Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“This is a pretty long prologue for a man who doesn’t like them,” Juliette said.

“Did you go straight to bed last night?”

Her mouth formed wordless circles for a few seconds. “Is that the question you got down on one knee to ask me?”

“No, spur of the moment. It’s just, when you say you’d do anything for me—”

“Oh my God.” This was a very different oh my God from her first. “Are you . . . interrogating me?”

“No. Sorry, I want to ask—”

“I don’t care about what you want to ask, I care about what you did ask. You’re checking my alibi?”

“It just popped into my head.”

“Did it.” It wasn’t a question.

People over at the dining tables had noticed I was down on one knee. I could tell they were starting to turn and watch; too far away to hear our words, it looked like it was going better than it was, and they clutched together in groups of excitement. Whispers carried on the wind, sounding like waves breaking on the shore.

Okay, look. I’m not proud of what’s about to happen. But I promised you the truth, stupidity and all, so I’ve resisted the urge to edit myself into a more, shall we say, debonair position.

“I’m not seriously a suspect?” Juliette said.

“I mean, everyone’s a suspect.”

“Are you?”

“Well . . . no.”

“Why not?”

“I’m the narrator.”

She went to throw her hands up but then realized too that everyone was watching us, and instead held them with quivering restraint by her sides as she pulled on a fake smile. She spoke behind her teeth. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Just because you’re writing it down doesn’t give you a special pass. This is real life: it doesn’t follow the rules of a detective novel. You waltz around like you’re invincible, and it’s going to get you killed. Royce is writing it down too, genius, I bet he’s not the villain in his book.”

“I’m just asking questions. This case is important.”

“Case? Case?! You’re not a detective, Ern.” She shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” Tears splashed down her cheeks and she wiped them frantically with the back of her hand. Annoyingly, this got a cheer from one enthusiastic member of the crowd who mistook it for happiness. A camera flash went off.

“You didn’t want to come?” I asked, surprised by how much that hurt.

“I don’t know how to explain this to you. You’d been in a funk ever since the murders. I get it, I do. And you thought this book you wrote defined you, gave some kind of meaning to what happened. You defined yourself so much through it. I thought it would give you a bit of confidence back, coming here. And you don’t even take five seconds out of your day to appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what?”

“You weren’t invited on this festival, Ern. I was.”

It was as if the stars had been shut off. My vision started getting blurry, dark. My conversation with Majors flashed through my mind: the way she looked when I thanked her for the invite; I didn’t invite you. “But Majors—”

“Invited me. A bit of quid pro quo for the endorsement she wanted. I said no, and suggested you instead. I thought you needed it, I thought it would help you feel valued. And instead, I’ve been relegated to a bit part in the Ernest Cunningham Show, like I’m a side character in my own story. You keep saying I’m waiting on my next adventure, but when have I ever told you that? I might like to open up a new resort. I might like to write another book. But you’ve never asked, because we’re always talking about you. And I know that what you went through broke you, and I know it’s been hard to work through. But my home burned down last year. I lost my livelihood. And yet I still gave this invite to you. I’m not twiddling my thumbs ‘waiting on my next adventure,’ I’m waiting for you. But now I see that this might be all I am to you. Just a part of your story.” She took a breath. “That scares me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, simply because I didn’t know what else to say. I’d never even been invited on the trip. She’d made this huge, unspoken gesture for me and this was how I’d been treating her? Shame sat hot in my stomach. My knee was feeling the hardness of the dirt. The murmur of the crowd was growing; they were starting to think it was the longest proposal they’d ever seen. Proposing is the opposite of sex in terms of desired durations: the faster the better.

“It’s too late for sorry,” Juliette said. “You thought I did it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Even for a second. Even that it crossed your mind. That’s enough.” She sniffed. “Humor me. Why would I have done it?”

Now, it is a great virtue to understand when a question is rhetorical. This is a virtue, I’ve learned, that I do not possess.

I should have left it.

I definitely should not have listened to Simone’s voice in my head: As if you aren’t a little grateful . . . It’s fallen right in your lap.