from a plane is gorgeous and slightly lost, and they fall in love and live happily ever after.”
“What movie was that?”
“You know what I mean. And I didn’t even really have a near-death experience, unless people thinking you’re dead counts as one.”
“You’d just go back to where it all started?”
“Maybe I would. Except for Craig. I might leave him out.”
She smiles. “I can think of at least one new thing you wouldn’t want to erase. One person, anyway.”
“Mmm, maybe not.” I fill her in on Dominic, Emily, Craig, the Christmas Eve photograph.
“So I guess that’s it,” I say. “Two men down in one night. I impress myself.”
She shakes her head. “You can be so dense sometimes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What you said to Craig, about not being able to go back, do you think it doesn’t apply to you?”
“No, I know it applies to me. But I guess . . . I wish that it didn’t.”
“You can’t undo what happened. Or turn back time.”
“I know,” I say, but in my mind I’m building my time machine.
Chapter 22: First Things First
The Dream again. Africa. The safari. The fire. Banga-just-Bob. The excitement of my fellow travelers, the exotic mix of meats. I wash my dinner down with large mouthfuls of the local brew, a brackish mixture of throat-stripping alcohol and something that smells like bark. It tastes awful, but the result isn’t unpleasant. Plus it has the added benefit of dulling the effect of my mother’s sudden ethereal appearance. Or maybe it’s that I’m finally numbed to seeing her like this, alive, well, and warning me against danger.
Only this time she says, “Look in the box.”
“Why, Mom? What’s in there?”
She brushes her hand across my forehead, pushing my hair out of my eyes like she used to do when I was home sick from school. “The answers, of course.”
The answers to what? I want to scream, but I can’t. I can’t scream at my mother. I don’t have the energy, only the alcoholic bark flowing through my veins, evening me out, making me care less than I should.
She kisses my forehead and turns, floating away from me like she has too many times before. I feel sad like I always do, but also, for the first time, a little hopeful.
If I remember this right, I’ll get the answers soon.
My mother said so.
Though it’s impossibly early, I wake up feeling hopeful. It’s strange because my head is throbbing with the beginning of a migraine and my mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on the inside of a twig, but I push that aside. Hope feels good. Hope feels right. Hope feels like just about all I’ve got.
I hold on to this feeling for as long as I can, lingering beneath the covers. But something gnaws away at it. Something feels . . . off. It takes a second to figure it out, but then I know.
I’m not in my own bed.
This bed is at the wrong end of the room. And these aren’t my sheets. They’re stiffer. Familiar, but distantly so, like they come from another lifetime. Like my apartment felt when I got home.
My eyes fly open.
I’m in Dominic’s room.
I can’t believe I did this.
Last night, when I got to the apartment, which is still full of Dominic’s things, I undressed and stepped into the hot shower, hoping the water would revive me like it did that first night back, when I was overwhelmed by confusion and loss and the familiar sights and sounds of my bathroom. I toweled off and changed into the most comfortable pair of pajamas I own. And then, because I was still feeling weak and confused and lost, I went to Dominic’s room and climbed into his bed, letting his smell lull me to sleep.
And so this is where I am. In Dominic’s room, in Dominic’s bed. Like an idiot.
Well, I can do something about that, anyway. I exit Dominic’s bed and remake it, making sure not to leave any traces of my weak moment behind.
After confirming what I already know—that there’s nothing in the fridge—I pull on some jeans and a fleece and suit up for the outdoors. I walk out into the dawn, heading for the local diner, which I know from experience is open at this hour. I’m the first customer, and I order the biggest, greasiest breakfast on the menu. It makes me full and sleepy, but instead of giving in to it, I order a second cup of coffee, forcing myself to wake up.
When I leave the diner, it’s brighter out but not quite light. I feel as if there’s somewhere I need to be, but I’m not exactly sure where. Unable to put my finger on it, I go to the office. That’s usually where I need to be when I feel like this.
The lobby is echoey and empty. The night watchman looks bored in his round guard station. I swipe my key card and pass through the turnstile, then ride the stainless steel elevator to my floor. I leave my coat and boots in the lobby and pad in my stocking feet down the corridor, creating a bluish static charge as I go.
It’s oddly peaceful being in the office when no one’s here. I used to come in on weekends all the time, looking forward, in a way, to working through my files with the sound off—no emails pinging, no phones ringing, no Matt. I could get lost in my own world and figure things out. An angle for a case I was working on, a line of questions that would elicit the admission that would eventually lead to a settlement or victory.
I stop at Jenny’s desk. The pink message pad is sitting next to the phone, a bottle of sparkly nail polish holding it in place. I pick up the pad and flip through it. In between the carbon-paper messages Jenny gave me is the evidence I’m looking for. Dominic called, Dominic called, Dominic called.
I carry the message pad to my desk. I notice a matching flash of pink on the floor. It’s the message from Carrie, Cathy Keeler’s assistant. It has her cell-phone number written on it, in case I change my mind.
I smooth it out absentmindedly as I look out the window. I stare at the view for a long time, watching the sunrise, tracing the pattern of numbers in the messages I never received. When the sun gets too bright, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind, to focus on what it is that drove me here, the thing that seems just out of reach. I let every bad thought linger, but only for thirty seconds. Th
en I push it away and reach for the next one. One by one by one.
Time passes and I run out of problems. My mind feels clearer, and I finally feel connected to my brain in a way I haven’t in a long time. Ideas start to take shape, a path to where I want to go, and maybe the destination too. I open my eyes, pick up a pen, and pull a pad of paper toward me, making a to-do list like the one I made before Christmas.
Maybe this time I’ll get it right.
I spend the rest of the day working, formulating, happy.
Yes, happy. I’m in a groove. My neurons are firing. All systems are go. I feel like I used to feel, and it feels good. This is why I worked so hard. This is what I love. This is what I’ve been looking for since I got back. I owe it to Matt, but also to Craig, which makes me a little sad but mostly grateful. Love can bring unselfish happiness to others. I’ve always known this, but now I feel it.
When a good day’s work is done, I head home. And of course, because my life is what it is these days, I find something I’m not expecting: Dominic’s been here.
I don’t notice it at first. There’s no extra coat on the hooks, no boots that shouldn’t be there. But there is something different, something about the air that tips me off. It feels less lonely than it usually does, even though I’m still alone.
I walk down the hall listening for him, but the apartment is silent. The door to his room is ajar. I push it open. The boxes that were lined up neatly against the wall are askew. OLD CLOTHES seems to have disappeared altogether.
I sit down on the edge of his bed, waiting for something, maybe for him to reappear, though I know deep down he won’t. And then, telling myself it will be only one more time, I crawl into his bed, drinking in the mixture of our smells until it lulls me to sleep.
On Monday morning, I’m waiting for Matt in his office. The sky is dark. Small, hard pellets of ice are pinging against the window.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Matt says as he hangs his fawn-colored coat on the back of his door. “What’s up?”
“I think I might’ve cracked something in the Mutual Assurance case, and I wanted to talk it through.”
His face brightens. “That sounds promising. What is it?”
I tell him as he settles into the chair behind his desk, rolling up the sleeves on his banker’s shirt into their customary union-negotiator position.
“So if you’re right, we have a case for negligence against the museum?”
“I think so. It’s kind of a big miss on their part.”
“How can we prove that’s the way the painting was stolen?”
“That’s why I need some help.” I tell him about the surveillance video.
“Who did you have in mind?”
“I thought I’d put the Initial Brigade to some good use.”
He smiles. “Are you sure they’re up to the task?”
“I can manage them.”
“I’m sure you can.” He drums his fingers on the corner of his desk. “You know, if you’re right, more people than just our client are going to be interested.”
“I know.”
“Why not pass on your hunch to the police? Let them do the work?”
I shrug. “The detective in charge of the case thinks I’m tilting at windmills. It’d be nice to prove her wrong.”
“And the Management Committee?”
I meet his intelligent gaze. “Them too.”
“All right. Keep me in the loop.”
“Will do.”
Matt smiles at me proudly. “It’s nice to have you back, Emma.”
“I’ve been back for weeks.”
“Have you, now?”
An hour later I’ve taken over one of the boardrooms and assembled my team. They sit scattered around the long cherrywood table watching me with a look of trepidation. I explain what needs to be done: I want them to watch the museum video footage to see if everyone who went in also went out.
They gripe and grumble, but I can tell they’re interested.
J. Perry puts up his hand.
“Come on, J.P., you don’t have to put up your hand to talk.”
He lowers it. “You really think the robber dude hung out in that box all night long?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but I think so. That’s where you guys come in.”
“So, essentially, you want us to watch hours of tape looking for something that’s not there, based on a hunch?”
“That’s right. You guys game?”
I. William shrugs. “Beats doing research for Sophie.”
Amen.
“All right, then. Why don’t you get started? Tell me if you find anything immediately. If you don’t, let’s meet here tomorrow at the same time for a status update.” I turn toward Monty, who’s doodling stars around the edge of his yellow legal pad. “Can you hang back a minute?”
I wait for the others to leave. “Did you get that research done?”
Monty shifts back and forth on his heels. “Yup. But it’s not looking good. If a landlord gets an expulsion judgment and the tenant doesn’t leave of their own volition, the landlord has the right to remove any property they find.”
“They don’t have to warehouse the property anywhere? They can just give it away?”
“Apparently.”
“Damn.”
“What’s this got to do with the museum thing, anyway?”
I gather together my papers. “It’s another matter a client needed looking into.”
“Sure enough.”
I walk away from his curious expression and head back to my office. Jenny follows me in, wearing a conservative (for her) navy suit. She tells me that Stephanie called, as did the I-won’t-give-up-until-you-agree assistant from In Progress. “And Mr. Bushnell’s lawyer called. He wants to schedule a date for the depositions.”
“Anyone else?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Are you sure?”
She gives me her innocent face. “Of course.”
“Listen, Jenny, I know you didn’t give me those messages from Dominic.”
She turns bright red. “I’m sorry.”
“You know how important it is for me to get my messages,” I say as gently as I can. “And it’s not like you to forget. What’s going on?”
“I didn’t forget. I did it on purpose.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“I was doing it for you.”
“How so?”
“You were just so totally sad the last time he called. I didn’t want you to go through that again. Not after everything that’s happened.”
My throat tightens. “I wasn’t that sad, was I?”
“You didn’t talk to me for two days.”
I wonder, briefly, if that’s true, but the days after Dominic called to tell me he was leaving the apartment are a little hazy.
“You have to give me all my messages, no matter who they’re from, okay?”
“Does this mean I’m not fired?”
“Of course you’re not fired. You’re the only one keeping me sane around here.”
She flashes me a bright white smile. “I do my best.”
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For . . . trying to protect me. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
She bounces out of the office, and I take a seat at my desk. Almost instantly, my email pings. It’s from Jenny telling me the dates and times that Dominic called. There’s a PS at the bottom of the email that reads: Are you going to call him?
I pick up the pink slip with Carrie’s number on it and add Dominic’s below, doodling a box around and around it until the ink makes a deep impression.
Are these numbers a path to peace or disaster?
If only I knew.
Chapter 23: As Per Usual
I’m at home working on the Mutual Assurance file, killing time until a late dinner with Stephanie. I’m going through the investigator’s report Sophie ordered on Victor Bushnell. It’
s not generally something I enjoy doing, but since he took the time to learn all about me, I thought I’d repay the favor. It’s fascinating stuff really, like seeing behind the curtain in the Land of Oz. Many of the details are in the public domain, of course, but others are not. Like the fact that Bushnell has a massive personal loan that’s guaranteed by the painting, and that he doesn’t have enough unencumbered assets to pay it back if the insurance money doesn’t come through.
The doorbell rings. I get up to answer it, rubbing the crick in my neck along the way. Our insurance plan covers ten massages a year, but I never manage to take advantage of it. I should get Jenny to book me one tomorrow. I definitely deserve it.
I open the door as Stephanie presses the bell a second time.
“Are we late for something?”
She smiles at me from the middle of her fur-lined hood. “It’s freezing out here.”
The air swirling in is freezing, at least ten degrees colder than earlier. I step back to let her in, then close the door behind her quickly.
She looks me up and down. “How come you’re not ready to go?”
I’m wearing a pair of sweatpants captured from Dominic’s OLD CLOTHES and a cream V-neck wool sweater I’ve managed to get yellow highlighter all over.
“You think I should change?”
“If you still want to go to Studio.”
“Right, I forgot. You wanted to go fancy tonight.”
“What I want is to dig into their old-fashioned mac and cheese.”
“Why don’t I make us some Kraft Dinner and save you the thirty-six bucks?”
She shakes her furry head. “Uh-uh. You agreed to go out, and we’re going out. You’ve been hiding in here for too long.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Whatever. Go. Change.”
I leave her in the entranceway and search through my closet for something that’s chic/warm enough for this month’s fancy restaurant on a freezing-cold night.
“What are you wearing under that coat?” I call to Stephanie.
“My wool sweater-dress.”
That means my wool sweater-dress is out. I stare at my half-filled closet. I really need some more clothes. Fucking Pedro. I can’t believe I can’t sue him. Maybe I should have someone a little more thorough than Monty look into it? No, no, that’s silly. I need to accept that I don’t have a case against him. Though . . . he doesn’t know that . . . I could take him to small-claims court. Maybe that’ll make him think twice before he does what he did to me to someone else.
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