“I paint dreams,” she says.
Her answer startles me a little, and I’m momentarily at a loss for words.
“How intriguing,” I say finally. “And do you still find time to talk to students about the connection between art and poetry? Melanie mentioned you did that during her years here, and she really enjoyed it.”
Alison hesitates as if she isn’t sure at first what I’m speaking about.
“Oh right ... And it was my pleasure to do that. As Plutarch said, ‘Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.’ But sadly, I don’t have the time to participate anymore.”
“That’s a shame. But well put, Plutarch.”
“Would you be interested in seeing some of my paintings?” she asks, cocking her head slightly. “You could come by my studio this week.”
In another life I might say yes, curious to see her dreams put to paintings. Not now, though.
“Unfortunately I’m only here for a couple of days, so I doubt I’ll have the chance.”
As Handler joins his wife, a waiter hands me my coat, and I quickly slip into it, eager to leave.
“Are you staying nearby?” Handler asks me.
“At the Cartersville Arms.”
“I hope someone has arranged a ride back for you tonight.”
“I’m actually going to walk.” It’s a white lie, but if they find out I’m planning to order a car, they might insist on driving me.
“Don’t be silly. Let us give you a lift.”
“Thank you, but it’s only a few blocks from here, and I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Alison interjects. “We live just over on Birch Street.”
Chapter 13
For a split second, I have this odd sense that I’m being teased, that she somehow knows the wordbirchhas been on my mind and she’s playfully riffing off it. But then I realize how absurd that thought is.
“Do you know the street?” Alison asks, obviously confused by my furrowed brow.
“Vaguely,” I say. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine getting back on my own tonight. After that wonderful meal, I could use the walk.”
I flick my gaze back to Handler. His eyes read curious, too, but there’s a tight set to his mouth.
“Good night,” I add, and hurry from the house.
Once I reach the campus gate, I lean, bone weary, against the stone pillar, trying to process what I’ve just heard. Jeffrey Handler lives on Birch Street. Meaning there’s a chance Mel’s haiku was abouthimand the backyard classes he held there. I’d already worried today it might have nothing to do with me, but this seems to be partial proof.
I push off from the pillar and dig for my phone. To my dismay, an Uber is going to take seventeen minutes to arrive, and when I try a local cab company next, I reach only voicemail. I’m too mentally exhausted to wait, so I decide to walk after all. It’s early still, and I’ll be near campus much of the way.
Before I’ve gone a block, though, I’m struck by how dark the street is. There are streetlamps, of course, but since the stores on the oppositeside from me are closed, and so are the administrative buildings at this end of campus, there’s little additional light.
And there’s absolutely no one else around. This, I realize, is the quiet, small-town darkness Mel found soothing but, in the end, doomed her.
As my body floods with dread, I slow my pace, trying to decide what to do. The street seems even more forbidding up ahead, but when I check behind me, I see that section is empty as well. I try Uber again, but now the app says the wait will be twenty minutes.
Just keep going,I tell myself. Though there are heels on my boots, I begin to jog along the sidewalk, looking, I’m sure, like a woman fleeing from zombies or werewolves in a horror film.
A car approaches from behind me, but instead of zooming past, I sense it slowing. I shoot a glance to the left. Though I can barely make out the driver, it looks like he’s turned his head and is studying me.
