I listened and waited but that was it.
CHAPTER 8
The door to the bar swung open. No Safie. A pack of suited men poured in. Ties loosened around unbuttoned collars below ruddy faces. Sweat bubbling at temples. This was not their first stop of the night. Hours later, they would crash into homes already pungent with the beginnings of tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meals, wives lying stiff and awake in darkened bedrooms. The din of the men swallowed the room—voices raised to shouts, a hand thudding a back. They pressed past, toward the bartender. Instinctively, I drew myself in, eyes lowered. Safie and I had arranged to meet at the bar of the hotel restaurant, on her suggestion. I was nervous about returning after my night here with the Mitchells. If not the scene of the crime, it was where it had begun, the hours here now cast with a sense of inevitability by the events that followed. What could have happened that night except exactly what did?
I watched the bartender pour the group of men their drinks, tall glasses of beer, a tray of shots. She was middle-aged, probably close to fifty. Bright smears of makeup around the creased lines of her eyes. The group cleared to a back room. One stayed behind; he shouted as they left, “Someone get Mikey to drink that water. I don’t want to hear about it tomorrow.” He passed a card to the bartender and turned to me. “He’s married to my sister. She likes to blame me for his hangovers.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
“Lighten up.” He scribbled on the receipt and crumpled his copy, leaving it on the bar. “You look like somebody died.”
He left and the bartender waved a hand behind his back, shooing him along.
“Another?”
I nodded and drained my glass.
Hadn’t somebody died, though? Somewhere, somebody had.
“Sorry,” Safie said, grabbing the stool beside me. “The committee meeting ran over. They had to wring out the last of our blood before releasing us for the break.” She surveyed the room. “This place is nice, right?”
“It is nice, yes.” I hadn’t mentioned I’d already been. “For Sawyer, definitely could be worse.”
“Things could always be worse.” She signaled to the bartender, eyeing my empties. “Looks like I have some catching up to do. You leave in the morning?”
I nodded. I had put off booking a flight until tickets were obscenely expensive, so I was taking the only cheap option left, early Thanksgiving morning. “My mother said the visit was so short she didn’t know why I was bothering.”
“That’s just her way of saying she misses you.” Our drinks arrived and we toasted. “It’s nice to see you. You’re looking good.”
“Sorry I’ve been M.I.A.—this book is killing me.”
“It must be. I haven’t seen you on campus in weeks.”
“I don’t know, I can’t focus when I’m there.” I was being truthful—campus had become charged with too much possibility of crossing paths with Tyler outside of class. I couldn’t handle the chance of it, not knowing how I would respond, not trusting my ability to hide my surprise and pleasure. But I also had beenavoiding Safie. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her, but I was worried that she would sniff out my secret. I had fantasized about telling her everything—I wanted her to help me hold this burden. But it was too risky. I just needed to get through the semester, get Tyler out of my class, and then I could figure things out. “How are you?”
“Alright, I suppose. I met with Susan—” Safie cut herself off; something was ringing. “I think that’s you. Want to get it?”
She pointed at my jacket, slung over the back of my barstool. It was my old phone. The one I used with Tyler; I’d forgotten it in the pocket.
I pulled it out—“T” flashed on the little window and the memory of our last night shot through me: Tyler facedown on the mattress, my hands pinning his wrists. His gasps muffled by the underwear I’d shoved into his mouth. My face flushed with heat and I hit the button to cancel the call.
“You’re still using that thing?”
“Oh. I just … I haven’t updated everyone.”
“Okay, Mark Lausson, carrying around a burner phone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were up to no good.” She took a slow slip from her drink and then asked, “Who’s T?”
“No one.” Shit. “Just some guy from grad school—” I searched my brain, I could think of no name but Tyler, and then, “—Tom.”
“Tom? I don’t think you’ve mentioned him.”
I hadn’t; he didn’t exist. “He’s not important, I have no idea why he’d be calling. Probably a butt dial.”
“Probably.” She tipped her head, a gesture I didn’t know how to decipher.
“Anyway,” I said, desperate to change the topic, “what were you saying?”
“Just about Susan.”
