“Where’s Sam?”
“Out,” I say.
“Out?”
“Exploring the city. I think she’s getting tired of being cooped up here.”
Jeff gives me a peck on the lips. “A sentiment I know well. Which means we should go out, too.”
He tries hard to act like he came up with the idea on the spot, although I can easily detect his rehearsed eagerness. He’s been waiting for a Sam-free moment for days.
I agree, even though I don’t really want to go. Exhaustion and anxiety have caused my back, shoulders, and neck to ache. Then there’s the matter of my website, which is perilously close to careening off schedule. Responsible me would take an Advil and spend the evening doing some catch-up baking. But irresponsible me needs a diversion from the fact that I actually know nothing about Sam. Why she’s here. What she’s up to. Even who she really is.
I’ve invited a complete stranger into our home.
In the process, I’ve become a stranger myself. One who can beat someone to a pulp in Central Park and then lie to the police about it. One who used to be so content with Jeff but now itches to be alone.
Outside, the setting sun is at our backs. My shadow stretches before me, slender and dark. It occurs to me that I have more in common with that shadow than the woman creating it. I feel just as insubstantial. As if, once darkness arrives, I’ll dissolve until I vanish completely.
We end up walking a few blocks to a French bistro we claim to love but seldom patronize. And even though it’s chilly, we huddle at an outside table, Jeff in a second-hand Members Only jacket he wears ironically and me wrapped in a shawl-collared cardigan.
We refuse to talk about Sam. We refuse to talk about his case. That leaves little else to discuss as we pick at our ratatouille and cassoulet. I have no appetite to speak of. What little I eat has to be forced down. Each miniscule bite seems to lodge in my throat until I wash it down with wine. My glass is emptied at record speed.
When I reach for the carafe of house red, Jeff finally notices my hand.
“Whoa,” he says. “What happened there?”
Now would be the perfect time to tell Jeff everything. How I almost killed a man. How scared I am of getting caught. How I’m even more afraid of having another memory of Pine Cottage. How I know Sam was in Indiana at the time of Lisa’s death.
Instead, I plaster a smile on my face and do my best imitation of my mother. Nothing is wrong. I’m completely normal. If I believe it enough, it’ll come true.
“Oh, it’s just a silly burn,” I say, giving the words an airy spin. “I was so stupid this morning and accidentally touched a baking sheet that was still hot.”
I try to jerk my hand away but Jeff catches it, studying the topography of the scabs across my knuckles.
“That looks pretty bad, Quinn. Does it hurt?”
“Not really. It’s just ugly.”
I again try to pull away, but Jeff keeps my hand trapped in his. “Your hand is shaking.”
“Is it?”
I look to the street, pretending to be absorbed by the passing of a silver Cadillac Escalade. There’s no way I can look Jeff in the eye. Not when he’s being so sweetly concerned about me.
“Promise me you’ll see a doctor if it gets any worse.”
“I will,” I say brightly. “I promise.”
I drink more wine after that, emptying the carafe and ordering another before Jeff can protest. Frankly, wine is exactly what I need. The alcohol combined with the Xanax I took as soon I got home from the park makes me feel deliciously relaxed. Gone is the pain in my back and shoulders. I barely even think about Sam or Lisa or Rocky Ruiz. When I do, I simply reach for more wine until the thought passes.
On the way back from the bistro, Jeff holds my good hand. He leans down to kiss me when we stop at a crosswalk, slipping his tongue into my mouth just enough to send a heady shiver of desire running through me. Once home, we make out in the elevator, not caring about the camera installed in the corner or the sweaty, pot-bellied security guard probably watching us on a monitor in the basement.
Inside the apartment, we get as far as the foyer before I’m on my knees, taking Jeff into my mouth, liking the way he moans so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear through the walls. When one of his hands holds my head in place, I reach back and curl his fingers around a length of hair, hoping he’ll tug on it.
I need it to hurt. Just a little.
I deserve the pain.
Later, in bed, Jeff lets me pick the movie. I choose Vertigo. When the opening credits start to swirl across the screen in all their trippy, Technicolor glory, I lie down tight against Jeff and spread my arm across his chest. We watch the movie in silence, Jeff dozing off and on through most of it. But he’s awake during the climax, when Jimmy Stewart drags poor Kim Novak up those bell tower steps, begging for the truth.
“I don’t have to go,” he says once the movie’s over. “To Chicago. I can stay here if you want.”
“It’s important that you go. Plus, you won’t be gone long, right?”
“Three days.”
“They’ll fly by.”
“You can come with me,” Jeff says. “I mean, if you want.”
“Won’t you be busy?”
“Swamped, actually. But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. You love Chicago. Think of it—a nice hotel, deep dish pizza, some museums.”
Lying with my head on Jeff’s shoulder, I can hear the quickening of his heart. It’s clear he really wants me to go. I do, too. I’d love to replace this city with another, just for a few days. Long enough to forget about what I’ve done.
“What about Sam?” I say. “We can’t just leave her here alone.”
“She’s not a dog, Quinn. She can take care of herself for a couple of days.”
He has no idea that one wrong move on my part could upset the careful balance of our lives. By leading me to the spot where I attacked Rocky Ruiz, Sam made it abundantly clear that she’s doing me a favor by keeping quiet. One word from her has the power to destroy us.
“I’d feel bad,” I say. “Besides, it’s not as if she’s going to be staying here much longer.”
“It’s not about that,” Jeff says. “I’m worried about you, Quinn. Something’s not right. You’ve been acting strange ever since she got here.”
I start to slide away from him. It was such a good night until he started talking.
“I’ve had a lot to deal with.”
“And I know that. It’s a crazy, stressful time for you. But I just feel like there’s something else going on. Something you’re not telling me.”
I lie on my back and close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“And you swear you’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Yes. Now please stop asking me that.”
“I just want to make sure you’ll be okay when I’m gone,” Jeff says.
“Of course I will. I have Sam.”
Jeff rolls away from me. “That’s what worries me.”
I wait an hour for sleep to arrive, flat on my back, breathing evenly, telling myself that at any moment I’ll sink into slumber. But my thoughts are an unruly bunch, always on the move, in no hurry to settle down. I picture them as part of the dream sequence from Vertigo—bright spirals that are forever spinning. Each one has its own color. Red for thoughts about Lisa’s murder. Green for Jeff and his concern. Blue for Jonah Thompson’s assurance that Sam is lying to me.
Sam’s spiral is black, barely visible as it rotates through the sleepless gloom of my brain.
When one a.m. comes and goes, I get out of bed and pad down the hallway. The door to the guest room is closed. No light peeks out from under it. Maybe Sam has returned. Maybe she hasn’t. Even her presence has become uncertain.
In the kitchen, I fire up my laptop. Since I’m awake, I might as well do some much-needed work on the website. Yet instead of Quincy’s Sweets, my fingers lead me to my email. Dozens of new messages from reporters have poured into my inbox, some from as far away as France, England, even Greece. I scroll past them, their addresses a monotonous blur, stopping only when I spot an address not from a reporter.