When there’s only ice left in Lesley’s cup, he sets it down, delicately licks his lips, and pronounces, “That tasted like piss.”
“Yep,” Grant says.
Lesley frowns. “I thought you Bostonians loved this place.”
“We do,” I say.
He gives a curt nod and retrieves his phone from his jacket’s inside pocket. “Right, then.” After a few taps on the screen, he holds it up toward me and Grant. “What do you see?”
We lean in to squint at the phone.
“A book club Facebook group,” I say. The West Brompton Book Club, specifically. I scroll through a few posts, all quoting lines from books complete with thorough citations—author, chapter, page number, even ISBN.
“Ah, but look closer.” Lesley swipes through the page. “Where are the literary discussions? The arguments over which book to read next? Themy wine club has a reading problemmemes?” He pockets his phone smugly. “This, my friends, is an international murder network.”
That might just make the top five most bizarre things I’ve ever been told in a Dunkin’.
“That’s … quite a conclusion to leap to,” says Grant.
Lesley clicks his tongue. “Oh, come now. It’s almost too obvious. Thereisno West Brompton Book Club. All those peopleare fake. The quotes are fake. They don’t match up with the books they’re allegedly from.”
“It’s code, you see.” Lissa leans forward, bright-eyed. “Lesley cracked it after infiltrating. The page numbers are dates, the chapters are times, and the ISBNs are coordinates.Locations, hidden in plain sight. And what do you suppose happens at these places, on these dates, at these times?”
Lesley slams his hands on the table. “MURDER,” he stage-whispers, peering over his black-framed glasses at us.
Neither Grant nor I issue a response right away. Lesley picks up a jelly donut and takes a bite, waiting patiently for us to process. After a minute he raises his brows at us.
“Really? Nothing? Okay. Thought you’d be more impressed by that.”
“Shhh.You’re botching this,” Lissa says, lightly elbowing him. “We’re thinking this is some kind of serial killer support group. A place for murderers to show off to their peers and cheer each other on. Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Originally, these posts pointed to murders that had already happened—mostly in the UK. But then, things changed: The posts started indicatingfuturedates. They were pinpointing the exact time and location of murders that hadn’t even happened yet.”
“And they haven’t been popping up unprompted anymore,” Lesley says between bites of donut. “Group members are posting only after theadministratorhas tagged them.”
Lissa gestures impatiently for Lesley’s phone, then shows it to us and taps a fluorescent yellow fingernail on the screen for emphasis. There, right by her finger, is a tiny blueAdminlabel under a name:MR PAGE.
I have to be honest: if I were reading this book I’m trapped in, I imagine I’d be skimming this part. It’s not that Ipreferredbeing shot at in a speeding car. But at least that part wasn’t boring and giving me a headache.
I sit back in my stiff laminate chair, ready to move on. But Lissa scrolls a bit and wiggles the phone in my direction. “Notice anything familiar, by the way? That’s your post.”
My post?
Oh.Jack’spost.
It hits me like a frying pan to the head. With the catastrophes piling up over the last several hours, it’s been a minute since I’ve really thought about the attempted murder that started it all.
Just below Mr. Page’s tag,Jack Smith(accompanied by a stock-photo profile picture) has posted:
“Somehow, heartbreak feels good in a place like this.”—Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace; p. 228, ch. 22. ISBN: 423494-710783
I translate in my head. February 28. Ten p.m., military time. What I can only assume are the precise coordinates of my former favorite place in the city. And to top it all off, some literary bullshit to make him seem cool and deep, even among the most despicable company. Somehow, this infuriates me even more than the fact that he tried to kill me.
“Unbefuckinglievable,” I mutter, the word like flames on my breath. “That absolutedickwad. That’s not even fromInfinite Jest!”
Grant looks at me, surprised. “Have you readInfinite Jest?”
“No, but I’ve seen the AMC commercial that quote is from!” My voice rises on a crescendo of outrage that draws a few disapproving looks from fellow customers. I don’t know who I’m angrier at: Jack, for obvious reasons, or myself for falling for it all.
“Get it now?” Lesley asks. “Mr. Page is calling on murderers to share their next killbeforeit happens.”
