“And?” Susan asked.
Archie held the cold bottle next to his face and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s complicated.”
Susan glanced at her purse. The spine of the paperback was still visible where she had tucked it in the main compartment, along with some loose tampons, her Paul Frank wallet, a plastic case of birth-control pills, and about thirty pens. “So, have you read The Last Victim?”
“God no,” Archie said, groaning.
Susan blushed. “It’s not bad. You know, for a true-crime thriller. Not much in the way of actual journalism. I called the writer. She said that you refused to talk to her. Your ex-wife refused to talk to her. Your doctor refused to talk to her. The department refused to talk to her. She based the thing mostly on news accounts, public record, and her own torrid imagination. There’s this scene at the end where you talk Gretchen Lowell into turning herself in. You convince her that she can be a better person, and she is overcome by your grace and goodness.”
Archie laughed out loud.
“Didn’t happen like that?”
“No.”
“What do you remember?” Susan asked.
Archie flinched.
“You okay?”
“Headache,” he explained. He reached into his pocket and produced a brass pillbox, withdrew three white oval pills, and swallowed them with a pull of beer.
“What are those?” Susan asked.
“Headache pills.”
Susan threw him a dubious look. “Do you really not remember those ten days?”
Archie blinked slowly and let his eyes settle on Susan. He looked at her for long time. Then his eyes slid slowly to a digital clock that sat on a bookcase. The time was wrong, but Archie didn’t appear to care. “I remember those ten days better than I do the days my children were born.”
The heat turned off and the room fell quiet. “Tell me what you remember,” Susan said. Her voice cracked like a teenage boy’s. She could feel Archie appraising her. And she put on her best smile, the one she had learned to use so long ago, the one that made all the men understand that no matter what their troubles, she could make them feel better. Archie wasn’t buying.
“Not yet,” Archie said finally. “You have three more stories, right? You don’t want to spoil the suspense.”
Susan wasn’t ready to let it go. “What about the ‘second man’ theory? Some of the reports said that you said there was a second man there. Someone who was never caught. Do you remember that?”
Archie closed his eyes. “Gretchen has always denied it. I never saw him. It was more of an impression that I had. But I was also not in the most stable mental condition.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Susan. “I’m tired. Let’s continue this some other time.”
Susan dropped her head in her hands in mock frustration.
“We’ll get to it,” Archie said. “I promise.”
She snapped off the digital recorder. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“It’s off the hall.”
She stood up and walked down the hall to the bathroom. It was as unremarkable as the rest of the apartment. A fiberglass tub and shower combo with a sliding frosted-glass door. A cheap sink with plastic faucet knobs set in a pressboard cabinet. Two gray towels of an unimpressive thread count hanging limply on oak towel racks. Two more sat freshly laundered and folded on the back of the toilet. The bathroom was clean, but not too clean, not fastidious. She stood at the sink, staring at her reflection. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She was close to the biggest story of her career. So why did she feel so crappy? And what was she thinking with the pigtails? She pulled them out, combed her hair with her fingers, and tied her hair back at her neck. The light in the bathroom made her flesh look like raw chicken. She wondered how Archie Sheridan faced himself in that mirror each morning, sallow, every wrinkle shadowed. No wonder he was a head case. She dug into her pocket, retrieved some lip gloss, and slathered it on liberally. Did he want to be forced back on medical leave? Is that was this was all about?
She flushed the toilet and used the cover of the noise to open the door of the medicine cabinet. Shaving cream. Razors. Toothpaste and toothbrush. Deodorant. And two shelves of amber plastic pill bottles. She spun them around by their white lids to read the prescription information. Vicodin. Colace. Percocet. Zantac. Ambien. Xanax. Prozac. Large bottles. Small bottles. Nothing that would interfere with his ability to do his job, Fergus had said. Right. There were enough pills in that cabinet to medicate an elephant. All made out to Archie Sheridan. Fuck. If he needed all this stuff to function, he was worse off than she thought. And a better actor.
She memorized the names, carefully turned the bottles back to their original orientation, closed the cabinet, and walked back into the living room.