by Alona Jarden
Officer Grimes’ eyes remained focused on me the whole time. I assumed he was the bad or the stupid cop between them and made a note to myself not to act clever. Certainly not in front of him.
"Mr. Costa, can you tell me what Ms. Briggs' regular coffee order is?" Officer Swenson continued to interrogate me.
"Who's order?" Once again I pretended, but it seemed to be taking it a step too far.
"You know very well who we're talking about, Andrew. There's no reason to hide the fact that you had a special relationship with Ms. Briggs."
"A special relationship?" I looked around at my co-workers and wondered which of them had decided to turn his accusing finger toward me.
"Yes, I notice you're looking around, so I'll gladly tell you that I talked to your co-workers and got the impression that you had a special relationship with Ms. Briggs."
For a second there I got startled by her ability to analyze the expression on my face. I was impressed and filled with the fear that she could read my mind too easily.
It was easier for me to sit calmly in front of her and pretend when I was the only one who could successfully perform psychological analysis, but it seemed that Officer Swenson was no fool.
"Kate's regular order is a big, weak, latte with soy milk." I smiled as I remembered how glad I always was to see her every morning. "To go, please," I added, mimicking Katarina's condescending tone.
"I understand," Officer Swenson wrote again in her notebook.
"Can I ask if something happened to her?"
"Only if you explain why you're asking that," Officer Grimes quickly demanded in a low, bass voice.
"Because she hasn’t been here for several days and two officers just showed me a picture of her, asking me about the nature of my relationship with her."
"Mr. Costa," Officer Swenson ignored my reply, "Would it be correct to say that you took a liking to Ms. Briggs?"
"Um... I... I mean..." I tried to mimic a young man that was in love with one of his clients in secret. "I guess you could say that, yes."
"Did you believe these feelings were mutual?"
"Mutual?" I chuckled in frustration, "No, she didn’t even know my name."
"She didn’t?"
"No."
"Is there a reason you just used the past tense to talk about her?"
"What? Hold on, wait just a minute. What's going on here? Am I under arrest or a suspect of something?"
"Not yet, Mr. Costa."
"Is this the stage where I'm supposed to ask for a lawyer?"
"Why? Did you do something wrong?" Officer Swenson slightly lowered her chin and stared at me.
"Me? Did I do something wrong? I don’t even understand what is happening here and what I am really being asked about. I just got to work, guys, what the hell is going on?"
"Okay," she answered indifferently, and went back to writing in her notebook.
I used the few minutes of silence to feign being troubled and restless, as a man of low education who worked as a barista and was being interrogated by the police would act.
"Tell me, Mr. Costa, what car do you drive?" she radically changed the subject.
"Toyota."
"What color, model, year?"
"I drive a Toyota Corolla, white, two thousand and eight model. Why?"
"Is that car here with you today?"
"Sure. It's parked just around the corner."
"Very well." She made a few more notes before turning back to look at me. "Mr. Costa, do you know where Ms. Briggs is?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, how would I know? The relationship you are implying I have with her begins and ends there," I gestured to the front door and exhaled, mimicking frustration.
"Tell me, Mr. Costa, why did you refuse to tell Ms. Briggs your real name?"
"Um..." I looked around again, wondering which of my colleagues I would have to thank for his contribution to my being investigated. "I didn’t refuse, it. It all started as a joke."
"I don’t get it. Can you explain to me why that's funny?"
"I met Kate on my first day working here. The manager didn’t have a name tag with my name on it so she asked me to put on a different one."
"So far, not funny." She smiled at me.
"Kate was quick to greet me and welcome me as if the place belonged to her."
"Carry on…"
"She told me how pleasant and nice it was to work in this branch and promised she would come to visit every morning."
"And…?"
"And she said she would order exactly the same thing, before she called me by the name that was written on the misleading label attached to my shirt."
"And have you corrected her?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I thought it would be a good way to create some mystery between us. You know how women like mystery." I was disgusted with myself and the primitive speech style I had to adapt.
"Women don’t like mystery, Mr. Costa. Women love honesty."
"Look, Officer Swenson, I did tell her it wasn’t my name, but I also added that if she really would come back to visit me every morning, she would have more opportunities to guess it right."
"Why did you do that?"
"I wanted to see her again. The picture you showed me is... It doesn’t do her justice. Kate is an amazingly beautiful woman."
"And did that amazingly beautiful woman manage to guess your name eventually?"
"No," I smiled, pleased with myself.
"So at this very moment, she still doesn’t know your real name?"
"That’s correct. But I didn’t hurt her in any way, if that's what you're trying to find out."
"I understand." Again, she buried her face in her notebook and wrote down the main details of my replies before going on with her investigation.
Officer Swenson kept asking me more and more questions and Officer Grimes kept staring at me, almost without blinking.
"Mr. Costa, if you remember any another detail about Ms. Briggs' whereabouts, I would be happy if you contacted me." She placed her business card on the table and added, "Also, I would request that you don’t leave town in the near future, Mr. Costa." With that, they both left.
As soon as the front door closed behind them, whispers began to sound and my co-workers shared what they knew with me.
One of them said she’d heard that Katarina had been kidnapped and a different one said she’d actually heard they’d found her body on the side of the road. I tried to express my shock and worry for her safety as each piece of information was shared with me, especially since I not only knew where she was, I also knew she was waiting for me to return.
"I just don’t understand why they spoke like that with me," I confessed to the shift supervisor. "Why me?"
"They sat briefly with each of us, Andrew." She broke her eye contact with me and continued, "But you have to admit, in recent months, out of all of us, you had an actual relationship with her."
"That's true, but are you saying that having a good relationship implies that I'm somehow involved in her disappearance?"
"That's not what I'm saying," she went on, with half her body turned away from me and without looking into my eyes.
"She's too ashamed to talk to you, Andrew," one of the cleaners waved his accusing finger at me, "But I'm not. I'm gonna say aloud that I think you killed her."
"What?" I called to him in amazement.
"Stop, come on!" the shift supervisor intervened.
"Sorry, but that's what I think. I know a psychopath when I see one, and that's how one looks." Again, the tip of his finger was pointed at me.
"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke. I don’t want to have to deal with such baseless claims."
"Would you rather I say these things behind your back? Sorry Andrew, but that's what I think. I think you did something to her."
"Why would you think that?"
"Because of..."
"Hold on!" I interrupted. "
Was it you? Are you the reason they sat with me like that?" I tried to keep my cool.
"I'm just doing my civic duty, Andrew."
"You're absolutely crazy to think that of me. You know me! I couldn’t hurt a fly."
"All I know is that the way you looked at Kate always seemed strange to me and that's what I told the police."
"Well then, you're wrong."
"I might be the only one brave enough to say this to your face, but you should know that I wasn’t the only one talking freely and raising suspicions about you to the police."
"What? What do you mean?"
"Um… Andrew." The shift supervisor took a deep breath before joining our conversation again. "I also noticed the change in you every time Kate came in."
"Well, I'm not going to hide the fact that I have a crush on her." I made sure I talked about her in the present tense, as I forgot to do with the policewoman, "but you're all crazy. Do I look like someone who could commit this type of crime?"
The conversation didn’t go on, at least not on their part.
I spent a few more minutes throwing questions into the air, but they remained unanswered, so I waited impatiently for the shift to end while the time passed in awkward silence.
The employees that once were my friends avoided making any eye contact with me and I couldn’t for the life of me tell whether they were suspicious or whether they felt guilty for pointing their shameless fingers at me.
At last, the longest shift in the world came to its end.
I got into my car and started driving back to the cabin with a sigh of relief for I hadn’t lied to my co-workers about my feelings for her.
I drove on and felt as though my car was in sync with my heart. They both wanted to get back to Katarina as soon as possible.
Chapter 18
Kate
All I knew was that the last thing I wanted was for him to go.
It was so strange to eat breakfast with him and then send him to his daily routine while I waited for his return, as if I was his loving wife or something of some sort.
Damn him. He should have stayed. We had so much more to reveal and my time with him was limited, if not to say borrowed.
A variety of pencils and crayons were waiting for me on my bed, and in the corner of the room, next to the window, stood an easel that hadn’t been there before. I wondered if he had more surprises for me and whether I would love them as much as I liked the one he’d prepared that morning.
"I'm supposed to combine two of my answers in a drawing," I said aloud to myself in a dismissive tone. "I have a mission for you, Kate," I mimicked his style in the most inaccurate way and laughed at myself.
I placed my finger on my lips and a shiver of longing for his touch passed through my body. The slow and agonizing pace he’d set for us and the sense of helplessness were too great to bear.
"Let's see what you're making me feel." I put one of the sheets of paper on the easel and wondered if I would really be able to draw something worthy of it.
"Well? What do you say? Do you know me? Have we met before?" I spoke to it without expecting to be answered and, indeed, as expected, I received no response.
Just two days earlier, when Andrew had asked me those ten questions for the first time, I’d known beyond a shadow of a doubt that I couldn’t draw. But, the next day, looking at the sketches he’d placed in my hand, it felt like drawing was an undeniable part of me.
It was clear that both answers couldn’t be true, as they contradicted each other. I could only hope that one look at the white paper would help me realize which was the correct one. I could feel the desire to create suddenly start to burn inside me, but nothing else happened.
Standing in front of that easel didn’t feel familiar and, to be honest, I actually didn’t know what to do with myself.
Having no choice, I picked up one of the drawing pencils, blew lightly on its tip as if I'd always done that, and went back to looking at the blank paper sheet.
"Well, come on. Talk to me," I begged it, but still didn’t feel like drawing. Instead I was filled with frustration.
I was no longer able to run away from my feelings, claiming it was all bullshit. I already knew that drawing had been a part of my life but, for some reason, I didn’t feel it. It felt like I wanted to sketch, but when I stood in front of that easel, it felt strange and different and I couldn’t understand why.
"Agh!" I shouted through my nerves and kicked the wooden legs of the easel. It fell to the ground with a loud bang and the sheet of white paper flopped slowly, floating from side to side in the air until it landed on the parquet floor beneath me.
I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to take another step in the process of uncovering the details that I had forgotten and quickly left the room.
I went to the kitchen, which was clean and sparkling, and wondered what I could do to pass my time until Andrew came back.
He’d asked me to make no effort except with drawing, but not only had I failed to implement his request, the frustration I experienced from my failed attempt kept me even further away from my goal and prevented me from wanting to try again.
I opened the kitchen cabinets and then the drawers one by one. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but I knew I had a lot more to find in that cabin.
"Where are you hiding your most kept secrets, Andrew?" I kept on talking loudly, perhaps to minimize the sense of loneliness that had started to fill me. "Where did you put this intriguing shoebox?"
I spent about an hour and a half searching for that fucking shoebox before considering the possibility that perhaps he had taken it with him. In its place, I found more sheets of paper and drawing tools, a guitar and some other sketches I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t find what I was looking for.
Once I got tired of poking around the cabin, I thought about doing something special for him, something that would make him happy when he returned. However, I tried to remind myself that not only were we not in a romantic relationship, but I wasn’t even interested in developing one with him. All we’d done was share a little kiss, where the giver was an idiot who hadn’t respected the limits set for him and the recipient was a coward pretending to be asleep even though she wanted to pull him closer to her and experience some more of his indulgent touch.
"Hmm..." I went back to my room in a desperate reach to escape the boredom waiting for me outside and looked at the smooth paper lying on the parquet floor.
I stood over it and, suddenly, it looked different. Suddenly, another sensation filled me and all I’d thought would happen when I tried to draw, actually did.
"Well, this feels more familiar," I said hesitantly as I sat down on the floor beside the white sheet. "I'm willing to try and draw like this." I grabbed the drawing pencil again, blew on its tip, and let it slide freely, taking out everything that was burning inside of me.
I wasn’t thinking of the task he’d given me and, in fact, I didn’t think of anything at all. One line joined its predecessor and I was surprised when, half an hour later, my father's face flowed out from my fingers in a beautiful, precise sketch.
"I miss you," I said aloud to his beautiful eyes and wondered if it would be right to try and contact him. I thought I might just let him know that I wasn’t in any danger and that I was fine, but even if I decided to do so, I didn’t know how.
The stages of Andrew's plan brought back memories of the other life I hadn’t known I had lived, but it didn’t erase the life that I had.
I remembered well that my father had never done anything but take care of me and make sure I was missing nothing. He actually abandoned any attempt to build himself and had dedicated his life to fulfilling my dream of becoming a doctor. He’d invested all of himself in me and, sometimes, I felt that I owed my life to him and that I would never be able to repay him for all that he'd done.
He must have gone mad with worry for me.
I detached my father's sketch from the sketchbook, picked it up, and lo
oked at it, eye to eye. I stroked his forehead, smiled at him, and hoped that in a few days I could be in his embracing arms again.
My eyes wandered down to a smooth, clean, new sheet awaiting me. It was the one I had pulled out initially, only to realize the mistake I had made as I stood helplessly in front of the easel. I grabbed the pencil again, blew at it, as I had done when I was a little girl, and went back to drawing while squatting on the floor, as I’d used to do, as felt familiar to me.
Standing in front of that easel gave me no sense of identity, for I hadn’t drawn like that in the past. Only when I sat on the floor and let my mind go wild did I forget about the task that had been given to me and the sketch grew again into a new image.
I pulled a line that closed the contours to the lips that had been burned in my head, then rubbed it using a thick pencil and my thumb to give volume and depth with skill and precision. I replaced one pencil with another and changed the angle of my seated posture. I almost didn’t notice when a happy smile started spreading across my face as I ran my hand over the page that was already far from being clean and white, and sketched the beautiful face that wanted to get out of me.
About an hour later, I found myself staring into the familiar eyes of a man I didn’t recognize. I also pulled this page out of the sheet of paper, picked it up, and looked deep into his eyes, trying to identify if new feelings came back to me.
"Hey there," I turned to him. "I'm Kate," but I didn’t feel anything.
My eyes were drawn to my father's portrait beside me and I smiled. I imagined him seeing me talking to a sheet of paper and saying I was out of my mind.
I didn’t need Andrew to know that I knew the man I had just sketched, but I guess I needed him to tell me if he knew me.
"Hello," I insisted, and raised the drawing of the beautiful man again and continued, "I am Katarina." Suddenly my eyes widened in amazement when I felt that he answered me with his gaze and the portrait fell from my hand.
My rapid heartbeat made me dizzy and my gaze fell to the floor, trying to calm myself and understand what had happened.
