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Seven Lies (ARC)

Page 21

by Elizabeth Kay

ane,” he said. “This is crazy. Are you going to help me or what?”

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  I shrugged. I didn’t know yet. I wasn’t planning not to help him

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  but I also wasn’t planning to help.

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  “You’re just going to leave me lying here in pain? Or— fucking hell,

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  worse still— you’re just going to sit there and stare at me? All because 16

  you think I groped you? Well, let’s work this back, then, shall we?”

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  I don’t think I nodded. I don’t think I consented to the barrage of

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  abuse that followed.

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  “Did I do it? Did I grope you?”

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  I could see that his vehemence, his animated rage, was causing him

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  pain, and yet he didn’t slow down, not at all, not for a second.

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  “Well, let me tell you this, then. I wouldn’t touch you if you were

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  the last woman in the world. I can’t think of anything worse. The

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  thought of it actually makes me feel a little bit nauseated.” He paused

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  and panted. “Or I mean that could be the result of my fucking head

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  wound, but it doesn’t look like we’re doing anything about that yet,

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  now, does it?”

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  He winced. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I thought he

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  might be finished, but he wasn’t.

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  “Did I say that I wanted you? Not a fucking chance. But how ador-

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  able. That you think someone might. That’s nice, that is. That’s nice,

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  right? To have that self- assurance.” He roared with the pain and then

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  blew the last of the air from his lungs in a brief burst before continuing.

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  “Well, let me tell you something else. You’re going to need it. Because

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  you want to know what happens next? I’m going to the hospital and my

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  wife will be right there by my side. And she’s not going to like hearing

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  about this. You are on borrowed time, Jane, so borrowed.” He made a

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  high- pitched squeaking noise, but it still wasn’t enough to stall him.

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  “So this is fine,” he continued. “Let’s wait this out. Because we both

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  know who wins here and it isn’t you.”

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  “That’s not true,” I replied. I felt sort of angry, but mainly agitated.

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  I wanted him to stop.

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  “Well, let’s just wait and see. Because I know what happens next,

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  Jane. It’s not even about you. It’s about me. This is my time.”

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  I reached out to rest my fingers against his neck. He flinched away

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  from my hand and then groaned, a sort of agonized growl, overwhelmed

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  by the pain. His cheek was so swollen, the skin stretched and shiny like

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  a balloon, his eye blackening and bloodshot.

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  I tried again and this time he didn’t move; he stayed perfectly still.

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  “Come on now, Jane,” he said. “What are you doing? Come on.

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  That’s enough now. Please.”

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  He was speaking through his teeth, deliberately holding his face

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  static, trying to minimize the pain. I could feel him vibrating beneath

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  my fingers.

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  “What are you doing, Jane? I need help. Can you just— ” He flinched

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  again. “Can you just take your hand off me? Take it off. Right now.

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  Come on.”

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  It felt sort of wonderful.

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  I look back on that moment and I don’t recognize the woman sitting

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  there on the floor with her fingers against the neck of an injured man. I 30

  don’t recognize her smile. I don’t recognize her eyes. She feels like an

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  entirely different person.

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  I stroked his neck with my index finger and then with my entire

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  palm. He was silent then and there was no more movement. I could feel

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  stubble sprouting across his chin, see the five- o’clock shadow cast across 02

  his face, the result of not shaving for a day or two. He closed his eyes. I 03

  could see his chest rising and falling, hear the breaths as he sucked

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  them in and threw them out. I ran my palm up toward his cheek.

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  I wondered if Marnie’s palm had been there, too, on mornings to-

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  gether in bed or during their first kiss. I placed my other palm on the

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  opposite side of his face and held his head steady. I inched my fingers

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  into his hair, feeling the film of grease at the roots.

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  “Please, Jane,” he whispered. “That’s enough. I’m sorry. I didn’t

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  mean the things I said. Let’s just— We can forget all of this. I promise.”

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  “I can’t help you,” I replied. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I just can’t.”

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  “Then go,” he insisted. “Just get out. I’ve had enough. Go.”

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  I felt a sudden surge of anger. Was I really— seriously— being thrown

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  out of that flat for the second week in a row? No. I was not. I was abso-

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  lutely not. Because I was the one in control and I was the one who was

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  going to make the decisions. No one was going to tell me where to go or

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  what to do or if I was allowed to be there anymore. And certainly not

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  Charles. He’d said his bit and now it was my turn. This was my moment.

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  I took a deep breath.

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  “I’m not going, Charles,” I said, very calmly. I didn’t want him to

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  know that I was angry. I didn’t want him to feel any more afraid than

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  he already did. “I want to stay,” I said. “I’m going to stay.”

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  I guess I must have known by this point what it was I was going to

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  do. I didn’t want to alleviate his sense of fear because of some undue

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  sense of compassion or empathy. I wanted him to feel less afraid so that

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  his final burst of horror was all the more intense.

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  “Fine,” he said. “Stay, then. It’s not as if there’s anything I can do to 28

  stop you.”

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  “No,” I replied. “There’s nothing you can do at all.”

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  He closed his
eyes.

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  This was not my finest hour. I don’t need to tell you that, I know.

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  And there’s not an awful lot that I can say in my defense. I simply en-

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  joyed watching him suffer. I liked that his shoulder was dislocated, that 03

  his right arm was completely useless, and that it was causing him pain.

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  I liked the sight of the blood on his forehead, the thought of him lying

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  there unconscious for hours, the idea of him concussed. I liked his bro-

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  ken ankle and his swollen cheek and his bloodshot eye. I liked him so

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  much better than I’d ever liked him before.

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  I held his head firmly between my hands, my palms flat against his

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  skin. There were tears seeping from the corners of his eyes.

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  You have never hated anyone the way I hated Charles, so I know

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  that you can’t understand how satisfying this moment was for me. I had

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  that giddy feeling, that drunk, wild happiness. It was something I had

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  never expected to experience around him.

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  I moved my hands a little and he groaned.

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  “Sorry,” I whispered.

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  “Jane,” he croaked.

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  I shifted onto my knees so that my weight was above him and then

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  repositioned my hands. He knew, I think. It was then that he knew.

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  I took a deep breath. In for six, hold for six, out for six. I looked

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  away and up the stairs, at the carpet runner, cream bordered by blue,

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  and at the wooden banister varnished a mahogany brown. And then, in

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  one swift movement I rotated my hands and I heard a loud crack and his

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  neck fractured beneath me.

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  When I looked down, his eyes were closed and he looked peaceful,

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  his jaw relaxed, his forehead uncreased; the pain was gone.

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  It had worked. I hadn’t been sure that it would.

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  01

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  Chapter Nineteen

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  k

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  I

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  swiveled around and I scooped my things— my phone, my house

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  keys— back into my handbag. I picked up the small gold key, the one

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  that had allowed me into this flat whenever I’d wanted, and I placed it

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  quietly— I didn’t know why I was being so quiet; it just felt appropriate—

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  into the little bowl on the side filled with a dozen other keys.

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  I turned off the light. I stroked my top over the switch. I knew that

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  it was highly likely that my fingerprints were everywhere in this apart-

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  ment already, but it felt right to be cautious. I unchained the door and

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  rubbed the metal carefully, pushing the fabric of my cardigan into the

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  grooves of the chain. I opened the door, wiped the inside handle,

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  and then let myself out.

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  I stepped into the hallway, into that puddle of darkness, and I pulled

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  the door shut behind me, listening for the quiet click of the lock. And

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  then, finally, I exhaled.

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  I moved a few feet down the corridor, toward the door to their

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  neighbor’s apartment, and sat on the floor, my back against the wall and

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  my knees bent in front of me. It was brighter there; it didn’t feel quite 28

  so frightening.

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  I took a book from my handbag and I opened it against my thighs. I

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  wasn’t reading— my bookmark was positioned several chapters further

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  forward— but it was reassuring to be pretending to do something. I

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  could hear the soft ticking of the hands of my watch as the seconds slid

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  slowly past. Marnie wasn’t expecting me, and so maybe she was taking

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  her time; perhaps she’d gone for a drink with a friend or was picking up

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  dinner on the way home or walking instead, making the most of the

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  sunshine. There was no way for me to know and so I simply sat and

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  waited.

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  Even so, I was desperately aware that Charles’s body was a couple of

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  yards away, lying dead behind their door. I could picture him— exactly

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  as I knew he was— sprawled with his ankle twisted, his neck twisted,

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  entirely dead. I struggled to make sense of my feelings. I didn’t feel sad-11

  ness, none at all. I didn’t feel satisfaction, either. I didn’t feel very much 12

  of anything.

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  I focused very hard on pretending that I didn’t know that he was

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  there. I was telling myself that I hadn’t been into their flat— I didn’t 15

  have a key, did I, so I couldn’t have entered even if I’d wanted to— and 16

  that, as far as I knew, he was still as painfully, permanently present as 17

  ever. I convinced myself of things I knew were false. I hadn’t heard any

  18

  noises from the flat: I rang the bell twice, but there was no answer and, 19

  as far as I knew, Marnie and Charles were both still out, he at work, she 20

  elsewhere: the supermarket, the florist, maybe even the library. I hadn’t 21

  seen anything: I had simply been sitting here, reading, knowing nothing.

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  No. Don’t smile. Stop it. Now.

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  It’s not like I don’t know why you’re smiling. The irony is clear; I

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  know that. But if you want me to continue with this story, then you’re

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  going to have to try to see these things from my perspective. It was a

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  rash decision, barely even a decision at all. I didn’t choose to do what I 27

  did. I simply did it. So don’t go dwelling on things like motive and in-

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  tent, because there was neither one nor the other. It was instinctive.

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  The question that you should be asking— and if you were paying

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  proper attenti
on, you would be— is whether, in that moment, I had any

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  regrets.

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  Well, I’m not answering that yet.

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  If you’d have asked it, I might have told you the truth. But you’re too

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  busy judging me, aren’t you?

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  Anyway. Where were we?

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  I was absolving myself— in a subconscious sort of way— of all re-

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  sponsibility, rehearsing my lie and pretending that the incident itself

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  had never happened.

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  I scanned the open page of my book, running my eyes over the lines

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  of black ink, absorbing none of the words, none of the meaning, as I

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  skipped between paragraphs. I turned the pages and studied the shape

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  of the letters: their curves, their bones, their breaks. I couldn’t tell you 10

  how long I was sitting there, filling the time with empty sentences and

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  stroking the lines of text.

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  Marnie eventually appeared at the end of the corridor. She was

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  wearing a raincoat, buttoned up to her chin with a hood pulled over her

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  hair and shopping bags hanging from her wrists. She was sifting through

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  her pockets— she pulled out a tissue and then an orange train ticket—

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  and then she looked up and saw me.

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  “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” She stopped a few feet from her door.

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  I stood up but stayed rooted in the glow. “Is it raining?” I asked.

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  “It’s just started up,” she said. She buried the tissue and ticket back

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  into her pocket. “I wasn’t expecting you. Have you been waiting long?”

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  I shook my head and then remembered greeting the doorman much

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  earlier in the evening. “Just an hour or so,” I said. “I finished work early 23

  and I had my book.”

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  “Are you . . . are you expecting dinner?” she asked.

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  She approached her door and reached into her handbag to find the

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  key to the flat.

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  I had been very calm, my breathing measured and my pulse consis-

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  tently slow. But I could feel my heart beginning to throb in my chest

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  and sweat bleeding onto my upper lip.

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  It’s important to say that I was not at all afraid of being caught, not

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  at this point anyway. I was aware of it as a vague possibility, but I was N32

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