Ten minutes—who knew what this man could do to her in that time? “Clear about what?”
He came around to sit on the bench next to her, but some distance away. Put a folded newspaper in the large space between them. When Gretchen turned to look at him, he motioned toward the street with a finger.
“I don’t like being dragged into situations like this.”
“Dragged in? I don’t know anything about—”
“The girl’s dead.”
When she turned her head back toward him to object, he shook his head. Just once. It was enough. She returned her gaze to the street. “Well, I know that, but I—”
“I don’t like it. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Okay, fine. Great,” Gretchen said more testily than was appropriate under the circumstances. But she really had had enough. “I don’t want anything to do with it, either.”
“You don’t seem to be hearing me.”
“I am—but, as you can imagine, I have quite a few things on my plate at the moment and—”
“Lady, you hired us to scare her. And when we show up, she’s already dead. What kind of game you playing?”
“Game? I had no idea she was dead. How could I have known that?”
“I’ve got no fucking idea. All I know is that you got us mixed up in this shit.”
“You want more money, is that it?”
He laughed. Then he was silent for too long.
“No.” He picked up his newspaper and stood. “But if anyone finds out about our association with this situation, I give you my word: Cassandra, Elizabeth, and Becks will all be dead by the next morning.”
She needs to know. She deserves to. Is sharing the truth a little self-serving, too? Maybe. But it can be both things. Good for her and good for me. But it can’t comefromme. It would seem like I have ulterior motives, which I guess I do. But that doesn’t change the facts.
I love her. I know that much for sure. And, right now, that’s exactly as simple and complicated as it seems. Sometimes you can just know something, though. That someone is the one, for instance. She feels the same way. Deep down. All the rest of it, the things she does that don’t fit—they’re just theater.
We’ve been speaking the same language from the start.
When I see her across a room, her face bathed in light, she is the only thing that matters to me. Like today in the Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She sat facing what was left of that building, just sat and sat and sat. Staring at it with this far-off look on her face. I wanted so badly to go over and ask her what she was thinking, to crawl inside her head and stay there.
But not today. Not yet. This thing is going to take time. It’s a project that needs the right approach. A delicate one. But that’s okay. I’m a patient man. And I’ve got time.
Before
Frankie
September 10
It’s still early when I wake up. Though “wake up” is an overstatement. I’ve hardly slept at all. But a pale-gray light is pouring in through my windows. Morning. I can finally give up and pretend the long, miserable night never happened. Not to mention everything before: the Senator, the NDA, Noah. God—Noah.
And then there’s Richard’s text, the one I got shortly after Noah left.Can we see each other again? I feel like there are things I still need to say…
I continue to ignore the message. Or rathertryto ignore it. That’s a better way of putting it. I need to tell Richard about this second photo. Warn him that the Senator really does seem unstable, that he might tell Richard’s wife. Is there a tiny part of me that secretly hopes he won’t care because he plans to tell his wife himself—because he really wants to be with me?
Maybe.
Is that even whatIwant? It’s so easy to lose sight of your own feelings when you’re focused on trying to understand the contours of someone else’s.
I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen. Coffee. That’s what I need. As it’s brewing, I glance down the long hallway toward the back room—technically it’s the bedroom, but I use it as the living room, so I can watch the sun rise from my bed. No matter where I sleep, the railroad layout is odd and awkward and the apartment is small—compact front room, skinny kitchen, tiny backbedroom. The front door in between. But I love this apartment. It feels like the place I was always meant to be.
