What Maggie didn’t know was what Mia had for breakfast. If she liked the toilet paper to roll over or under. Whether she was lonely or happy or loved or in love. A thousand ordinary, poignant details that meant nothing and everything.
Maggie exited the internet and opened the phone app. “That’s her,” she said quietly.
Constantine let out a big breath. “Remind me: how did the other people who showed up on your phone die?”
“Elsa, the first woman, was killed in a hit-and-run. Carson, the second reminder, was killed in a single-car accident, supposedly driving drunk—”
“And now the third person on your reminder—”
“Mia—”
“Right, Mia, was murdered.”
Neither of them said anything. Finally, Maggie said, “Everyone who’s shown up on my reminder has died within a few hours of the time we’re scheduled to meet. It’s feeling less like a meeting reminder and more like…”
“An appointment with death?” Constantine finished.
“Right. Like…” She searched for the right words. “Like a digital hit list.”
“Oh my God.”
They fell into silence again.
“But why the video of Mia’s murder?” Maggie asked. “That wasn’t a ‘go kill this person.’ That was a ‘look what I’ve done.’”
“Bragging?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a warning, something to be documented and used to persuade.”
“Persuade who?”
“Whoever’s not falling into line. Maybe I’m seeing it because it was uploaded to the cloud.” Maggie’s voice caught in her throat. “Or maybe it was intended for me.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“You don’t think I have a right to be?”
There was a pause. “You do. I just don’t think that’s what’s going on here. I think it’s a proof of death or, like you said, something to be used as a warning. But not for you. They don’t even know about you.”
Maggie swallowed. “I hope you’re right.”
“Whatever it is, I think you should talk to the police. Tell them what’s going on with your phone. With everything.”
“I tried that. They wouldn’t believe me. In fact, because of this video, the police think I had something to do with Mia Rennick’s murder.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I sound like I’m laughing?”
A lab door to Maggie’s right opened. A tall man with an Abraham Lincoln beard emerged. He glanced at Maggie, nodded and headed for the elevator, head down as he studied his clipboard. Maggie lowered her voice to a shade above a whisper. “The detective who showed up—here at work, I might add—didn’t accuse me outright, but the implication was clear: I wasn’t just a witness; I was suspicious.”
“But if you just explained things—”
“They’ll figure out what’s going on? Ride to my rescue?” Maggie snapped. She closed her eyes, fought for calm. “I’ve tried explaining things to the police. They already have their minds made up. At best, I’m crazy. At worst, I’m a murderer. Remember, the video no longer exists outside of my memory. All I have to show for it is knowledge of a crime that only the perpetrator should have.”
Constantine released another gust of air. “So now what?”
“I say we go visit your friend at Reincarnated Phones. See if he’ll give us the name of my cell’s previous owner.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Maggie could hear Constantine changing ears, pictured him cradling the phone with his shoulder and chin. “How about Friday? I was going to surprise you and take you out anyway. We could do a telephonic pre-function.”
“Friday?”
“Right. The one between Thursday and Saturday? I scored two tickets to a concert featuring that horrible woman who cries and pretends it’s singing that you love so much. Show is at eight, and I figured we could go out to Zorba’s before so I can make myself into the cliché I’ve always dreamed of.”
“I’m so sorry, Constantine, but I can’t go. I sort of have…plans.”
“Plans? What plans? What could possibly depose me from the top of your People I Want to Spend Friday Night With list?”
“I guess I…I think I have a date.”
A pause. Then, “Oh.”
“Yeah, it’s this guy from work. Nice, funny, doesn’t say ‘supposably.’ You’d like him.”
“Sounds like just my type.” Constantine’s voice had gone quiet. “Is he any better than that rodeo clown you dated?”
“He was a bull rider.”
“Oh, right. What was his name again? Austin…Austin Tatious?”
“He only wore rhinestones during the rodeo. He was a great guy, by the way.”
“If you go for that whole tall and handsome thing.” Constantine sighed. “So, you’re going on a date.” She heard him tapping something. Anyone else and she would have guessed a pen. With Constantine, it was probably a Yoda PEZ dispenser. “I’m glad you found someone, Maggie. Someone worth dating.” He paused again. “That’s awesome.”
Maggie felt something tighten in her chest. “You don’t sound like you think it’s awesome. You sound like you’re waiting for a root canal or watching Canadian parliament on C-SPAN.”
Nothing.
“Constantine?”
“I’m here. And I am excited for you. It’s just…it’s been a long day.”
Tell me about it, Maggie thought. “Still picking me up for the funeral Sunday morning?”
“Yep.” A pause. “Have a good time on your date.”
Chapter 16
Detective Nyberg called her twice the next day. Maggie snuck into the hall and covered the mouthpiece when she took his calls, as if she were hiding an affair. The conversations were brief, perfunctory, questions already asked posed again in shiny new ways.
Maggie’s story stayed the same, simply because there was no “story.”
She began to worry that her coworkers knew about her interview with Nyberg. She imagined furtive glances by coworkers, conversations that stopped as soon as she approached and whispers around the water cooler as innuendo oozed under doors and around cubicle walls.
If word did get out, it would be enough to knock her rising star out of the sky. She decided to work harder, longer, more diligently, to counter any possible damage to her reputation and her job, whether or not the threat was real. The corporate anti-venom was always the same. Relentless workaholism.
Fortunately, Maggie had been in training for that her whole life.
Maggie spent her days sitting in meetings, racking up long hours in the lab, poring over files at her desk and occasionally flirting with Ethan at the coffeemaker.
At home, when the apartment and her mind were quiet, kaleidoscope images of Mia Rennick, Elsa Henderson and Carson Parks rolled through her mind, followed by Nyberg’s blank face and her father’s empty restaurant.
She tamped down fear, anxiety, the feeling that people suspected she was somehow involved in the death of the woman whose name and broken body flashed across TV screens throughout the city. Some nights she escaped her haunted thoughts. Other nights, she wondered again and again why she was sent the video. Had she accidentally intercepted an upload to the cloud, similar to the meeting reminders? Was it a warning for someone getting too close to the reason behind the deaths or the person responsible? Could it have been intended for her?
The questions were relentless, the fear exhausting.
When date night with Ethan finally arrived, Maggie was ready for a distraction. She was excited—almost as excited as Roselyn, who’d offered to help her get ready.
Within an hour of arriving, Roselyn had organized Maggie’s closet by color, style, sleeve length and fabric and was ironing Maggie’s selected ensemble with military precision.
“Is there anything
else you’d like me to press for you?” Roselyn asked hopefully. “Your curtains look mussed. And I’d be happy to take care of any tablecloths, napkins, sheets or—”
“Sheets?” Maggie said. “You iron sheets?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Roselyn asked.
“You scare me sometimes, Roz. You really do.”
Maggie rummaged through her jewelry box and selected a pair of slender gold hoops and a pendant of amethyst briolettes. She held them up for Roselyn’s inspection. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to be more gorgeous than usual, which I find completely depressing, by the way.” She tossed a purple raw silk slip dress to Maggie.
Maggie shimmied out of her t-shirt and a pair of shorts she’d created with pinking shears and slipped the dress over her head. The dress, the nicest she owned, was tighter than at graduation, when long hours of studying—and forgetting to eat—had trimmed pounds off her muscular frame. Now the dress hugged her breasts and hips. Maggie pulled it down past her knees and tried to stand up straight like her mother had told her.
“Well?” Maggie asked uncertainly.
“Let the heartbreaking begin,” Roselyn said.
Ethan squired Maggie to an intimate trattoria in his Audi A4, chivalrously opening and closing her door. It was the first time anyone had done that since Junior Prom. Normally, she had a thing against German-built cars (chalking it up to her father’s insistence on American steel), but the Audi’s smooth ride and surplus of creature comforts made her a temporary convert.
They were seated by an old Italian woman clad entirely in black whose silver bun was pulled so tight that her widow’s peak rode high like a headband. She handed the menus to them gravely, as if ordering an entrée was an undertaking that required soul-searching contemplation. Then she waited.
Maggie stole a glance at Ethan, who was trying not to smile. She felt the corners of her own mouth turn up and suddenly felt like she did during eighth grade history class, stifling a howl of laughter when her cousin Anne would provide golf tournament-style commentary on their teacher’s every move.
Now she’s walking to the chalkboard. No, she’s turned around now. Okay, she’s getting more chalk from her desk.
Ethan cleared his throat and asked the server if there was a special.
“Everything here is special,” she said in a heavy Italian accent. Offended, she crossed her arms over the precipice of her pendulous bosom. Ethan pursed his lips in an attempt to hide his widening grin. Soon both of them were shaking in silent laughter behind the wine list.
“I’ll come back,” the woman said dourly.
The food was as good as their server had threatened. Large servings of pasta, meat and cheese in various combinations. Rustic loaves of bread made spongy by repeated dips into olive oil. A bottle of Sangiovese, with a second up for consideration.
Maggie was thrilled she hadn’t spilled ravioli onto her dress, and Ethan seemed pleased—or perhaps stunned—by her hearty appetite. It was hard to tell between bites.
“But enough about me,” he said. “What about you? What do you think of me?”
She laughed. “Bette Midler quote. I like it.”
“I also do impersonations,” he said. “Want to hear my Pacino?”
“Hey, I’ve been working on Pacino, too.” She rolled her shoulders and assumed a threatening stance. “‘Don’t ever take sides with anyone against the Family again.’”
He winced. “My God. That has got to be the worst impression I’ve ever heard.”
Maggie laughed. “You don’t know a good impression when you hear one, but at least you have good taste in movies.”
“And in women,” Ethan said, his eyes holding hers. Maggie looked away, a flush creeping up her neck. For once it was pleasure rather than embarrassment.
After dinner they headed to the movies, settling in their seats just as the previews began to roll.
Maggie felt that familiar sensation every time a movie was about to begin. Anticipation, yes, but not only for the story to begin or the stars to appear but for the heady feeling of escape. For ninety-two minutes, Maggie could shake off the shackles of reality. She could live another life, be another person.
She and Constantine had begun going to the repertory theater together weeks after they met, when they realized they had more in common than a love for Mad Magazine.
Movies became their magic tree house. The place where they shared secrets and hid from the world. In the movies, schoolyard bullies got their comeuppance. Overbearing parents got lessons in letting go. The homely boy got the gorgeous girl. And orphans got a second chance at happiness. Everything was sterilized and sanitized and wrapped up with a sparkly ribbon and a host of merchandising opportunities.
Maggie sank down in her chair. Her cell phone was silenced, along with worries of would-be rapists and dead strangers. She was ready to be enveloped in the popcorn-scented anonymity of the theater and forget.
Except she couldn’t.
Sitting next to Ethan, their elbows touching on the shared armrest, the heat from his arm penetrating hers, Maggie felt the tug of guilt. Movies were what she did with Constantine. It was their special thing, just as their constant movie-quoting was their private language. Being there with Ethan felt like cheating. Yes, she’d been annoyed at Constantine. Angry, even. But he was still her emotional twin. Nothing could change that.
She concentrated on relaxing, and thirty minutes into the movie, her body complied. When the house lights came up, they squeezed their way out of the crowded theater and made their way to Ethan’s car.
On the drive to Maggie’s house, she learned that Ethan was a Virgo, had lived in Rome for two years working as an artist and volunteered weekly at two different organizations. He also didn’t know how to swim, but he did know how to cook.
Maggie decided he was the ideal man.
Ethan walked Maggie to her door. She had replaced the porch light with an eco-friendly variety, and Ethan’s face was masked by shadow, giving him a Sam Spade vibe.
He leaned in and gave Maggie a kiss. On the cheek. She turned her lips toward his. An invitation. He hovered above her mouth, their breath mingling in the hot evening air, then brought his lips to hers. They were soft and tender. And gone within a second. She had felt passion beneath the soft graze of his mouth, a building heat that seemed to emanate from him, but he’d held back. Pulled away.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said. “I mean, apart from hanging around the coffeemaker at work.”
“I’d like that, too.” She thought of her dad, stooped and frail. Then of Montgomery, large and gray. “But aren’t there rules against fraternizing?”
Ethan took a step toward her and traced her cheek with his finger. The heat had returned, stronger this time. “Is that what we’re doing?” he asked softly. “Fraternizing?” Before she could answer, he gave a small chuckle. “It’s okay. I promise. We’ll keep it on the QT.”
He gave her another quick kiss, then walked away. Ethan had been a perfect gentleman.
Maggie wasn’t so sure she liked that.
Chapter 17
Maggie woke early and filled her day with Saturday chores she’d put off for weeks. Vacuuming. Sweeping. The last of the unpacking. She even cooked, which involved a can opener, a box of Ritz crackers and some cheese.
At seven o’clock, despite unfinished chores and unread pharmaceutical journals, Maggie pulled on running clothes, soft and faded from too much washing. She locked the handle of her front door and headed toward the neighborhood park that marked the head of her favorite footpath.
Damn the to-do list. She needed a little me-time.
The park was deserted. The last of the afternoon’s sun glinted off stout trees, making the light look granulated, touchable.
Maggie placed her foot on the base of a tree and stretched her ham
strings and calves. She switched sides, her mind already down the wooded trail, the steady rhythm of each footfall scouring her mind clean of everything but the slant of light, the whisper of wind, the rock on the path to avoid.
Movement by a low bench near the park’s entrance caught her eye. Maggie raised her right hand to shield her eyes from the low sun. A car idled by on the street that skirted the park’s perimeter. A bird stalked worms at the foot of the bench. Eddies of wind lifted part of a fruit snack package into a tiny tornado, then spit it out. Situation: normal.
Maggie shook out her arms and rotated both ankles. Then she saw it again from her peripheral vision. A wink of sunlight. The sway of a branch.
Maggie walked slowly toward the bench. A few precocious leaves, too eager to wait for autumn, listed against her foot. She put her hand on the bench, moved a low-hanging branch that scraped against its weathered wooden back and peered into a small grove that stood sentry at the park’s entrance. A squirrel bounded down the branch, shooting past Maggie’s arm and across the top of the bench.
Maggie put her hand to her chest, gasped, then laughed. Stupid squirrel.
Maggie squinted at the entrance. Deserted. Even the worm-hunting bird had left.
She returned to her stretching tree near the wooded footpath. The trail suddenly seemed friendlier than the wide open of the park. Safer for all its dark, shady greenery. She took a deep breath and plunged down the trail and into the shelter of the woods.
An hour later, she emerged red, sweaty, exhausted and happy. She bounced up the steep, wide stairs of the apartment house and let herself in with the key she hid under the mat for the times she didn’t feel like carrying anything during a run.
She peeled off her Lycra tank and running shorts as she made her way from the front door to the apartment’s single bathroom, leaving a line of wrinkled, sweaty clothes behind her. Maggie rinsed off under a blast of icy water, then slid into an old t-shirt and pair of cutoff sweatpants she’d rescued from Fiona’s Goodwill pile.
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