“Good morning,” she says, and, “What can we do for you?” speaking in the first-person plural, though there is nowehere. She’s the only one in the room.
When I tell her I’d like to speak to the superintendent, she asks, “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
I don’t, of course, and so I say, “This will only take a second.”
She looks at me, asks, “So you don’t have an appointment, then?”
I tell her no.
“I’m so sorry, but the superintendent’s schedule is completely booked today. If you’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow, we can get you in.” She glances at the computer screen, tells me when the superintendent will be free.
But I don’t want to see the superintendent tomorrow. I’m here now. I want to speak with her today.
“I can’t do it tomorrow,” I tell this secretary, making up some sob story about my sick mother and how she’ll be going in for chemotherapy tomorrow. “If I could just speak with her for three minutes, tops,” I say, not sure what I think I’ll accomplish in three minutes—or what I think I’ll accomplish at all. I just want to speak with the woman. To get a sense of the kind of person she is. Is she the kind of woman who could kill another? That’s what I want to know. Would three minutes tell me this?
It doesn’t matter. She shakes her head empathetically, says again how sorry she is but the superintendent’s schedule is completely booked for the day.
“I can take your phone number,” she suggests. She reaches for paper and a pen to jot my information down. But before I can give it to her, a woman’s voice—one that’s surly and astute—comes through an intercom, beckoning the secretary.
I know this voice. These days, I hear it nearly every time I close my eyes.
I’m not sorry for what I did.
The secretary pushes her chair back and stands. Before she goes, she tells me she’ll be right back. She leaves and I’m alone.
My first thought is to go. To just leave. There’s no chance I’m getting past the secretary without resorting to desperate measures. Times aren’t desperate, not yet. I make my way toward the door. On the wall behind me is a coat hanger, a cast-iron frame with matching pegs. A black-and-white houndstooth coat hangs from it.
I recognize the coat. It belongs to Courtney Baines. It’s the same coat she wore the day she slipped out of Morgan’s memorial service and hurried to her car.
I take a deep breath. I listen for the sounds of voices, of footsteps. It’s quiet, and so I go to the coat. Without thinking, I run my fingers along the wool. I sink my hands into the pockets. Immediately my hand clasps down on something: Courtney Baines’s keys.
I stare at the keys in my hand. Five silver keys on a leather keychain.
A door opens behind me. It’s immediate and swift. There was never the warning of footsteps.
I spin around with the keys still in my hand. I don’t have time to put them back.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the secretary says as she drops back down into her seat. There’s a stack of papers in her hands now, and I’m grateful for this, because it’s the papers she’s looking at, not me.
I step quickly away from the coatrack. I fold the keys into my fist.
“Where were we?” she asks, and I remind her. I leave her a name and a number and ask that the superintendent call me when she has time. Neither the name nor the number belongs to me.
“Thanks for all your help,” I say, turning to leave.
It isn’t with forethought that I let myself into the Jeep. The thought didn’t cross my mind until I was standing beside the car with the keys in my hand. But it would be ludicrous not to act on this. Because what this is is destiny. A series of events outside of my control.
I unlock the driver’s door; I get into the car.
I search quickly, looking for nothing in particular, but rather insight into the woman’s life. She listens to country music, stockpiles McDonald’s napkins, readsGood Housekeepingmagazine.The latest copy is there on the passenger’s seat, mixed up in a pile of mail.
To my great disappointment, there’s no evidence of a murderer here.
I put the keys into the ignition. I start the car.
There’s a navigation panel on the dashboard. I press the menu button and, when it prompts me to, I direct the system to Home.
Not my home, but Courtney Baines’s home.
