The Night in Question

by Nic Joseph

  Good.

  Still, I couldn’t grasp how I’d gotten there, what time it was, or, importantly, where Keith was. I only knew he wasn’t there beside me.

  I moved my head, my brain alert just enough to know it desired a dry spot. As I shifted, sunlight stabbed through the blinds, sending a sharp pain through my head. I winced and moved again, planting my cheek back in my own drool. I felt my stomach flip over in disgust. I needed to get up, to get away from my own filth, to take a shower and rinse away my shame and disappointment.

  Instead, I flipped the pillow over and let my head drop back down.

  The energy it took to lift and turn it drained everything out of me, and as I flopped down, I opened my mouth wide, breathing heavily as the room spun around me. I needed more air, and keeping my mouth open seemed like the most logical way to make that happen. I would drool again, there was no doubt about it, but that was something I was going to have to live with.

  I didn’t bother to look at the clock; the sun that snuck through the closed shades was the afternoon kind, not the morning. I’d slept a very long time, and still, I needed more. A lot more. I closed my eyes and thought the words I’d thought before and would think again:

  I will never drink again.

  I will never drink again.

  As I lay there, the fuzzy memories from the night before came flooding back, and I reached up slowly and pressed a palm into my left eye. The embarrassment during dinner. I’d made a fool of myself because that’s what happens when you’re sad and angry and you drink more than you should.

  And then there was Hooks.

  Wait, Hooks?

  Why could I see his face so clearly?

  He hadn’t been there—had he?

  I started to sit up again, but the room spun quickly, and I let my body drop back down once again.

  Vertical, bad.

  Horizontal, better.

  Not good by any means, but better.

  I rolled onto my side and breathed out of my mouth again, since that seemed to help just a little. I tried to push the splotchy images together, and suddenly, I remembered lying, in much the same position as I was in right now, on Emma’s floor, my cheek on the carpet, my eyelids heavy and tacky as I peered at the couple in the kitchen.

  It all dissolved, and then I could only see Hooks’s face, his jawline and his eyes. One moment, he was sitting in the back seat of my car, and then he was on the jumbo screen at the stadium. Next, he was in Emma’s apartment, yelling at someone.

  Was he yelling at me?

  The images were a blurry, fuzzy mess, and trying to make any sense of them made my head hurt.

  I saw two figures in Emma’s kitchen, heard them whispering, saying words I couldn’t make out, and then they turned—

  Suddenly, I was right back in my own bed, and I heard a noise at the door. It was Keith coming into the bedroom, and he wheeled himself up alongside the bed. Through the slits in my eyes, I could see the concern on his face as he watched me, waiting for me to say something. After a moment, I let my eyelids flutter back down, the mere thought of keeping them open for much longer exhausting.

  “Paula, wake up,” I heard him say, and I was surprised not to hear any anger in his voice.

  I blinked slowly and looked at him again. My mouth felt dry, and there were strands of hair covering my face, and through it all, I wondered what I looked like. If I looked as bad as I felt, and if, behind his concern, there was just a sliver of disgust there.

  I wondered if he ever thought about how bad he looked when I had to clean the whiskey from his stubble.

  Probably not.

  “What happened to your face?” he asked, supporting my insecurities.

  I cringed. It must be really bad. But then I saw his expression, and it occurred to me that he wasn’t just saying that I didn’t look great. He was talking about something particular. I tried to speak, but nothing came out, and my throat ached as I tried to form words. Summoning all the strength I could, I reached a hand up and touched the side of my face. I winced as my fingers connected with a puffy, tender part of my face, right below my right temple.

  “Ow,” I said, the first sound I’d made all morning, and it was a low, alcohol-laced growl of a word. I didn’t have to see it to know that there was a sizable bruise there. “I don’t know,” I finally said, my voice sounding scratchy, deep, and nothing like my own.

  Keith let out a long sigh. “You need to drink this,” he said.

  I looked down and noticed he had a glass of water in his hands. It fizzled a little in a way that plain water shouldn’t, which let me know he’d added something to it.

  “There’s no way.”

  “Paula—”

  “There’s no way. Just give me a minute.”

  He sighed again and put the glass down on the nightstand beside me.

  “Where did you guys go?” he asked. “Another one of Vanessa’s parties?”

  Through all my pain, I felt the immediate regret of my lies. There was a part of me—the good part of me—that wanted to tell the truth. To tell him that I hadn’t been out with Vanessa, and that I hadn’t actually lied about it, but that when he’d assumed it, I just hadn’t corrected him. That same part of me wanted to say that I’d been with a new friend, at a party in the Gold Coast, and that I’d fallen asleep on her carpet and then been put in a cab to go home.

  That’s it.

  A few pieces of the puzzle began to come together as I remembered stepping out of a cab in front of our apartment and falling onto the pavement.

  I must have hurt my face then?

  The driver had gotten out and helped me up. He’d actually helped me all the way to the front door and unlocked it. I remembered standing there with him on the stoop as he fumbled with my keys, unsure of which one fit the lock.

  The embarrassment flooded over me, and I had a moment of thanks that there were still some good people in the world. The fact that I’d managed to make it to my own bed still seemed like a miracle.

  “Paula?”

  That part of me that wanted to tell him the truth, to tell him I was doing this all for us, was too tired, or maybe just too scared, and it curled up under the covers, away from the unforgiving daylight. I wanted to burrow down with it.

  So instead of lying more, I avoided it all. I let my heavy eyelids droop some more, and a moment later, I wasn’t pretending at all.

  “Paula?” I heard him say tiredly. He waited a few moments, and then I was vaguely aware of him spinning around and moving toward the door.

  As I drifted into sleep, I heard him speak again, the words barely making it into my consciousness.

  “Oh yeah, you might not remember it, but you only came home with one shoe,” he said. “That red pair you really like. You sat on the bed and cried about it for five minutes before you passed out. So…just so you know.”

  But I didn’t know anything of the sort, because by the time he’d finished speaking, I was once again dead to the world.

  • • •

  I hadn’t hurt my face when I fell out of the cab. That fall had given me only a slight scrape on my knee, which I would barely notice the next day due to my other ailments.

  It had taken me drifting back into sleep to remember what really happened the night before to cause the massive, blue-green bruise on the side of my face.

  Ryan Hooks’s face appeared again when I dozed off.

  One moment, he was in the back seat of my car, and I felt the same warmth I’d felt the night I’d picked him up. In the dream, he was a little more charming, a little more handsome, and even a little taller than he’d been that night, and I drove with both eyes on him in the rearview mirror, even though I knew I should be looking at the road. I knew there was another car coming—we were moments away from crashing, I could feel it—but I stayed focused on him, our ga
zes locked.

  I could see the other car approaching the nose of my own, and right before the collision, it all disappeared, and suddenly, I was lying on the carpet in Emma’s apartment again.

  I could still see Hooks, but now he was pressed against Emma in the kitchen, and I couldn’t tell if it was anger or passion that had his body so tense. He stood close to her, his body inches from hers, and she’d turned her face away so I couldn’t actually see her.

  She was backed up against a wall, and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to be there or if she was trying to squirm away. I felt glued to the carpet, and as I watched them, I wanted to call out, but I couldn’t move or speak. I wanted to get up to stop him, to hit him with something, to help, since I hadn’t been a help to anyone that night, certainly not myself. As the pleas fluttered around my lips, I let my head settle just a little, since the plush carpet felt so soft against my cheek. I just needed to rest a little, and then I would get up to help.

  I must have made a noise.

  Suddenly, my eyes were open again, and they were both turned in my direction. I could only see Emma’s face as she stared at me in horror, and then she pulled away from Hooks and rushed toward me. I’d been on the floor between the couch and the window, and they hadn’t seen me all that time, and I should’ve kept it that way.

  I wasn’t hiding.

  I wasn’t spying on them.

  I would’ve left if I could’ve, but I was just so damned tired.

  They were both angry, walking toward me, and then they were pulling me up. Dragging me, their fingers gripped into my arms. I felt something cutting into my left arm, something sharp and bruising, and I cried out. Suddenly, I was upright. It hurt to stay up when everything around me was falling down, but they weren’t listening to me, weren’t understanding that I just needed a moment. I knew this was wrong, knew what I’d done was wrong, knew he would be telling her who I was and what I was doing there. But I couldn’t get any words out, because the alcohol had clogged the back of my throat. And my feet weren’t actually touching the floor…

  They were pushing me.

  They wanted it to seem like they were helping me, carrying me, but really, they were pushing me out of the apartment. Propelling me forward into the hallway, and then we were at the top of the stairs. Everything seemed so loud, and I wondered if we’d wake anyone else up. I was trying to get them to stop, but the words came out garbled and wine-laden. They were talking to each other in worried, fuzzy breaths. I could see Hooks’s face clearly—he was the assertive one, taking on most of my weight. Emma was on my left, helping him, but her face was just out of view. My feet tapped on the padded stairs as they dragged me down, and all I could think was that I wanted to tell them I was sorry.

  Sorry for what I’d done.

  I was going down the stairs, fast.

  Too fast.

  The fingers cutting into my arm.

  They were being careless, and I imagined their fingers slipping from my skin several seconds before it actually happened. Before anyone could stop it, I pitched forward, toppling the rest of the way down to the first floor, and the pain was simply just too much to bear.

  • • •

  When I woke up, someone was shouting.

  “Paula!”

  I was back in bed, and Keith was at my side again. The sunlight was gone, and in the back of my mind, I knew that I’d slept the morning away and part of the afternoon too. I felt sick, and my head throbbed, and I closed my eyes to feign sleep—maybe he would just go away.

  “Paula!”

  There were other words swimming in there too.

  “I just got commission…art…”

  I groaned and tried to pull the pillow over my face, but he pulled it away and kept talking.

  “Art…wants a piece from me…”

  I blinked, my eyes still tacky, the pillow wet again, and I covered my eyes with my hand.

  “This week…Ryan Hooks.”

  I sat up too quickly, and the room seemed to turn over, a full forward flip, but I turned my body to stare at him.

  “What did you just say?” I asked.

  “I said that Ryan Hooks just liked three of my vases on Twitter and then sent me a direct message. He’s interested in buying one.”

  The mixture of emotion was too much: his sheer joy, the excitement pulsing from his body. He was watching me expectantly, waiting for me to say something, to react in some way.

  “Paula?” he said. “Did you hear what I just said? You just went to his concert, right? You and Vanessa? What, did you put in a good word for me?”

  I watched him, the horror of what he was saying washing over me, and suddenly, my stomach lurched, and I jumped up from the bed and ran to the bathroom.

  He wheeled back to let me by.

  “Oh shit,” he said as I ran in and made it to the toilet just in time.

  When I was done being sick, I turned around, and he was sitting in the bathroom doorway, watching me.

  “You okay?” he asked softly.

  I nodded, standing and walking shakily to the sink to wash my mouth out.

  “You have had a rough night,” he said. “You need to lie back down.”

  I teetered back into the bedroom. “What happened?” I asked. “When did he contact you?”

  “I guess he sent it early this morning, but I just saw it now,” he said. “I can’t believe it. I haven’t felt this good since…I can’t tell you the last time.”

  “How did he contact you?”

  “Twitter,” he said.

  I nodded, looking around the room for my phone. It wasn’t in the bedroom, and I walked past him again toward the living room. I saw my purse on the coffee table, and I picked it up, rifling inside for my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Keith said, following me.

  “Nothing. Just want to make sure I didn’t miss a call from Vanessa.”

  “Yeah, she probably will want to know that you’re okay. You guys have been pulling some nights.”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and sure enough, there were several missed calls. I scrolled through them and felt my chest tighten when I saw the very last notification at the bottom of the screen.

  Sent this morning, at 7:06 a.m.

  From @RyanHooksOfficial on Twitter.

  Truck stop. I-90. Today, 4:30 p.m.

  Chapter 20

  Claire

  The day after

  On Sunday, Claire woke up after only four hours of sleep and took a quick shower before heading out to Klein’s Boutique in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. One of the store attendants went to get Joshua Burlap from the back of the store, and Claire watched as the neatly dressed man walked toward her with a frown on his face.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Claire filled him in, and the man’s eyes widened.

  “Beverly?” he asked. “But she was just… I don’t understand…”

  “What time did you leave last night?” Claire asked.

  “I was the first one to leave, I think,” he said. “Around midnight.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I was really just doing Emma a favor. I didn’t even know the lawyer that well.”

  Claire frowned. “That’s not what the other guests told me,” she said. “They mentioned that you may have exchanged a few words with Beverly last night?”

  “A few words?” he asked. “I’m not sure who the ‘they’ is that you’re referring to, but I can assure you that my interactions with Bev and her husband are being taken grossly out of context. I’d met them a couple of times through Emma, but that’s the extent of it.”

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary last night?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. Look, I was there because I had to be there. It’s business. You think I wanted to spend my Saturday
night socializing with a group of spoiled rich girls and their ‘home business’ clothing line? Spoiler, I didn’t, but I had to show up with a smile.”

  “You mean you don’t actually like the clothes in their Allure Apparel line?” Claire asked. “Then why are you hosting their show here?”

  “Because it brings people into the store, and in this day and age, brick-and-mortar boutiques can use all the publicity we can get. Any more questions about my business model, Detective?”

  Claire bit her lip. “Did you have any interaction with Chris? The artist who was there last night?”

  Burlap’s eyes lit up, and a smile crossed his face. “Oh, Chris. Yes, we got to chat a bit. Did she get home okay?”

  “That’s the question,” Claire said. “We haven’t been able to reach her, since Emma didn’t have her last name or contact information.”

  Burlap frowned. “Well, that’s odd, isn’t it?” When Claire didn’t respond, he shrugged. “I don’t have much else to give you. She was nervous, but everyone else probably already told you that.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Yeah, definitely. She was nervous from the moment she walked in. She was trying to pretend not to be, I could tell, but I’m a pretty good reader of people. The way she talked, the way she ate, the way she moved around—I could tell she was uncomfortable. That is, until she got a bit of drink in her.”

  Claire made a mental note and then thanked him for his time.

  “One more question,” she said. “When you left the apartment, where did you go?”

  “I came back to oversee the night crew who were cleaning and stocking up for the morning. You can ask any of them.”

  Claire assured him she would, left the store, and headed straight to the station. When she got there, she sat down in front of her computer.

  She didn’t have much to go on, but it was worth a try.

  She started by searching for Chris, portraits, School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

  Nothing.

  Christine, SAIC.

  Nothing.

  And then, out of pure desperation:

  Chris, red shoes, School of Art Institute of Chicago, SAIC, painter.