Respectfully
Best,
Grant Hoffman
Stop stop stop stop stop
stop stop stoP STOP STOP STOP STOP
STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP
Best,
Grant Hoffman
“A haiku,” I say. “Nice.”
He nods. “There’s an acrostic, too. It spellsHELP HELP HELPdown the side.”
But that’s not the message that catches my eye. Instead, I skip to the last one, dated March 7—three days ago.
Listen, I’m a writer, too. I get it. You have a firecracker of a protagonist who is probably as thrilling to write as she is to read. She’s vibrant, funny, and sharp, and while she’s also chaos incarnate and seems to be so fearless that it’s borderline pathological, I’m sure you have plans to unpack that. But I’m afraid I’ll never find out because you’re going to get us both killed. Can you please at least reply?
Best,
Grant Hoffman
When I look up, I’m grateful to see that Grant is facing the water. My face feels like a heat lamp and it probably shows.
“I like it here,” he says, the light breeze stirring his hair. “I mean, you know. When it’s just a city and not the serial killer capital of the world.”
“Which isn’t often,” I say, handing him his phone. “Murder season runs March through February in London. That’s why all the movie villains are British.”
“Ah,” says Grant, nodding. “With a briefLove Actuallybreak for Christmas?”
“Of course.”
Our walk back to Lesley’s is a long one, made longer by several detours in wrong directions before we finally give in and look up the route. Still, when the house’s warm lights come into view, we hesitate to go inside. Maybe it’s because it’s such a nice night, quiet and unseasonably warm. Or maybe it’s because whenwe walk through those doors, we’re back on the murder clock, and we’d rather savor a last few moments of whatever tonight has been.
A lifetime of normal, Grant said back in Boston. It sounded bleak to me at the time. But if this has been an evening of normal, maybe normal can be nice. Even a little bit wonderful.
So, hanging on to normal a little longer, we decide to take advantage of having the keys to Lesley’s kingdom and go explore the private garden across the street.
“I’ve always wanted to sit in one of these gardens,” I say, settling onto a bench to admire the serene park. Its evergreen hedges buffer us from the surrounding streets, bare trees cutting spindly shapes against the town houses. “Ever since I watched Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts break into one inNotting Hill.”
“And?” Grant asks, sitting beside me. “Everything you thought it would be?”
I tilt my head, considering. “It’s nice. A little anticlimactic, I think. Not as fun without scaling the fence.”
He nods, the shadow of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That sounds like you.”
That last email he sent Anna Matthews whooshes back to me.Vibrant. Funny. Sharp.He also said I was chaotic and pathological, but still. A question that’s been gnawing at me since the bridge comes to the forefront.
“Why did you stop emailing Anna?”
He’s quiet for a second, studying the grass at our feet. “Well, first of all, we were about to meet her,” he says. “She wasn’t responding anyway. There wasn’t much point in continuing to try.”
I nod, not sure if I should ask the obvious question but unable to stop myself. “And second of all?”
