Seven Lies (ARC)
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living room and a new one, from the wedding, in a silver frame on a
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ledge at the foot of the stairs. If they were gone, then I’d have known to 04
worry. There were things I had bought her over the years: a purple um-
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brella that was always propped against the understair cupboard, a pink
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pom- pom lamp by her writing desk, and a cuckoo clock in the down-
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stairs bathroom.
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I guess I hoped that there might be evidence of some change in their
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relationship over the previous seven days. It would have been nice, for
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example, to find Charles’s wardrobe empty, his clothes and shoes and
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suits all gone, and the magazines and bookmarks and flash drives miss-
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ing from his bedside table.
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I could imagine Marnie coming home and I, by then, would have
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been back in the hallway waiting for her. I would have pretended that I
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didn’t yet know, that I had no reason to believe she would choose me
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over him. And she would have been overcome by sobbing, confiding in
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me, and saying that it had never felt right with him, that he had always
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been just a little too controlling and sometimes too distant and thank
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goodness I had found the strength to be honest with her.
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But I didn’t go upstairs and I didn’t look in Charles’s wardrobe. I
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didn’t go into the kitchen and I didn’t look in the freezer. I didn’t look 22
at the mantelpiece, either. I never made it that far.
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Chapter Seventeen
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I
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n time, there would be pieces in newspapers that would argue oth-
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erwise. They would insinuate that I had manipulated the situation
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very carefully, suggesting that I had committed a perfect murder. But
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that isn’t what happened.
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I opened the door, but only very slightly, wanting to make as little
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noise as possible. I stepped into the flat, turning to scan the corridor
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one final time. I didn’t want the neighbors to see me and then mention,
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casually, at some point over the next few weeks, the young woman
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who popped by and let herself in. Thankfully, I was still alone. I shut
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the door quickly and I put on the chain. This, perhaps, was a little
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calculated. If they had returned, I would have rushed to grab the wa-
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tering can from beneath the bathroom sink and pretended that I was
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looking after the plants. Or perhaps I would have rushed to the kitchen
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to boil the kettle or started folding washing— something helpful and
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almost acceptable— so that they didn’t discover me rooting through
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their drawers.
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The lights in the apartment were switched off. It took my eyes a
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couple of seconds to adjust to the darkness. I didn’t see him straight-
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away. I didn’t notice him there at the foot of the stairs.
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I jumped and my back slammed into the door, my lower ribs catch-
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ing on the handle. I instinctively bent forward and my handbag slipped
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from my shoulder, the metal clasp clattering against the floor. I watched 02
as my things tumbled and rolled across the wood— a tube of lipstick,
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my purse, my keys, so loud as they landed.
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I wondered if he might be dead. I felt a strange sort of joy— a little
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excited— as though that wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.
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When I looked up again, his eyes were open. He was lying on his
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back, but his left ankle was twisted and his shoulder was bent at an
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awkward angle. There was a patch of dried blood on his temple and a
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small burgundy stain on the wooden floor. He was wearing pajama bot-
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toms, flannel with blue stripes, and a university sweater. I had never
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seen him dressed so casually.
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He groaned.
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I felt momentarily disappointed that he wasn’t in fact dead. And
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then that disappointment was overwhelmed by anger.
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Wasn’t it typical of Charles to still be alive? A fall like that might
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have killed someone else, but, no, not Charles. He was just too persis-
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tent, always there, never anywhere else, always so very present.
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He coughed.
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“Jane,” he croaked.
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He cleared his throat and he winced as the movement in his chest
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sent vibrations through his shoulder.
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“Oh, Jane,” he said. “Thank God.”
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I turned on the light and he blinked a couple of times in quick suc-
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cession.
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“I fell,” he said. “I don’t know when . . . I was . . . What time is it?
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My shoulder. It’s dislocated. And . . . I couldn’t get up. My ankle. I 27
think my back . . . Oh, you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here. My phone.
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An ambulance.”
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He furrowed his brow. He was confused. Perhaps because I was
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standing still, my back pressed against the door and the contents of my
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handbag pooled at my feet and doing none of the things that a normal
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person might be doing in this situation.
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I remember seeing Jonathan fly. The taxi stole his feet from beneath
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him and the force of it propelled him forward and onto the sidewalk a
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few yards ahead. I didn’t think about how to respond; I instinctively ran 03
to be by his side and crumpled down beside him, touching him, trying
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to quell the bleeding, find the breaks,
as though I had the capacity to
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save him. I wanted to climb into his body. I wanted to fix him from
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within. I was shouting at him— all manner of nonsense, the things you
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see in films— to stay with me, to keep his eyes open, not to worry, ev-
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erything would be fine if he could just stay with me, stay with me.
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But I was not rushing toward Charles. I was not asking him ques-
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tions, one after the other, about what went wrong and where was he
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hurting and what could I do. I was not picking my phone up from the
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floor or crossing to collect his, which was lying just a few yards out of 13
his reach.
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I was doing nothing at all.
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“Jane,” he said. His forehead was creased, his eyes wide and fright-
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ened, and he was bleeding again where he’d lifted his head slightly from
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the floor and unsealed the wound.
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“Charles,” I replied.
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“Jane, I need help,” he said. “Can you call someone? Call an ambu-
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lance. Or just . . . pass me my phone, will you? It’s just there. If you 21
just . . .”
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I should have been calling an ambulance. I know it now and I knew
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it at the time. There was a man lying on the floor, bones bent, body
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twisted, blood on his forehead, and it was very clear that he needed im-
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mediate medical attention. And yet I did nothing. It was instinctive. It
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was exactly the same involuntary response that I’d experienced with
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Jonathan, but it drove me in an entirely different direction. Then, I’d
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spontaneously tried to do everything. On this occasion, I did nothing.
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“Jane,” he said. “Please. I really need you to— ”
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“What happened after I left?” I interrupted. “Last week. When I
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left. What happened?”
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This seems strange, I know, but it does make sense. That was why I
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was there, after all. That was why I’d let myself into their flat. I wanted 03
an answer. I wanted to understand what had happened. I needed to
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know that things were going to be okay, that Marnie and I were still
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friends and that everything was going to continue as normal.
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“Come on, Jane,” he said. “I need help.” He grimaced. “Can you . . .
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If you just pass me my phone. Please, Jane.”
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I walked toward it and I kicked it away from him. I didn’t know I
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was going to do it until I’d already done it. It wasn’t part of a plan. I felt 10
like a character in a film, meeting her nemesis at his weakest moment,
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and it felt like the right thing to do. So I did it.
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“I asked a question,” I said. “Can you answer it, please?”
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“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing happened. Jane. Come on, now . . .
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This is madness. I think I’m concussed. What time is it? Jane. I don’t
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know how long I’ve been here.” He coughed and his body contracted
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and he gritted his teeth. “I keep waking up and then— Oh, for fuck’s
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sake, Jane. Yes, fine. Marnie was fuming, all right? She didn’t know
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what to believe and she still doesn’t, and I’ve explained my side of the
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story over and over again, but she’s still going on about your nonsense.”
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I smiled. I felt sort of vindicated. I had slightly exaggerated what had
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happened between us and it seemed that I’d been right to do so.
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“Go on,” I said.
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“That’s it!” he shouted, and then winced again. “There’s nothing
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more to it. She’s been hot and cold with me all week, and I can’t say we
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were expecting you this evening although I think I’m glad you’re here . . .
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but I don’t know. She was fucking angry, yes. With both of us. But she
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doesn’t think anything happened— because it didn’t happen, Jane, it
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didn’t happen— and she keeps bringing it up, yes, but I think it’s going 29
to be okay, all right, for both of us, but if you could just . . . We can talk 30
about this another time. I promise. We can talk about it. But please . . .”
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He started to shiver. I wondered if he might be in shock. I didn’t
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really know what that meant, but the paramedics and the doctors and
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the nurses had suggested it when I was waiting in the hospital for Jona-
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than to be pronounced dead.
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I crouched down. The wooden floor was cold beneath my hands.
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The flat felt different without Marnie. I had liked it the last time: the 04
lightlessness, the scentless silence. I had liked that it was hollow and
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empty.
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But Charles was ruining everything. With him, the darkness felt suf-
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focating. There was just the bright light above us, a harsh lamp glowing
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a dirty lemon yellow. There were no scented candles burning, no warm
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orange illuminating the room. It wasn’t empty. And yet Charles wasn’t
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enough to fill it.
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“We haven’t spent much time alone before,” I said. “Not without
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Marnie.”
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“Maybe that’s something we can do some other time,” he said.
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“Maybe,” I replied.
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I could see that the pain was getting worse. He was trying not to
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move and yet sometimes he was shifting involuntarily, when he spoke
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or when his temper piqued, and then his face contorted for a second
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or two.
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“How come you’re home so early?” I asked.
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“I really need your help,” he said. “Please, Jane.”
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“Didn’t you go to work?”
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“I had a migraine. I think that’s why I fell. That was all, Jane.”
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“Do you get them often?” I asked. “Migraines?”
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“Sometimes,” he said. “Every few months. Now— ”
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“I don’t think I’ve ever h
ad one,” I replied. I couldn’t hear the cars
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below. “You didn’t open the doors,” I said, “to the balcony.”
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“I’ve been in bed.”
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“You didn’t have the radio on?”
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“I’ve been asleep, Jane. Marnie went to the library to write up an
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interview and I stayed in bed. Jane, I really don’t feel good at all. I don’t S31
know why you’ re— ”
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“When will she be back?”
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“Soon,” he said. “I think. What time is it? I reckon she’ll be home
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soon.”
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“I’m not sure of the time,” I said. “I’m early.”
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“Why don’t you call her?” he suggested. “Ask her. Let her know that
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I’m here and ask when she’s back. She’s probably on her way. You want
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to see her, don’t you? Use my phone. In my favorites. Ring her. Now.
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Put her on speaker so I can hear her too. Go on, Jane. Or your phone.
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It’s just behind you . . .”
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I held my finger to my lips and he fell silent.
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I needed to think.
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I remember panic bubbling in my stomach, just simmering, the be-
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ginning of something that I knew I ought to be feeling. I remember
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taking a few deep breaths— as the policewoman had told me to in the
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hospital— in through my nose for six, and then hold for six, and then
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out through my mouth for six.
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It must have silenced my anxiety fairly quickly. Because I didn’t feel
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it again after that. I crawled across the floor, just a couple of feet, until 19
I was beside him, close enough to touch him. I watched his Adam’s
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apple bouncing in his neck as he mumbled and pleaded with me.
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He started whimpering and I thought he might cry.
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But then he got angry.
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Chapter Eighteen
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