I looked around, to make sure all evidence was addressed, and I saw five of my bright pink flamingo feathers were strewn about the foyer, having fallen in the struggle, and they each had specks of Richard’s blood on them. I collected all five and quietly headed up the stairs. As I passed the master bedroom, I could hear the deep, uneven drunken snores of Hannah’s mother. I crept into Hannah’s room, and flopped in between my friends, who were in almost the same exact passed-out position in which I had left them. I had now killed two people. Eleven years apart. That doesn’t make a habit or a pattern. Just something I happened to do twice, both times for very good reason. I closed my eyes and I tried to fall sleep. Eventually I did.
I watched Detective Jackson’s manicured finger tap on Richard Vale’s mugshot. And I told him what I knew. That it was quickly clear to police the next morning what must have happened. With all the buzz of trick-or-treaters the night before, an errant piece of peanut candy had somehow made its way into the house. And later Richard stumbled downstairs to get a midnight snack, and in the dark accidentally ate the very thing that could kill him. The police on the scene of course noted that there seemed to be a cut on the deceased’s face as well. The toxicology report later showed his blood alcohol level was extremely high. So they concluded that Richard Vale probably fell due to his drunkenness and hit his head. Possibly as he was searching for his EpiPen, possibly beforehand. But regardless of the timing of events, he didn’t manage to grab his medication in time and he died of anaphylaxis.
I knew Detective Jackson must already have all this information, so me repeating back what was in some old police file would be harmless. And instead of waiting for another game show question from him, I decided to ask one of my own. I glanced down at photograph number two. “Is this mugshot from when Mr. Vale was arrested for a DUI? That’s why I got pulled over that night, driving his car. He had a warrant out for not appearing in court.”
Detective Jackson, still a little annoyed at me about the handkerchief comment, shrugged. “Does it matter?”
It did not matter. I shrugged back and casually lied. “Just making small talk.” I was not an expert on the law, or on law enforcement, but I did know a little. One of my best friends in college was pre-law, extremely driven and destined to be a great attorney. He taught me when it came to justice, there was no small talk. Every word was important.
CHAPTER 10
ROMAN
Roman Miller was the only freshman cast in Yale’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He played Nick Bottom, the fool. His body was so controlled onstage that his purposeful clumsiness seemed graceful. His voice was confident and booming, his timing impeccable, and his smile enormous. I could see under his costume of old-timey tights and pantaloons were the muscular thighs of a track-and-field star and not of a theater geek. Who was this guy?
I didn’t necessarily want to sleep with Roman, or date him. But I knew I wanted to know him. My mother’s philosophy about me talking to strangers as a child solidified my belief that we are all just people, trying to make our way, so there is no reason for me to ever be intimidated or shy about sparking a connection, no matter how much charm the other person might exude. So I set a plan in motion.
The program displayed the theater schedule, and I saw the play ran for several more nights. I thought through the best approach. I didn’t want to hang around behind the stage door hoping to meet Roman, like some theater groupie. That would make me seem desperate and put him on too much of a pedestal. I also didn’t want to stalk him on campus and “accidentally” bump into him since that would make me feel cowardly.
So I wrote a note with my one purple pen on my simple, good-quality lavender card-stock stationery: “I’m a fan. Want to meet for coffee sometime? Find me. Ruby Simon.” On closing night, during the fifth act, I sneakily maneuvered my way through the bowels of the theater and slipped the note into his locker backstage. Then I returned to my dorm with the excitement of knowing I was vaguely waiting for something.
Using the school directory, Roman emailed me three days later to set a meeting. I walked into a coffee shop near campus at the appointed time. It was cozy and smelled like snickerdoodle cookies. He was already there. On time, sitting at a little table by the window. Up close he had extremely masculine features and a bit of an underbite. It seemed he was gifted with more testosterone than most. He looked like a handsome bulldog, in the best possible way. His incredible musculature was not only present in his legs; it rose up his six-foot-two-inch frame proportionately.
He pulled off his hoodie and with it accidentally also lifted up his thin white T-shirt underneath. It was then that I first saw his flaring obliques. I also saw that his biceps bulged and all three parts of his triceps were clearly defined. His back and shoulders were broad and cut, and his bare torso looked like a superhero’s costume, ribbed abs and V-shape included. But it was his obliques that were most impressive. Like thick ropes traveling up the length of his hips. He was clearly a good-looking guy, with wavy, thick brown hair and dark blue eyes, but it was all very obvious. The kind of obvious that all my high school girlfriends loved. The kind of obvious that made me an anti-snob when it came to men.
We ordered coffee; he insisted on paying. He said he was intrigued by my note. I had balls. That much was clear. It was also clear from the moment we sat down together that we were going to be just friends. The picture he painted was too overt for me. There was no smoldering angst or secret weird layers or hues hidden under the bold bright colors of his charismatic personality and good looks and perfect body. And, likewise, I was too on the nose for him. I wasn’t playing it coy or alluring in the least. I was also a seven, and not his usual nine-slash-ten. We seemed like equals, a perfect match, and therefore had no sexy power dynamics to play with or use for flirting. There was zero sexual tension between us, but a deep understanding that our lives would be intertwined from that moment on.
I assumed because of his talent that Roman was a theater major. Yale had one of the best theater departments in the county. But he informed me acting was only a hobby. I was impressed. It takes a special kind of person to be so good at something that is only considered a hobby. Roman explained he was focused on law school, Yale Law School to be specific, and was double majoring in sociology and history, plus taking pre-law classes. He spoke about “famous” lawyers like other guys talk about rock stars and quarterbacks. Roman idolized litigators, followed trials, and rooted for outcomes not based on the crime or the victim or the accused, but based on who was trying the case.