“That’s why. To live the life not taken. If only for one night a week.”
Dylan smiles in a way that makes it impossible for me not to smile back. It’s okay, he’s saying. We all feel that way. Or at least that’s how I choose to interpret it.
“So now it’s your turn,” I say. “How’d you end up at the Lava Lounge?”
“You mean how, of all the open-mic nights in the world, did I happen to walk into yours?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“I’ve always enjoyed singing and was in a band in high school, but I never seriously considered that music could be a career for me. It was just a way to screw around with my friends and get girls. But there’s something about living in a third-world country that makes you take stock. One of the things I decided was that when I came back home, I’d try to get back into singing. You know, let my creative side out a little. I saw that Lava holds an open-mic night on Wednesdays and thought, what the hell, I’ll check it out. I didn’t intend to sing, but then we met. I thought I’d have a better shot with you if you thought I could sing.”
I laugh, and the sound still seems strange coming from me. “I’m not that shallow, Dylan. The reason you had a shot with me had nothing to do with your singing. It was because . . . you’re a doctor.”
After the table is cleared, I lead him to my living room and suggest we watch a movie. He lets me choose, and I settle on one starring Reese Witherspoon called Wild.
Once the movie is queued up, I snuggle into Dylan. He strokes my hair. With each stroke of his hand, I fall further under his spell.
“I don’t want to be a downer,” I say as the opening credits roll, “but I still feel a little guilty. I’m really enjoying myself with you, and my sister is . . .”
“You need to take care of yourself too. You know, like what they say before the plane takes off. Put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others.”
He says this looking deeply into my eyes. I want to kiss him so badly. Instead, I decide to let him into my thoughts, to share what’s going on in the hope that it’ll make me feel better.
“Because I used to be a prosecutor, I know the police lieutenant who’s running the case. His name is Gabriel Velasquez. He keeps me up-to-date with the investigation. At first they focused on Charlotte’s boyfriend. Zach’s a real asshole and initially refused to cooperate. But he’s cooperating now and he passed a polygraph. There was another guy Charlotte was seeing too, named Josh. He cooperated from the very start, but Josh’s polygraph was what they call ‘inconclusive.’ So I guess the state of play is that Zach’s not a suspect but Josh still is. I’ve told the police that I don’t think Josh did it, though. He just doesn’t seem the type.”
“You say that like you have a suspect in mind,” Dylan says.
I begin to choke up. All I can think is that Dylan will never know Charlotte. No one I ever meet again will know Charlotte.
“It’s okay,” he says softly.
He pulls me in tighter. God, it feels so good to be held.
“There’s another guy she was seeing,” I say slowly.
With each word, I can feel my rage beginning to boil, although at whom it’s directed remains unclear. Charlotte for keeping her secret? Paul for what he did to her?
And then I know. It’s none of the above. I’m furious with myself. For not protecting my sister. For not being there when she needed me.
“It’s my former college boyfriend. How messed up is that, right? I hadn’t seen him in more than ten years, but we recently reconnected. He told me that he also knew Charlotte. And I think—more than just think, actually—I’m pretty sure that he’s the guy who killed . . . or whatever . . . Charlotte.”
A thought crams into my brain, and I want to keep it from Dylan. I don’t want him to know the kind of person I really am. But then it comes out, anyway, as if I’m incapable of keeping a secret from him.
“You know, before this, I never considered myself a vengeful person. I mean, I was a prosecutor for a lot of years, but I was never one of the ones who relished the idea that these guys—and I prosecuted mainly men who were sexual predators—would be on the other end of that equation in prison. I just considered it a tragedy all the way around. But now . . . all I want is for Paul, this guy I once thought I was in love with, to suffer for what he did to Charlotte. Not just to die, but to suffer.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Matthew is walking along the street outside the gallery by the time I exit the building. I call out his name, regretting it instantly in case someone who knows Marco overhears. At least it gets Matthew to stop in his tracks.
“Proud of yourself?” I say when I catch up with him.
His smirk tells me the answer.
“In all honesty, yes. Yes I am, actually.”
“What if I pulled a stunt like this with your wife?”
“It was harmless, Clare. In fact, I did you a favor. He’s going to be happy now. He made a sale. Am I his first one?” he says with a laugh.
“It’s not funny. Do you have any idea how often Marco’s going to talk about this with me? Are you even going to buy that piece?”
His expression turns serious. “Of course I’m going to buy it. I meant what I said. It really is transcendentally beautiful. But that’s hardly because Painter Boy is the next coming of Rembrandt. It’s because you are transcendentally beautiful.”
Maybe there are women who can still be angry after a man calls them transcendentally beautiful, but I’m not one of them. My fury dissipates and I can’t help but smile, which tells Matthew that he’s won.
While I’m writhing with Matthew on thousand-thread-count linens, Marco texts that he’s going to go out after the show with the two other student artists. I don’t see it until around midnight, when I’m already on my way home from the hotel. Since Marco didn’t text again, I assume he hasn’t given a second thought to where I’ve spent the last few hours.
Marco arrives home several hours after me. I’m awake but pretend to be asleep so I don’t have to deal with him, just in case he’s angry that I made a hasty exit from the show. Or worse, he wants to have sex, which I’m definitely not up for after Matthew.
The following morning, I wake up early and make a strong pot of coffee. I’m hoping to have some time to myself before Marco rises, and take my cup out onto the balcony. Alone, with the wind swirling around me and the beauty of the Hudson below, I reflect on what I’ve let my life become. When did it get so out of control? I’m a train wreck, no two ways about it. Living with a man I fear is becoming abusive while in love with a married man and sleeping with a student who might get me expelled.
I’m not outside long when I hear the unwelcome sound of Marco in the living room. He opens the glass door to the terrace and pokes his head out.