by Steven James
You must not let anyone see. You must not let anyone know.
As he thought about the signing tonight, Julianne spoke to him from the bed: “Read something about Emily. Something about the girl. Do that and I won’t bother you anymore. Do that and I’ll leave you alone.”
He didn’t want to hear anything more from Julianne, didn’t want to have her arguing with him, especially after he was away from the house and was in public, so he slipped out of the bedroom, left his novel on the table, grabbed his journal with the handwritten draft of what he was working on with Emily, and then hurried outside to catch the train that would take him into the heart of the city.
* * *
+++
Sasha MacIntyre climbed into the executive car.
She had on a body-hugging dress and wore a thigh holster with a 9mm Ruger LC9s. The options for a concealed carry with this outfit were limited, but that was alright. She preferred the thigh holster anyway because, even if she was patted down, most men who frisk women don’t tuck their hands on the inside of her thighs when they check for a weapon. It’s just too intimate of a gesture.
And that worked to her advantage.
She had a small tracking chip inside the heel of her left shoe.
Blake wasn’t waiting for her in the backseat of the car, but one of his men was. She’d been hoping that maybe it would be Mannie, but instead, it was one of the goons who’d brought Aaron Jasper to Blake yesterday, right before he shot him in the forehead.
“I’ll need your phone,” the man said to her.
“My phone?”
“Rules are rules.”
Somewhat hesitantly, she passed it to him. In return, he held out a sweating bottle of water.
“Thirsty?” he said.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Blake wanted to make sure you were taken care of. Have some water. It’s good to stay hydrated. Right?”
She considered her options.
The tracking device would be enough for Greer to follow if by some chance the water was drugged and she went unconscious or Greer lost the car in traffic. So, she reassured herself that this time, at least, she would not be venturing into Blake’s snake pit alone.
She accepted the water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink.
50
Christie turned sideways and looked at her profile in the mirror. “Well?” she asked her daughter.
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“He’s not gonna be able to take his eyes off you.”
For tonight, Christie had chosen the most elegant evening gown that she owned. Silky and the color of midnight.
“You don’t think it’s too much?”
“With that slash in the side of it, I don’t think you have to worry about the dress being too much.”
“I’m just wondering if—”
“No, yeah, I know. Seriously, Mom. You look great. Actually, you look hot, but it would just be too weird to say my mom looks hot so let’s just stick with great.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, so I heard this thing that in India they sometimes ask women: ‘You’re stuck in a castle and you can’t leave. You get to choose—you can either have one dress and a mirror, or a thousand dresses and no mirror. Which would it be?’”
“I’d take the thousand dresses and then look at my reflection in the castle’s silver candlesticks.” Christie spritzed a touch of perfume on her neck.
“Ha. That’s cheating. You have to choose.”
“Hmm. Then I think I’d go with the one dress and the mirror. What does that say about me? Vanity?”
“I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“You?”
“I’d take the thousand dresses, tie them together to make a rope, and climb down from the castle tower to get away.”
“That sounds like cheating too.”
Tessa shrugged.
Christie wanted to tell Pat about her diagnosis at dinner, but she was torn.
She felt the need to put everything on the table and figure out what the next step should be; however, she also wanted to simply enjoy tonight with no stress, no pressure, not letting thoughts of death and grief edge in on their time together.
And, of course, she didn’t want to lose it and start crying at a fancy restaurant.
So, there was that.
In the end, she decided that it would be best to play it by ear, see how things went and tell him only what she felt led in the moment to say.
Led by who? By God?
Is he really guiding any of this at all?
“And you’re going to that book signing?” she asked Tessa.
“Yeah.”
“It’s a school night. I want you back by ten thirty.”
A sigh. “In honor of your being home again, I’m not gonna argue, but give it time, and then I’ll be back to my endearingly obstinate adolescent self again.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Normally, Christie didn’t wear much makeup or jewelry, but tonight she borrowed some of Tessa’s mascara, then touched up her lipstick and found the turquoise teardrop necklace Pat had given her when they were engaged and slipped it on.
“What’s the occasion anyway, Mom?”
“Going home.”
“Don’t you mean coming home?”
“Yes, sorry. Coming home.”
Christie found her clutch purse and reminded her daughter to be safe.
“I will. It’s just a book signing. No big deal.”
“Yes. Okay.”
Then Christie headed out the door to hail a cab.
* * *
+++
Unlike the gridlike streets surrounding it, Greenwich Village has narrow, winding roads.
Christie mentioned to me one time that she’d read that the Village had been quarantined from the rest of the city because of cholera outbreaks in the 1800s while road construction was happening all around it. Afterward, they’d never corrected things, never straightened the roads out, leaving those distinctive serpentine streets.
Death had caused this corner of the city to remain anomalous and unique.
While thinking about that, on the way to the restaurant, I swung by a florist to pick up a rose for my wife.
* * *
+++
The man who’d been watching Timothy Sabian through the hidden camera in the novelist’s living room had planned to attend the book signing, but now some obligations at work were interfering with that plan.
He was also the one who’d shown up at the pier when Timothy was out there getting involved in some mischief by the trunk of his car.
Earlier in the day, through the video feed, he’d observed Timothy carrying Julianne’s body up from the basement.
It gave him an idea for a climax that would both be memorable and wrap things up with a neat and permanent bow.
It was time for some closure.
Time to move on.
It was just a matter of finding exactly the right victim to end on before killing Timothy, the boy he had raised until that monumental night when Timothy called 911 and told the police what his father liked to do in their basement.
* * *
+++
After her mom left, Tessa doodled in the church bulletin she was using as a bookmark in the Timothy Sabian novel Patrick had bought for her.
She turned the bulletin over to the empty space that was left for taking sermon notes and jotted,
I wish that I could paint the spaces
between the colors,
pronounce the silences
between the words,
bridge the gaps
between my thoughts.
I wish that I could touch the light
that threads its way through
the ever-present
rays of darkness
all around me.
The waters of this moment
rush over my head.
I drink in the truth
and find that it tastes
like tears
just as I suspected.
She slipped the bulletin back into the novel to mark her place, grabbed a quick bite for dinner, then, taking the book with her, she left for Timothy Sabian’s signing at the Mystorium.
51
From my experience, there isn’t necessarily a moment when you realize that it really is true love.
Sometimes it only occurs to you after the fact. After you kiss your woman, or you ease aside a trail of hair that has glanced down across her cheek, or you feel her take your hand and intertwine her fingers just so, in the way that only she does, and you realize, “I’m in love with this person. I am—and I have been for a while. I want to be with her forever.”
However, sometimes it does happen on the spot. A wink or an unpretentious smile, a spur-of-the-moment decision to steal a kiss, or a slow dance that goes on just long enough to speak its own language. It’s true love. Love at first sight. Yes, it happens. Yes, it does. It’s not just for the fairy tales, it’s for real-life lovers searching for real-life love.
For Christie and me, it was definitely attraction at first sight, and although it wasn’t love right off the bat, that was not long in coming.
When I’m with her, somehow everything becomes more confusing and clearer at the same time. It’s like I’m more confident but also more unsure of myself, both freer to be myself and more thankful to be entwined in someone else’s life. It’s tough to explain, but it’s also the best feeling in the world.
I arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes early and told the hostess my name.
“We have you down for a table for two,” the young woman told me. “We’re getting it ready now. Would you like to wait here up front, or shall I take you back?”
“I can wait here.” I showed her the rose. “Listen, if there’s any way, could we get this to our server so he can deliver it to my wife when he brings out our meal?”
She accepted it to take to the back and smiled warmly. “You are such a romantic. Your wife is a lucky woman.”
* * *
+++
Carrying the Timothy Sabian novel, Tessa entered the bookstore.
She’d been to the Mystorium so often that she could’ve probably worked here if she’d wanted to. She knew all the nooks and crannies of the sprawling, labyrinthine store and had even had to watch the cash register for Rebekah a few times when she went into the back room to get more cash or rolls of receipt paper.
Already, there were two dozen people or so packed into the largest space available. Rebekah was setting up folding chairs.
Tessa asked if she needed a hand.
“I should be good. I’m almost done. So, have you ever heard him speak before?”
“No. Actually, this is the first book signing I’ve ever been to.”
“Oh, well, we’ve only had him here once before. If it’s anything like last time, he’ll probably read a little from his work in progress, do a Q and A, and then sign.” Rebekah paused, and her eyes lit up slightly, but just enough for Tessa to notice. “It’s really good to have him back.”
A tiny smile. “Are you crushing on this guy?”
Rebekah cleared her throat. “Never.”
“Uh-huh.”
When Rebekah glanced at the pile of novels on the table up front, Tessa felt vaguely guilty that she hadn’t purchased her book here. She started an apology: “I guess I shouldn’t have brought this in. I should’ve bought one from you.”
Rebekah waved that off. “Totally fine.”
Tessa found a seat in the back and waited for Timothy Sabian to come in.
* * *
+++
Timothy emerged from the subway tunnel.
Do not scratch your arm, he reminded himself. Just read a little bit about Emily, sign the books, and get back home.
Social anxiety. Brain fog. Scattered thinking. All of it. It’s happening to you. It’s permanent.
“No,” he told the voice. “We have a choice. We always have a choice. We can fight it. We can win.”
From here, it was less than a five-minute walk to the bookstore.
* * *
+++
When Christie stepped out of the taxi, she took my breath away.
She wore an elegant black evening gown with a slit that revealed just enough of her willowy leg to be a distraction to me but yet still remain appropriate for a good conservative Baptist girl to wear in public.
Well, okay, maybe not that last part.
When she saw me walking out to meet her, she smiled demurely.
“You look stunning,” I told her. “Every guy in this restaurant is going to be jealous of me.”
She blushed. Shy with a touch of sly. “You look quite fetching yourself, Dr. Bowers.”
“Thank you.”
I took her hand to lead her inside.
“I told you I’d come up with a tongue twister for tonight,” she said.
“Okay, do you have one?”
“Check test texts. Try it. Five times fast.”
I started but fumbled after just two attempts. “That’s a good one. You go.”
She did it. No hesitation. Amazing.
“You’ve been practicing,” I said.
“Maybe,” she told me elusively.
I made a valiant attempt at the “extinct insects” twister I’d shared with her earlier in the day but managed to flub it up epically.
“You’ll get there,” she said.
Inside the restaurant, our server directed us to a table near the back, in a secluded corner away from the main dining area. Candlelight. Linen napkins. Elegant wine flutes. Way too many pieces of silverware for me to be able to use in a single meal. The whole deal.
I pulled the chair out for Christie, and she took a seat. “Was it hard to get a table here?” she asked.
“Not when you know the right people.”
“Impressive. Mr. Connected.”
“Just one of my many fine talents.”
“Hmm. And is another one of them being humble?”
“Absolutely.”
When the server brought the wine list, I wondered at first if they’d accidentally printed an extra zero after each of the prices. I said to Christie, “Whatever you want tonight, go for it. Let’s make this special.”
Our server’s eyes lit up, and he directed her attention to the bottom of the list, which he definitely did not need to do. However, she didn’t take his advice and chose one instead from the middle of the list, a 2006 Vina Cobos Marchiori Vineyard Malbec from Perdriel, Argentina.
“Bottle or glass?” the server, whose name tag read BENJAMIN, asked.
“Bottle,” I said.
Benjamin gave a pleased nod, and as he returned to the kitchen, Christie said, “Are you sure?”
“We don’t do this enough. Just the two of us. It’s been too long. Now, tell me about your weekend.”
52
The people milling around the Mystorium settled into their chairs.
The crowd had grown since Tessa had taken a seat, and Rebekah had run out of folding chairs. Tessa gave up her chair to a gray-haired lady who looked a little unsteady on her feet and kind of reminded her of Patrick’s mom, whom she’d met a couple of months ago at the wedding.
“Are you sure, young lady?”
“Yeah. No problem. I promise.”
As Tessa went to stand in the back, a man entered the bookstore, and she recognized him right away from the photo on the back flap of his book jacket as Timothy Sabian. He didn’t look a ton older than her, though she knew f
rom the author bio in the book that he was in his late twenties.
Okay, yeah, he was cute. Too old, probably. No—definitely too old. But still cute.
No wonder Rebekah had a thing for him.
The people in the audience smiled at him and whispered to each other as he passed.
“That’s him,” the woman two rows up from Tessa said admiringly to the man beside her.
Tessa wondered what it would be like to be famous like that, even in just a little corner of the world.
Probably flattering and annoying—both—at the same time.
You want the solace of privacy but can’t find it, and your fame gets in the way of every friendship you have because you could never really know what the friendship is based on—a desire to be with you or to be seen with you.
Rebekah spoke briefly with Timothy, then led him to the table up front and welcomed everyone to the signing. “So, I’m super-excited that we have an amazing author with us tonight. I’ve read all of his books, and if you haven’t read them, you’re gonna love ’em. Seriously, they’re fabulous. Timothy Sabian has written seven bestselling novels, all of which have appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. He’s imaginative, provocative, brilliant, and knows how to send a chill down your spine, and I’m glad to introduce him to everybody here. Please give a big hand to Timothy Sabian.”
* * *
+++
Sasha eased out of the executive car and looked around.
She felt slightly off center, somewhat unsteady on her feet, and guessed that her water had indeed been laced with something.
The sporadic exterior lights revealed that the property held five expansive greenhouses and what appeared to be an office building. Through the glass of the greenhouses, she could see that one of them was filled with mannequins.
What’s going on here?
“Blake’s waiting for you inside.” Her driver pointed toward the office building. “You first.”
He didn’t pat her down. Didn’t even bother.
