Exposed (Madame X, #2)

“I want the chip out, Caleb.” I say.

You touch and swipe at the screen of your phone several times in quick succession, and then hold it to your ear. “Good morning, Dr. Frankel. I am well, and yourself? Good, good. I’m calling to see how soon you can be in New York. That facial reconstruction you did six years ago? The young woman? I would like you to reverse a certain element of that procedure. I’m sure you’re aware what I mean. Correct . . . I think ten million dollars is a little high, Doctor. How about two? Eight? I think not. It’s a very simple procedure, Doctor. It will take you twenty minutes at most. Fine, three, and I’ll arrange a night out with one of the girls to an exclusive club I know of. Very good. Tomorrow then. I’ll have Len meet you with the car at ten A.M. Eastern time, domestic arrivals at LaGuardia. Excellent. Thank you for your time, Dr. Frankel.” You end the call with a touch of your index finger, set the phone on the arm of your chair, and glance at me. “There. By noon tomorrow, the chip will be gone.”

Silence between us then, equal parts awkward and comfortable.

After a time I cannot measure, you stand up, drain the glass, set it on the table. “I have much yet to do today. So if there is nothing else, I need a shower. You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

It cannot be that simple. That easy. There is so much I want to say, but I don’t know how. Nothing fits. None of the puzzle pieces click properly. I feel panic at the sight of you walking away so easily.

“Wait.” I stand. Take careful steps across the thick rug and halt behind you, mere inches from the rippling plateau of muscle that is your back. Watch you breathe. Watch your shoulders rise gently and fall subtly with each breath. “Tell me the story, Caleb. How you found me.”

“I thought you’d be past that by now.” You do not turn around. Your hands clench into fists.

Early-morning sun blazes through the eastward-facing windows, bathing us in brilliant yellow light. Dust motes dance in the gleaming spears of sunshine.

“I’ll never be past that, Caleb. I need to hear it.” What I do not say, a truth I do not dare utter, is that I doubt you.

I doubt the truth of the story. I wonder if, perhaps, it is just that: a story. A fiction you fabricated in order to bind me to you. But I have to hear it, one more time.

As Isabel.

You move with slow, lithe steps to a window. Rest a forearm against the frame, and your forehead against your arm. “It was late. Past midnight, I believe. It was raining, and had been for hours. The whole world was wet.”

A flash of olfactory memory hits me: wetness, damp concrete, the smell of rain. I choke on the remembered scent.

“The sidewalks glistened in the streetlights,” you continue, “and I have this very specific memory of the way the stoplights looked on the wet pavement of the road, red circles, yellow circles, green circles. I remember the way my shoes sounded, clicking dully on the pavement. I was alone on the sidewalk, which is rare in New York, even at midnight. But it was October, so the rain was cold, and it was windy. The kind of weather you didn’t go out in unless you had to. The wind was so strong it would turn your umbrella inside out. It had done it to mine, and I’d stuffed it into a trash can. I was so wet. I’d been walking for blocks in the pouring rain. Funny thing is, I don’t remember why I was out. Where I was going, where I was coming from, or why. I was absentminded. Just trying to get home as quickly as possible. I would have walked right past you. I almost did. I don’t help the homeless as a rule. Not because I am too important, or because I’m too cheap, or any of that. But because I know from experience any help I give them will only go to more drugs, more alcohol, more gambling. I cannot help everyone in the city. When I first began making real money, I tried. I think everyone who first moves to New York tries to help the beggars. It’s a rite of passage to becoming a New Yorker, I think. Eventually, you have to learn that you cannot spend all your money tipping the homeless. Especially when many of them aren’t really even homeless, but merely too lazy to work. I know this, as well, from personal experience. I know their addictions. I know their predilection for destructive substances.”

“You’re wandering off topic, Caleb,” I say.

You sigh. Make a fist and tap your knuckles against the glass in a rhythmic pattern: tap-tap—taptaptap—tap-tap—taptaptap. You are still staring out the window, head cradled against your forearm.

“Indeed I am.”

Jasinda Wilder's books