No, I’m not okay, Miranda. Did you know your boss is not at all who you think he is?
I start the car and maneuver out of the parking lot, too stricken to take the gas gauge over forty once I’m on the road. I manage for a few minutes, keeping much of my concentration focused on what’s on the other side of my windshield, and then, while I’m still on the lake road, I start to shake, my hands doing freaky little bounces off the steering wheel. I quickly pull over and park on the shoulder. I take long breaths and try to calm myself.
Suddenly, as if touched in the dark by a ghost, I feel it. A hand reaching across to tap my arm. Someone speaks to me in a gentle voice: Bryn, there’s something I need to tell you, and I’m afraid it’s going to be upsetting.
It’s Paul. On the car ride from Boston. The memory is faint but unmistakable. I squeeze my head with my hands, hoping for more, but it escapes from me, like a piece of melody carried on the wind.
Is that why the car went off the road? Had Paul reached over to comfort me and become distracted? The thought is unbearable.
I take more breaths, in and out. Finally, I feel well enough to drive. I start the car again and slowly wend my way back around the lake.
Arriving at the junction of Route 9, I make a right toward town. As I reach the outskirts, I pass sights that have now become familiar—Saratoga Park; the Lincoln Baths, one of the old bathhouses, now closed, I believe; the Museum of Dance. At the sight of the museum, a thought strikes me and I slow the car.
If Guy is a master liar, if he’s deceived both the police and me about the extent of his relationship with Eve, it stands to reason that he might have lied to me about where he was at the time of Eve's murder. What if he killed her? I can’t believe I’m asking myself this question, though in light of what I now know, I’d be a fool not to.
I pull over the car, and twist around in my seat, staring back at the dance museum. I have to go in there, I realize. Nick told me at dinner that while he had been there purely for glad-handing, Guy had taken in the performances, which suggests they may have separated during the evening. I have to confirm Guy’s alibi and make sure there’s no possible way he could have murdered Eve.
I pull back onto the road, make a crazy, jerky U-turn and direct the car into the mostly empty parking lot of the dance museum. While I know there can’t be anyone watching me, as I step out of the car, I glance around just to be sure.
I pay the museum admission fee at the entrance window and, from there, step into a huge white room that has a row of floor-to-ceiling windows facing a courtyard in the back. Though there are a few women milling around, the space is devoid of furnishings or displays. This is probably where the reception was held, I realize. I need to figure out where the performances took place, where Guy would have been.
Two separate hallways lead off from the right and left sides of the room, each functioning as exhibition space. I start to the right. The walls are lined with multicolored posters featuring photographs of famous ballet stars and notes about their backgrounds. There are also glass display cases stocked with headpieces and slippers, video screens flashing dance performances, and mannequin torsos decked out in costumes.
The hallway eventually leads to an actual exhibit room, windowless and without doors. Maybe one of the dance performances was in here. It would have been easy enough to set up rows of folding chairs and still give dancers a place to perform.
My attention is tugged to the left. There’s yet another room unfolding from this one. In some ways, moving through these endless rooms feels familiar. They’re like all the revelations about Guy, one after the other, that have spun out over the past week—the drinks with Eve, the flirtation with her, the secret life in Dallas—each adding to my shock and suspicion.
I step inside. This room is filled with a visually cacophonous tribute to tango stars. A performance could have easily been held in this space, too, on the night of the party. I picture Guy standing here, separated from Nick by an endless stream of people and displays.
And then I see it: an exit door, leading out to the courtyard and another parking lot beyond it. I flinch at the sight.
It would have been easy enough, I think. Guy could have snuck out of the museum by this exit, or a similar one on the other wing of the building.
He could have driven to Eve’s, murdered her, and then returned without anyone being the wiser.
Chapter 20