I peruse the bookshelves a bit, running my fingertips over the bindings of a few of the titles as if I'm looking for something. I came all this way to see her, but now that I'm here, I don't really know what to say.
I honestly don't even know why I'm standing in Paige's store. There's no logical reason for me to be here. For some reason though, I just feel compelled to be here. To see Paige.
Once I got home from Seattle, Janice took one look at me and freaked out. After I refused to go to the hospital, she cleaned my wounds and bandaged them – all the while, grumpily insisting that she was no field surgeon and that I need to see an actual doctor. I don't think my wounds were serious enough for that though. Her patch job works just fine for me.
After a shower and a change of clothes, though, I felt restless. Agitated. My mind was all over the place. Despite being up all night, I couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Couldn't get my head straight. Hemingway grew irritated with me skulking through the house and took over one of the guest room, sprawling out on the bed, just to get away from me.
As I stood on the deck, drinking a cup of coffee, I'd became overcome with the urge to see Paige. I don't really know why – it makes no sense to me – but something in me needed to see her. So, I hopped in the car and drove down the hill.
And now, here I am.
Although she wants to know what happened and probably has a million questions, now that I'm standing in the shop with her, all I know is that I don’t want to talk what happened in the alley. And I don't want her to question me about Seattle. Personally, I don't want to think about any of that.
What I do want, however, is to know more about her.
But, as I glance back over at her, I can tell Paige is determined to get the story out of me. She's worried and I know the only real way to quell her concern is to give her what she wants. I'm not the kind of person who normally feels compelled to have touchy-feely emotional rap sessions. I prefer to keep things closer to the vest.
On the other hand, I feel like I can talk to her. It's crazy, given how little I actually know about her, but there's just something about Paige Samuels that tells me I can open up without fear. That I can confide in her. So, I explain what happened. I'm reluctant, but I tell her who Brittany is, what she did, and why I'm actually in Port Safira. At least, I give her the CliffsNotes version, anyway.
Having explained that, I tell her about seeing Brittany and that whole scene, to the attack in the alley. It's strange, but as I talk, the longer I go on, it gets easier. There's just something about Paige that inspires me to be open with her. I don't feel like I have to choose my words carefully or guard my secrets as closely. I don't get it, but that's how she makes me feel.
And I have to say, the more I speak, the more cathartic it feels. It feels good to actually open up and share some of what is going on in my head. Aside from my brothers, I don't have anybody in my life that I can truly open up to. I don't have anyone that I want to open up to. I was never this open with Brittany. But, with Paige, I feel like I can be.
She listens to every word, never interrupting, and never appearing to be bored by my story. If anything, she seems riveted by what I'm saying, hanging on my every word. And when I'm finished, she steps from behind the counter and walks toward me, her eyes soft and wide.
“Jesus,” she says softly. “Do you know who did it?”
“No,” I say. “Didn't really get a good look at the guy. Everything just happened too fast and he was wearing that damn hoodie.”
Paige nods. “I don't want to kick a hornet's nest here,” she says. “Or speak out of turn...”
She lets her voice trail off as if she's afraid to finish her thought and is looking to me for permission to continue.
“It's okay,” I say. “You don't ever need to censor yourself around me. Speak your mind.”
“Well, the timing of it all seems really coincidental,” she says softly. “Do you think it's possible that your ex had something to do with it?”
Taken aback, I look at Paige as if she's suddenly sprouted a second head. “I really doubt that,” I say. “No, it was just a stupid mugging.”
“But the guy didn't actually take anything from you?”
“Well, no,” I say, shrugging. “Because I fought back.”
“Uh huh,” she says, her voice growing a little stronger, a little more confident. “And it's just a coincidence that Brittany was there at the bar, then?”
I don't answer her. Instead, I'm thinking about what she said. I'm trying to wrap my mind around what Paige is suggesting. There is a part of my head – or maybe my heart – that doesn't believe Brittany would be capable of something like that. Get pissed and make a scene? Sure. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Maybe try to sue me for screwing her out of what she feels she's owed in our divorce? Yeah, probably.
But hire somebody to try and kill me?
The thought startles me for a moment as I try to process it. To analyze it. I'm trying to reconcile the two versions of Brittany I know. There's the role she played – the dutiful, loving wife. I now know that to be a lie. I know the perfect wife she portrayed herself to be was only a mask for who she really was – a conniving, back-stabbing thief.
The logical and rational part of my mind starts to whisper to me in earnest though. Our divorce isn't finalized yet. That's going to take a little time, as these things do, of course. And as of now, I haven't removed her as my beneficiary. From anything. If I were to die – say, in a random mugging gone bad – she would stand to inherit my fortune, as well as my slice of ADE.
Would that be enough to drive Brittany to do something like that? Would she actually try to have me killed? I look over at Paige, who is staring at me, waiting for some kind of response. From that perspective of knowing what I know about Brittany, I suppose I can't put anything past her. I suppose, in theory, she is capable of anything.
Even knowing what I do though, I still can't quite buy the idea that she'd have somebody try to kill me. That seems – extreme.
“Maybe?” I say. “Who knows?”
“It's something you might want to think about,” she says. “It just seems like really strange and coincidental timing to me.”
“Yeah, it's something to give some thought to,” I say, turning from the bookshelf toward Paige. “I didn't come here to solve the mystery of who jumped in that alley and pulverized my face, though.”
“No? Because I watch a lot of Dateline and I'm good with mysteries,” she says. “Or maybe, you were just hoping I wouldn't notice that somebody smashed in your face?”
“Something like that,” I say.
She arches an eyebrow at me as the corners of her mouth turn upward into a grin. “FYI, the whole smashed in face thing is kind of hard not to notice, you know.”
“I figured,” I say. “I was just hoping we could talk about something more interesting, though.”
“Like?”
“Like you,” I say.
This time, she's the one who looks taken aback. I see her cheeks flush as she quickly turns away, pretending to study the cover of a nearby book – some Young Adult novel with an angel and a demon on the cover. Not something I'd guess would be on her to-read list, and hardly something worth staring at.
“Well, honestly, I hate to disappoint you, but I'm pretty boring,” she says. “Not really much to talk about. I didn't get into a fight with some mystery man in an alley recently.”
“Good thing too,” I say. “Because your face is far too pretty to get messed up in a fight.”