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  Bill stood, asked, “Who here wants one more for the road?”

  Mrs. Anderby raised her hand, as Carol said: “Bill, I’m sure the young people have dinner plans.”

  Alan turned to Kate, a question in his eyes. Kate, who hadn’t spoken for a while, said to the room: “I think two martinis is my martini limit.” Everyone laughed, and she wondered if she’d slurred her words.

  Carol walked Alan and Kate to the front door as Bill made another drink for Mrs. Anderby. “I’m sorry we had to cut short the conversation about Audrey Marshall, but Lila won’t sleep for days,” she said. “Kate, I’ve spoken to the building manager, and individually with both Bob and Sanibel and, who’s the new one . . . ?”

  “Oscar,” Alan said.

  “And Oscar, and all three are going to be extra on-their-guard in the coming months.”

  When Alan and Kate were left alone in the hall—Carol having insisted that they come back soon, maybe even for dinner—they stood for a moment, quietly, each looking at the other. The pause in conversation made Kate all the more aware of how drunk the two martinis had made her, the walls of the hallway shimmering as though they were underwater.

  “I think I need to eat something,” she said.

  “Those were big martinis,” Alan said.

  “How many did you have?”

  “I had two, but I’m a professional.”

  “Yeah, I think I’m an amateur.”

  “I’m not much of a cook,” Alan said, “but I’m good at breakfast food. I can make you an omelet.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  Alan’s kitchen, like Kate’s, had a large granite-topped island. She sat and watched him make the omelet. He’d offered her a glass of wine, but she asked for water instead. He’d already whisked the eggs, and was now shredding a block of Jarlsberg cheese. “I’m sorry I don’t have any vegetables,” he said.

  “Please. I’d be happy eating that block of cheese.”

  “I can make you some toast, too, if you’d like?”

  “Yes, please. And I can make it if you point me toward the bread.”

  As Kate made the whole wheat toast, Alan went to the living room and started playing music, some sort of jazz that was vaguely familiar to Kate. Tenor saxophone, piano, drums. He came back and started the omelets, sliding a large pat of butter onto the hot surface of the pan. He had a look of intense concentration on his face, and Kate instantly saw what he would have looked like as a small boy, hovering over a spelling test at school. It was then that she decided to definitely sleep with him.

  She hadn’t been with anyone since George Daniels. Over five years. The thought of being intimate with someone again terrified her, although she’d known for a while that it was something she needed to do. She had no intention of exiting this realm having only ever had sex with a man who’d tried to kill her. But the timing had to be right. She was worried about picking the wrong person and the wrong moment, and winding up traumatized again. But now—right this very moment—the conditions were perfect. She was drunk, and in another country. If she needed to suddenly escape, her own apartment was in the same building. And she was attracted to Alan, and he seemed to be attracted to her. And even though there was something a little off about him—his obsession with Audrey, for one—he seemed kind. And it was time, she told herself.

  Knowing what was probably going to happen next, Kate lost her appetite. Still, she ate her omelet and the buttered toast, while they talked about Carol and Bill. Alan told her that Bill had run a major airline once upon a time, and that they spent their winters in Palm Beach. They’d had one son, who had committed suicide nearly twenty years earlier.

  “How do you know all this?” Kate asked.

  “Quinn, my ex-girlfriend, found out. We’d had drinks with them—an exact replica of tonight’s evening, by the way—and Quinn had apparently passed the test, and I did not, because Carol and Quinn became sort of friends. Well, they had lunch on one of Bill’s golfing days, and I wasn’t invited to play golf.”

  “Do you play golf?”

  “No.”

  “So what makes you think you made this bad impression?”

  “I made a comment about how unnecessary a doorman was in a building in Beacon Hill. Something like that. I got a lecture. And I’m not sure they liked the shape of my nose.”

  “Seriously? Really?” Kate said.

  “No, not really. I mean, because I’m Jewish.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you know I was Jewish?”

  “No, I never even thought about it.”

  “Maybe I was being paranoid, but the whole night I was sitting there, I kept thinking that all they were seeing was this ugly Jew with a beautiful shiksa, and wondering how I’d made it into their building. They were probably thinking it again, tonight.”

  “I think you sound paranoid.”

  Alan laughed. “No, I’m definitely paranoid. Doesn’t mean they didn’t think it, though.”

  “And I don’t think you’re ugly,” Kate said. “Not at all.”

  They cleaned the dishes, and Kate accepted a glass of white wine. The food had sobered her up, and she wanted to regain a little bit of the feeling she’d had earlier. After the kitchen was clean, Alan went into the living room to put on a new record, Kate following him. The music started—jazz again, but with a female vocalist—and Kate put her glass down on a wooden side table. Alan put his glass down next to it, and with only a little hesitation took Kate into his arms and kissed her. Kate froze a little, then relaxed and parted her lips. The tips of their tongues touched, and Kate’s legs weakened. She pulled away a little.

  “You okay?” Alan asked.

  “It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this.”

  “Okay.”

  “And there’s a reason for that. I have baggage.”

  “Okay. We can talk about it if you like.”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it. I just wanted you to know in advance in case it got weird.”

  Alan smiled. “Thanks for letting me know.” His voice sounded a little hoarse. “Forewarned, forearmed.”

  They kissed some more, standing next to the record player. Kate recognized one of the songs: “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” It was an old song, and it made her feel as though they were kissing in a different era. Years earlier. It helped Kate pretend she was someone else, someone who wasn’t scared all the time, someone who slipped in and out of passionate affairs on a weekly basis.

  “Do you want to . . . ?” Alan began to ask.

  “Stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  They moved to the bedroom, which was as neat as the rest of the house, the double bed tightly made, no clothes lying on the floor. Above the bed was a framed print that Kate recognized as a Chagall. She wondered if it was Alan’s or a memento from his failed relationship. Alan used the bathroom first, then Kate did, and when she returned Alan was already in bed. She now felt entirely sober, and nervous, but she wasn’t panicking. She felt ready. George Daniels crept around in the back of her mind, of course, watching them, but Kate could handle it. He was always there, and she was used to him.

  Kate noticed a T-shirt and what looked like a pair of pajama bottoms neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Alan said: “In case you wanted something to wear.” She realized that Alan, ever since she’d confessed to him that she hadn’t done this in a while, had been overly careful with her. She pulled her dress over her head, unhooked and took off her bra, and slid next to him. The sheets were crisp and cool, and Alan pulled her in close to his thin, warm body. His hand slipped around one of her breasts. His mouth still tasted like wine.

  She woke at dawn, the bedroom’s only window suffused in a pearly gray light. Alan was snoring lightly, one of his hands resting on her hip. Standing over them was George Daniels. He was holding his hunting rifle in one hand. With his other he was unzipping his pants. He smiled at her, his mouth a gaping hole, without teeth.
Kate wondered where his teeth were, then realized they were in her own mouth, a pile of them, rattling around like little sharp-edged marbles, choking her.

  She woke again. The window looked the same, glowing dimly in the dawn, but there was no George, and Alan’s hand was no longer on her hip. Her heart was skipping a little too fast, and her skin was damp with sweat. It was just George, in her dreams again, the only place he could reach her. She slid out of the bed and walked naked to the bathroom. She flipped the switch, and a harsh, bright light—four oversized bulbs above the vanity—flooded the bathroom. She closed her eyes, then opened them slightly to allow them time to adjust. Her mouth was dry, and she drank cool, tinny water directly from the faucet. Then she looked at herself in the full-length mirror, her nakedness making her acutely aware of what had just happened. It had been good. More than good, really. They’d kissed for a while, touching each other shyly under the sheets. It was very clear that Alan was taking things slow, and she’d started to regret telling him she had baggage, but after she removed her own underwear and asked him if he had a condom, he took charge, slowly at first, then, after he was inside of her, with a sense of purpose that George, awkward and needy, had never had. She’d enjoyed it, even though she’d felt at a remove, watching the proceedings, desperately happy that it was happening, but never entirely in the moment. Afterward, Alan had buried his head in the space between her neck and shoulder and let the full weight of his body press against hers. She could feel the breath moving in and out of his lungs, and the sticky warmth between their skin. It had been her favorite moment. She’d touched the tip of her tongue against the side of his neck just to taste him. Thinking of it now, she still felt relief that she had finally been with someone besides George Daniels, but she was also anxious. Despite the way that Alan made her feel, she barely knew him.

  She turned the light off, and the bathroom went black. She found the doorknob and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Back in the bedroom, Alan still slept, his face planted into a pillow, one leg kicked out from under the comforter.

  Quietly, Kate collected her clothes and left to dress in the bathroom. Seeing him lying there—innocently asleep—had caused a flutter of fear in her stomach. It was the way George Daniels had always slept, flipped onto his stomach, a hand tucked under his chin.

  It’s just the way Alan sleeps, she told herself. He’s not George.

  But she could feel the good feelings she’d just felt about Alan evaporating away. It was like a rapid change in the weather.

  She dressed and left his apartment, walked to her side of the building. She didn’t see anyone, but the sound of her shoes on the tiled floor made her feel as though the entire apartment building knew where she had been.

  Back behind her closed door, she felt her mind starting to race out of her control. She barely knew Alan. He’d been obsessed with a woman in the building who was now dead. After meeting her once in the courtyard, he’d showed up at the restaurant where she was eating dinner. He’d probably followed her there, and he’d probably also made sure to get himself invited to Bill and Carol Valentine’s apartment for drinks. At best, he had decided to seduce her—and succeeded, almost instantly. At worst, he was a psychotic murderer. She caught herself rapidly touching the pad of her thumb to each fingertip, three times on each finger, then made herself stop.

  There was a knock on the door, light, almost hesitant. There was no need to look through the peephole. It’s Alan, came George’s voice. He’s chased you down. Still, Kate looked. And there was Alan’s face, serious, almost haunted. And was there something else? A little bit of anger, maybe.

  Kate slid the shoes off her feet and backed away from the door, as quietly as she could, George still whispering in her ear.

  Chapter 21

  Kate tried to sleep some more, and when that didn’t work, she showered and got dressed, even though she had no intention of leaving her apartment that day.

  She opened up her e-mail account, saw that Martha was also online, and sent her a message: Hiya.

  Five minutes passed, during which Kate read an e-mail from her father telling her that he hoped she wasn’t becoming too stressed. She knew that the e-mail had been dictated to her father, or flat-out written, by her mother, who didn’t want to write the same message herself. She was about to google Alan Cherney when Martha wrote back: Hi.

  Kate: How’s life? Haven’t snogged with my cousin again, have you?

  Martha: I wish. he scampered

  Kate: What do you mean?

  Martha: Haven’t seen him, or heard him. Not that I’ve been trying to (complete lie), but he’s not around

  Kate: Since when?

  Martha: Since the last time I saw him. I don’t know. Heard him Saturday, I think.

  Kate: Strange.

  Martha: He ask you about me? Did you tell him to run for the hills?

  Kate: I recommended he get as far away as possible.

  Martha: You probably did, you dirty bitch

  Kate: He probably rented some glamorous flat to get out of mine. If you see him, let me know, though.

  Martha: What’s going on?

  Kate: Nothing. Just being nosy. Gotta run.

  Kate logged out of her e-mail account. Where did Corbin go? Was he on his way back here? And if so, why hadn’t he let her know?

  Kate went back to googling Alan Cherney, finding very little. It looked as though he’d been a fencer, and his name showed up on tournament results, plus one photograph from the Tufts varsity squad, a picture that was ten years old. She remembered what he’d said the night before at the cocktail party about how he’d found out Audrey Marshall had been mutilated from a Boston Globe article. No, not from an article, but from the comments section of an article. Kate went to the Globe’s Web site and found an article on Audrey Marshall. There were a few comments, but nothing mentioned how she’d been killed. She checked every article she could find, and all the comments. Nothing. Either it had been deleted—pretty likely, if you thought about it—or else Alan knew what had happened to Audrey for some other reason.

  Kate slid the computer off her lap and stood quickly, felt light-headed, then sat again. Her mouth was still dry from the night before and all that gin. She stood again, slower this time, and went to the kitchen. She drank orange juice straight from the carton. Once she began, she felt as though she couldn’t stop, chugging it till it ran down her chin. Then she ate a vanilla yogurt. She started to feel a little better.

  She went back into the living room and looked out the window at the day. It was bright and clear, not a cloud in sight, the first day she’d seen like that since coming to Boston. The part of the river she could see, however, rippled with wind, and a nearby tree, filled with new leaves, was bending and unbending. She pressed the palm of her hand against the glass of the window; it was cool to the touch, and she could feel the wind’s vibration through her hand.

  Maybe she would take a walk today, she thought, then dismissed it. She felt okay behind the locked door of the apartment, and out there in the world—out there somewhere—was Audrey’s murderer. And maybe that murderer was now interested in Kate.

  She tried to tell herself she was being paranoid, but it wasn’t working. What had happened to Audrey had something to do with her. Maybe not at first, but now it did. Corbin had been involved with Audrey and was now lying about it. And here she was, in Corbin’s apartment. Even the police were interested in Corbin.

  And there was Alan. What had she been thinking, sleeping with Alan? Even if he had nothing to do with what had happened to Audrey, he’d spied on her for months and months, obsessed with her, plotting a way to get to know her. Normal people don’t do that, Kate thought. But maybe Kate just wasn’t attracted to normal people. Maybe she was attracted to psychopaths. George Daniels hadn’t gotten her psychopath attraction out of her system. She needed to go to an entirely different country and find another one. She pictured Alan’s distorted face through the peephole just a few hours earlier, and she w
as scared. He was probably at work now, but he’d be back at her door later that evening. She was sure of it.

  The phone in the living room rang, a sharp jangling sound. Kate walked toward it, her heart speeding up a little. Would Alan have this phone number? It was possible. Maybe it was even listed. She let it go till it stopped ringing. A few seconds passed and it started again. It was definitely Alan, Kate thought, and told herself to pick up. If she was going to have to speak with him—and she’d slept with him, so, yes, she needed to speak with him—it would be easier to do that on the phone than in person.

  She cleared her throat, picked up the handset, and said, “Hello?”

  “Is this Kate Priddy?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s Detective James calling. I was wondering if we could come by this morning and take another look at your apartment?”

  “I guess so. Do you, uh, have a warrant?”

  “I don’t, although we can get one if you’d prefer.”

  “I think it will be okay.”

  “I’m bringing Audrey Marshall’s parents to Audrey’s apartment so they can collect what they want. I thought it would be good to leave them alone for a little while. It would give us an opportunity to talk, and for one of my officers to take a better look around Corbin’s apartment. Your apartment, now, of course.”

  “Oh. Okay. Is Corbin a suspect? Have you talked with him?”

  “I can answer your questions when I get there, Kate, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Kate hung up the phone. She wondered if they were coming back with an enormous team, with men in rubber gloves with little baggies to collect evidence. It didn’t sound like it, if they hadn’t gotten a warrant. Still, they clearly knew that Corbin had been in some sort of relationship with Audrey. As before, the imminent arrival of the police was making Kate want to search the apartment again herself. But she also wondered if she should be careful about touching things. She stood frozen by the phone. They’d want to see the key to Audrey’s apartment, she imagined. Where was that key? Kate, for a moment, couldn’t remember, then had a vague recollection of putting it back in the drawer where she had found it. She walked to the kitchen to check. It wasn’t there. There were several unmarked keys, and then the few that were labeled, although she couldn’t find the one that was labeled am. Kate thought hard. Maybe it was still in the pocket of the jeans she’d been wearing the night she went to Audrey’s apartment. She raced to the bedroom, searched through her clothes, and couldn’t find the key. She returned to the kitchen and searched the drawer again, lifting out the cutlery tray to make sure that the key hadn’t slid beneath it. She racked her brain but came up with nothing. The last time she remembered having the key was when she returned from looking at Audrey’s apartment. She’d watched Alan across the way. She shivered a little, then pushed him out of her mind.