“Just relax,” I tell him. “Let me do this for you, and then we can talk about what you can do for me.”
His head lolls back and his body relaxes. I take him into my mouth just a little, but that’s all it takes to bring him over the edge. His body clenches and he pushes himself farther into me. I stay with him until his body goes limp again, and then I put my head on his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat begin to slow.
“My God, Clare,” he says. “That was unbelievable.”
“Shhhh,” I say. “Don’t speak. Just be.”
He falls asleep shortly thereafter. Marco isn’t expecting me home for a few hours, so I crawl off Jason’s futon and make us both grilled-cheese sandwiches because all he has in his mini fridge, aside from Coca-Cola and beer, is Wonder Bread and Kraft American cheese singles. Either the crackling or the smell wakes him, because Jason wakes up just as I’m flipping the sandwiches over.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“That was a bit selfish of me.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry. You’ll make it up to me later.”
“And not only do I get”—and he nods toward the bed rather than say the word blowjob—“but grilled cheese too?”
“My cooking options were somewhat limited. Why don’t you keep any food in here?”
“Because I’m on the partial meal plan and there’s a pizza place downstairs and a McDonald’s across the street.”
“What am I going to do with you, Jason? You’re a child.”
“Then you need to make a man of me,” he says.
Jason did make it up to me. After dinner we got back into bed, and he tried his very best to bring me to a climax with his mouth. Matthew is able to do it every time and Marco’s an even-money bet, but it just wasn’t going to happen with Jason. So I suggested he try it the old-fashioned way. I go through my usual routine—screaming out his name, telling him how big he is, the whole nine yards, but even with that encouragement, I need to help it along with my own hand.
When I start dressing, Jason gently pulls me back to the futon. “Stay,” he says.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. But you know I can only fall asleep in my own bed.”
“I know, but it would be so nice to sleep together. I mean actually sleep together. Can’t we do it just this one night?”
I laugh. “Jason, I’m not sleeping on a futon.”
“We could go to your place.”
“We’ve already talked about this,” I say with my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth voice. “I’d love to do that, but it’s too risky. The associate dean lives in my building.”
Jason looks at me with his puppy-dog eyes. The associate dean doesn’t live in my building, but there’s no way that Jason would know where he lives—or even where I live, for that matter.
He walks me to the door. Before I open it to leave, we kiss again. He pulls me tightly against him so I know he’s ready, willing, and able to go another round. But I have no desire for any more. Besides, if I’m out much later, Marco will become suspicious.
“Good night,” I say.
“You know, Clare, someday I’m going to follow you home and come upstairs to your apartment.”
I’m sure he knows that was the wrong thing to say by the daggers my eyes shoot at him. “Don’t even joke about that,” I say.
He backtracks immediately. “Sorry. I wouldn’t do that. It’s just . . .”
I don’t give Jason an inch. I want him to understand that he’s crossed a very serious line.
“If I thought you were considering doing anything like that, I’d stop seeing you right now. Do you understand?”
He looks more like a child than usual, which stands to reason because I’ve cast myself in the role of the disappointed mother. His eyes are glued to the floor.
“Look at me,” I say, and I actually grab his chin between my thumb and forefinger to lift his gaze so that it meets my eyes. “I need you to look at me and tell me that you understand. If you care about me . . . If you care about our relationship, you’ll promise me that you’re never going to do anything that would hurt me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, looking as if he’s trying to fight back tears. “I would never. I swear.”
“Okay,” I say.
I kiss him quickly and leave. As I’m walking toward his elevator, I tell myself that I need to end things with Jason before he does something from which there will be no coming back.
DAY FIVE
SATURDAY
16.
Gabriel calls me at a little before eight. His first words are to apologize for waking me. Needless to say, I have already been awake for two hours.
“Is there any news?” I ask breathlessly, already thinking the worst.
“I’m not calling about your sister. But Jennifer Barnett’s body’s been found.”
It takes a moment for this to register. For some reason, I just assumed that “missing” would be Jennifer Barnett’s permanent state.
“She’s dead?”
“Yes. Died the day she disappeared, we assume. She was found in a landfill over on Staten Island.”
That’s his way to indicate it wasn’t a suicide or an accident. Jennifer Barnett was murdered.
I had been praying that Jennifer Barnett was alive because, in my mind, that would somehow increase the chance of Charlotte’s safe return. Of course, one thing really had nothing to do with the other; it’s like thinking the odds of a coin turning up heads will be improved if the three previous flips are tails.
But now that Jennifer Barnett is dead, the two do seem connected. One maniac is responsible for both, which means the odds are very good that Charlotte is also buried beneath a pile of garbage. The very thought makes my stomach lurch.
“Ella, you still there?” Gabriel says.
I hadn’t realized how long the silence must have been. “Yeah. I’m . . . just trying to process, I guess.”
“Jennifer Barnett notwithstanding, you’ve got to stay positive. Being optimistic costs the same as losing hope.”
I appreciate the pep talk, but it doesn’t change my outlook. I know in my heart that, like Jennifer Barnett, Charlotte’s corpse is awaiting discovery too.
After getting off the phone with Gabriel, I go online to see for myself the media circus surrounding the confirmation of Jennifer Barnett’s death. A banner headline on CNN shouts SHE’S DEAD, and beside it is the same photograph of a smiling and beautiful Jennifer Barnett I’ve seen for the past week. Among the subheadings are two related to my sister. One is the basic story they’ve been running since her disappearance was announced: a short biography of Charlotte with a direct segue to my father’s representation of Nicolai Garkov. The second article is new, quoting sources “close to the investigation” as saying that it is extremely unlikely that Charlotte’s still alive.
Having learned all I can from the Internet, I call Paul to share the grim news about Jennifer Barnett.
He sounds as if I’ve awakened him. Paul obviously wasn’t losing sleep over her disappearance.
“Hey, Ella,” he says.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Jennifer Barnett’s body was found this morning. In a landfill on Staten Island.”