Look Closer

“Yes, ma’am. You can leave a message at the lobby desk for him.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I have his cell phone. I just wanted a photo to go with the article.”

“Well, he’ll be gone ’til Tuesday night, miss. Golf trip.”

Conrad is leaving town?

So he’ll be gone for Halloween this coming Monday. Perfect.

64 Simon

Friday morning is dark and chilly, which feels about right. I walk down from the law school to the Chicago Title & Trust Building and arrive well before ten. My walk was faster than normal, though I didn’t realize it. Must be the nerves.

I grab my coffee and power on my phone. At ten o’clock, I text:

Good morning princess

Her reply doesn’t come right away. I sip the coffee while people come in and out of the building, checking with security, sliding passes over scanners as iron gates allow them through to the different elevator banks. Finally, my phone pings:

Hey

Not the warmest of greetings. My response:

I hate Fridays. Most people love Fridays but I hate them. Because I can’t talk to you again until Monday morning.

She doesn’t respond. A reasonable person would think she’s either distracted or reticent. I throw her some more:

Every day that I can’t talk to you or be with you is like torture.

Her reply box bubbles. It takes more than two minutes before she responds:

I know it stinks

Not exactly a font of conversation today, are we? I try to engage her more than that:

Very soon, we can be together EVERY day, not just Mon-Tues-Weds-Thurs.

She doesn’t respond. The coffee is cooling enough that I can drink it in greater gulps, and I do, because there’s not much else to do. This is a one-sided conversation. I try this:

Something wrong? You seem distracted

This time, her reply comes quickly:

Yes sorry

Yes, what? You’re distracted, or something’s wrong? But a halfway normal person would let this go for now and not push. So that’s what I do:

Ok, well I hope you’re doing ok and I can’t wait to talk to you Monday. Have a great weekend! Love you! See you on Monday Halloween

This time, her reply comes quickly:

You too

I stare at the phone for a while. Nothing else comes. I power it down, remove the SIM card, and shove the phone in my pocket. I leave the building just in time for the rainfall to begin.

65 Vicky

Friday, noon sharp. I arrive in the alley by Christian’s garage door. I type in the pass code to his garage. The door grinds open. I close my umbrella and step inside. Christian is by the interior door waiting for me. He hits a button to close the door behind me.

Christian looks the same superficially as always, the male-model, pretty-boy thing, but he is all nerves, wearing a frown on his face and some dark circles under his eyes.

I follow him up the stairs. It smells different in here. Usually, there isn’t much of a scent one way or the other, maybe a hint of his cologne, maybe a trace of body odor if he’s been working out recently. Now the air is pungent with disinfectant.

“You’ve been cleaning.”

“I’ve wiped down every surface,” he says. “I don’t want your fingerprints anywhere. Vacuumed, too. Have to remove all trace of you.”

That’s a good boy, Christian.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I use your bathroom.”

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll wipe it down after you’re gone.”

Good that he’s taken this seriously. There can’t be any trace of me inside this apartment.

I step into the bathroom, a shrine to his vanity, with the matching set of titanium toothbrush, razor, nail clippers, nose-hair trimmer, and fucking dental-floss holder. I’m surprised the dirty-towel hamper in the corner isn’t plated in titanium, too.

When I come back out, he’s waiting right there for me, a nervous Nellie.

“Did you destroy your computer?” he asks.

“I broke it into several pieces and dumped each piece in a different spot.”

“Good. And you got rid of your burner phone?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I thought we might still need to talk. It’s only Friday.”

“No, I think we’re done talking,” he says. “Probably best we don’t see each other between now and Monday. Or after, for that matter. Not for a while.”

I frown, like I’m greatly disturbed at the thought of our separation, like I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if I have to spend one moment without the man of my dreams. “How long a while?” I ask.

“Vicky, we—we have to be prepared for an investigation.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. Now he’s going to lecture me on what will happen post-murder, and I will have to look like I’m paying attention, like I’m not ten steps ahead of him.