“That’s good,” said Jack cautiously. “Doing alright after last night?”
Boris’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No,” snapped Boris, scowling. “What the fuck am I supposed to remember?”
“Well, uh, you were out in the woods.”
A snort. An eye roll. “Yeah, fuck no. I wasn’t in any damn woods. I was right fucking here, like I always am.”
“I’mprettysure you were in the woods,” said Jack, a little frantic even though he’d known better than to expect anything. “I saw you.”
“Don’t know what the fuckyouwere doing in the woods, but I wasn’t there,” Boris snapped. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Yeah, OK,” said Jack, holding up his hands, taking a step back. “Uh, just—Can you remind me of the date?”
Boris groaned, tipped back in the chair, and turned to the guest ledger. After a long pause, he said, “It’s the seventeenth. Need anything else?”
“Uh, no,” said Jack. “Thanks for your time.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Boris. “Go be creepy somewhere else.”
“Yeah, that was my plan for the day, actually,” said Jack, slapping a hand on the counter. “See ya later."
“Later,” Boris grumbled, gaze already downturned.
Jack stepped onto the street, heavy-hearted and lonelier than ever.
He milled aimlessly across town, staring up into the sky, wondering if aliens really could be responsible for everything wrong in his life.
It was a mistake to spend time withanyone, let alone Boris, who he saw every single day and felt he had something of arapport with.Of course,Boris wouldn’t remember anything. And while Jack had hoped that might be the case last night while Boris was vomiting and panicking, he would now give anything for the opposite to be true. Last night, they were friendly. Teammates against Jack’s curse and Boris’s nightmares.
Last night felt like a breakthrough. (The merememoryof Boris’s proposition had his hands tingling, his heart racing.)
And now Boris had no memory of anything, and Jack was alone in this stupid, eerie town, blanching at the prices of specialty candles and thinking longingly of home.
By mid-afternoon, he was exhausted. The sun beat down heavily and he’d sweat through his suit. Not that it much mattered. Tomorrow morning, it would be immaculate, as if fresh from the dry cleaner.
Maybe he could work on Boris. Maybe Boris would remember if Jack justtoldhim what had happened. But it would be cruel to remind him of the corpse, to force him to relive that trauma (if it were indeed possible).
When he returned to the hotel, Boris was on the phone, grumbling into the receiver. Reluctant to make eye contact after this morning’s disastrous conversation, Jack breezed past the counter, only stopping when Boris said, “Hey, three-oh-nine, you got a phone call.”
“I do?” said Jack. A little thrill ran through him, followed by a flash of disappointment. It was probably just Dan, eager to yell at him some more. “Who is it?”
“Dunno,” said Boris. “Some lady. You got thirty seconds, and then I’m transferring her to the room. You wanna know, you’ll be there.”
Jack bolted up the stairs and down the hall. He fumbled with his room key just as the phone began to ring.
Leaving the door wide open, Jack raced to the bedside table, snatching the receiver from its cradle with such force that it nearly flew from his hand. “Hello?” he said, heart in his throat.
“Good, you’ve answered,” said a voice. Smooth. Feminine. Disinterested.
“I have,” said Jack. “Have you been trying to get ahold of me?”
A laugh, short and clipped. “Come to the house on the cliff. 1380 Castle Drive. Come after three p.m. I’ll be waiting.”
A click. Dial tone. Jack stared at the receiver.
