It was after six, and Nordstrom's cafe was growing crowded. I waited in line for grilled chicken and pesto on focaccia. Catherine ordered a cup of tea.
She glanced at my enormous sandwich, the side of Terra sweet potato chips. She arched a brow, then returned to sipping her green tea. I ate the entire sandwich, the bag of chips, then went back for a piece of carrot cake, simply out of spite.
"So what do you think of Detective Dodge?" she asked, when I was halfway through the cake and presumably so blissed-out on sugar I wouldn't notice the fine hint of longing that had entered her voice.
I shrugged. "As a cop or what?"
She smiled. "Or what."
"If I found him naked in my bed, I wouldn't kick him out."
"Have you?"
"That's not exactly the nature of our relationship." Though the image of Bobby, naked, was taking longer than I would've thought to clear from my head. "Now, him and D.D., on the other hand…"
"Never happen," Catherine said immediately "Sex, maybe, but a relationship? She's far too ambitious for him. I doubt she'll settle for anything less than a politically minded DA, or perhaps a crime boss. Now, that would be interesting."
"You two don't like each other very much."
Her turn to shrug. "I have that effect on women. Perhaps it's because I sleep with their husbands. Then again, if the husbands weren't sleeping with me, they would simply be fucking their secretaries, and if you were going to be jilted, wouldn't you rather be jilted for someone who looks like me than for a peroxide blonde with cheap taste in shoes?"
"I never thought of it that way before."
"Few do." Catherine put down her tea. She traced a random pattern on the tabletop with her red-lacquered nail. When she spoke again, her voice was low, with a trace of vulnerability again.
"Once upon a time," she said quietly, "I invited Bobby to move to Arizona with me. Offered him everything, my body, my home, a glamorous life of leisure. He turned me down. Did you know that?"
"Was this before or after he shot your husband?" I asked.
She smiled, seemed amused that I knew that minor detail. "After. You've been listening to D.D, haven't you? She's obsessed with the notion I set up Bobby to kill my husband. I think she's read one too many suspense novels. Ever heard of Occam's razor— the simplest explanation is the best one?"
I shook my head.
"Well, simply put, Jimmy beat the shit out of me, Bobby made the right choice that night, and I'm now living happily ever after, can't you tell?"
Her voice hit a brittle edge on the last word. She seemed to hear it, picked up her tea, and took another sip. I said nothing for a while, just absorbed this woman in front of me, who packaged herself as a walking advertisement for sex, when I was pretty sure now she hadn't felt a thing in nearly twenty-seven years.
Is this the fate I had narrowly avoided when my father decided to flee? And if so, then why didn't I feel more relieved? Because mostly I felt sad. A deep down achy kind of sad. The world was cruel. Grown men preyed on little kids. People betrayed the ones they loved. What was done could never be undone again. That's just the way things worked.
As if reading my mind, Catherine's head came up. She looked me in the eye: "Why are you here, Annabelle?"
"I don't know."
"Richard isn't your stalker. By the time you were seven, he was already sentenced to life in prison. Besides, Richard's fantasies involved physical intimidation and domination. He wasn't subtle enough for stalking."
"You were only twelve; it wasn't your fault."
She actually smiled at me. "You think I don't know that?"
"And you survived."
Now she laughed, a full throaty sound that caused several of the other diners to glance our way "You think I survived? Oh Annabelle, you are simply precious. Come now, as a seven-year-old target yourself, surely you learned something."
"I happen to be an expert kickboxer," I heard myself say stiffly. "My father took my safety very seriously—taught me self-defense, criminology one-oh-one, when to run, when to fight, and how to know the difference. I grew up with over a dozen different aliases, living in a dozen different cities. Trust me, I know how serious this is."
"Your father taught you?" Arched brow again.
"Yes."
"The academic from MIT?"
"The same."
"And how did your father know so much about criminology or self-defense?"
I shrugged. "Necessity is the mother of invention. Isn't that what they say?"
Catherine stared at me in bemusement. "Wait, wait," she said, when she could tell I was getting pissy again, "I'm not trying to mock you. I want to understand. When this all happened, your father…"
"He moved my family away We packed our suitcases in the middle of the afternoon, loaded up the car, and disappeared."
"No!"
"Yes."
"With fake names and everything?"
"Absolutely. There is no other way to be safe. Which reminds me, you're supposed to be calling me Tanya."
She waved away my alias, clearly unconcerned. "And did your father get another job with a university in Florida?"