Robin had lived for Warren and died by Warren, and if there was one thing she had taught Zoe, it was that, no matter how strong your feelings, it was never a good idea to lose yourself in another person.
It was never a good idea to lose yourself at all.
After Robin’s killing was ruled self-defense and Warren was cleared of all wrongdoing, he had disappeared. Like he had done every morning in San Esteban, only no one saw him—not his female “followers,” not Vanessa or Paul or Dr. Dave or his agent or the brass at The Day’s End, which was apparently champing at the bit to bring Matthias back from the dead, now that Tiffany Baxter had left the soap to host the new MTV makeover show, Pimp My Face. Not Zoe, either. No one.
Over lunch last week, Kathy Kinney had told Zoe that there were rumors of suicide. Zoe had recalled the way Warren had looked at her after putting the knife in Robin’s back—that regret, that guilt—and she didn’t want to think the rumors were true . . .
Zoe had a date with Steve tonight. Phantom of the Paradise was playing at the Film Forum, then a late dinner somewhere, then paradise for real. She was trying to take things slow with Steve. No keys had been exchanged, no “commitment” conversations, to her mother’s chagrin. But Zoe and Steve were more than that. After six years as best friends, they still hadn’t run out of things to say to each other. He could make her laugh so hard, tears streamed down her face. The first time she’d kissed him, it had felt like coming home.
After work, Zoe took the subway back to her Fourteenth Street apartment. Steve was coming by in an hour, giving her time to shower and change before the movie. She took the elevator up, opened the door, hung her key on the hook, dropped her purse on the floor and headed for the bathroom, so tired from her day and all the talk of Daryl Barclay that she didn’t notice him sitting on the couch—didn’t know he was there until he said her name.
“Zoe?”
He was wearing a tired-looking gray T-shirt and jeans. He looked about ten pounds thinner and he’d grown a thick beard, and others might not have recognized him, but Zoe did. “Warren.”
He smiled. “You still know me.”
Zoe stood there, thinking, I never knew you. But the eyes were too sad, the shoulders too slumped for her to say those words out loud. Warren’s eyes were still as blue as a pool-company logo and his hair still shone and his teeth were still perfect, but he wasn’t the same. He was just a blond guy with a beard—like someone had stuck him with a needle, drained all the magic out of him.
“What happened to you?” said Zoe. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Let me start with the easiest answer. Your neighbor. Mrs. Lucas. I knocked on her door. She remembered me. She let me in with her extra key.”
“Okay . . .”
Warren took a breath. “Please come here, Zoe.”
Zoe looked at this man on her couch. This thin, bearded stranger with the defeated eyes. He’s had himself a bad couple of months, she thought.
She moved closer and sat down on the couch with him, and for a moment, she felt the weirdest déjà vu—sitting with Warren on his dressing room couch. Your eyes are incredible. . . . God, the brain had a sick sense of humor.
“I lied to you,” Warren said.
“What about?”
“I told you I burned the note—the one that came with the gun.”
“Garrett Christopher’s gun.”
He nodded. He was holding a white sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to her. “This is the note. I want you to read it.”
Zoe unfolded the note. It was handwritten.
W,
I went through great lengths to get this for you, because I know you need it. Do not ask where it came from. It is “para su protección.” That is all you need to know.
Nicholas is gone and success is yours and I couldn’t be happier. Do not listen to what people are saying. They don’t know what you mean to the world right now, but they will.
Everyone who crosses you will be sorry. El que pega, paga.
I am yours. Forever.
Your guardian angel
Zoe looked at Warren. “Did you know who this was from?”
“I . . . I’d seen Robin’s handwriting. I had . . . been with Robin a couple of times. I’d . . . I’d once told her You are mine, but . . .”
“But you were always saying things like that. To women.”
He looked away. “Yes.”
“So you knew it was Robin who was doing these things. You knew. . . .”
“No. I didn’t want to know. I blocked it out of my mind. I said, it must be someone else. Just some strange fan and Robin wouldn’t, she . . .” He took a breath. “The night before Jordan died, he spoke to me. We met in front of the cross. He told me he knew that we were still meeting and he would tell. He would tell the press. I told him that would be a mistake. I told him that he might not have been ideal to give, but others were and he was ruining the greater good and . . .”
“Yes?”
“I told him he would pay. I didn’t mean with his life. I just wanted him to stay quiet.”
“We all say things we don’t—”
“The next day, I saw Robin in the morning, and I told her. She smiled. She told me not to worry. She said . . . El que pega, paga.”
Zoe stared at him.
“I didn’t want it to be her. I didn’t want it to be my fault, Zoe. But it was. It is. All those awful murders were my fault.”
She shook her head. This is the price you pay. This is what happens for not taking the blame and for looking away and for thinking you can do no harm. “I’m sorry for you, Warren,” she said.
“I wanted to think it was beyond my control,” he said. “I wanted to think it was karma . . . but there’s no such thing.”
“Yes, there is such thing as karma,” Zoe said softly. “It’s working on you. Right now.”
Warren hugged Zoe. She let him. He left her apartment quietly, and she knew that no matter what he did to try to put his life back together—moving to Africa or writing a confessional book or checking into rehab or disappearing into another TV role—he would never be fixed. He would never be whole. Life wasn’t like soap operas. Nothing ever came back from the dead.
An hour and a half later, Zoe and Steve were walking down Sixth Avenue, arm in arm in the crisp fall night, on their way to see Phantom at the Film Forum. She pressed into him and he pulled her close. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, and she smiled.
“What’s wrong?” Steve said.
“Just a weird conversation I had,” Zoe said. “I don’t feel like talking about it now, but I promise I’ll tell you after the movie.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“I know.
“Oh, that reminds me—Morrison and Barbara Brink’s cat just had kittens. I can’t take one because of Adele. But I told them I’d ask you. You might want to give it some—”
“Yes.”
“That’s it? No, ‘Hmm, let me think about this’?”
“I want a pet,” she said. “It would make me happy, I love animals.”
He nodded. He knew this because he felt the same. Despite all the bad memories that Robin’s dog conjured up, she was absolute sweetness, making life in his tiny, noisy, apartment almost bearable. In fact, Adele was the only reason Zoe ever spent the night at his place.
They stopped at a crosswalk, and Zoe said, “Anyway, it’s just a kitten. It’s not like I’m going to . . . marry it or something.”
“And that thought is horrifying to you?”
“What thought?”
“Marriage.”
Zoe turned and looked at Steve. He stared right back into her eyes for five, six, seven seconds. . . . Her chest tightened. “Aren’t you supposed to make a joke now?”
His smiled a little, touched the side of her face. “I got nothing,” he said.
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Heartless Page 29
