Chapter 56
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
I scoop up the dress and take it back to my room. My hands are shaking, though I tell myself it’s from the cold water, not because I’m scared. Why would I be afraid? There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s a coincidence, nothing else. Dior probably made thousands of these dresses.
But I’m on edge—and how could I not be? There’s no mention of a murder trial yet. She hasn’t been charged. Why hasn’t she been charged? How long does it take for the police, those moronic dropouts, those incompetent rubes, to see the obvious?
I toss the dress onto the table and feel angry with myself. After everything I’ve done, after all my goddamn bravery, why should a simple coincidence ruin my mood?
Be rational. Think about cause and effect. Grace is dead. The other one might as well be dead.
It’s over. I won.
I have a quick shower, but as I get dressed, I still feel uneasy, so I take a gummy to calm myself down. I sit in the armchair by the window and open the poems of Catullus. When that doesn’t work, I grab my collected works of Shakespeare and dip into one of the comedies.
Love and hate—they always swirl together, confuse, and combust. I’m happy for that to be my life, even if it ruins my nervous system, even if I suffer.
Passion and feeling! What else can we live for?
Solemn duty, hard work, early nights? An indifferent wife and a job that eats your soul, slowly and then suddenly, leaving you nothing but an empty husk?
“We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
Starved, feasted, despaired—been happy.”
Never! I’d sooner die!
I’d sooner kill.
By the time I finish the play, it’s time for a cocktail. I take Nabokov’s Pale Fire to the bar and sit by the window. The wind has picked up, whistling through the boats in the marina. I feel a surge of anxiety for The Ancient Mariner.
After my salmon en croute and cocktail number three, the whistle has become a scream. The masts of the boats are rocking wildly. I try to concentrate on my book, but the words are beginning to run together.
“I think this is for you.”
An envelope drops on the table next to my empty plate.
I look up to find a blonde woman in a tight red dress standing over me. She looks familiar.
“Stella.” That was the name she gave me. Night six. “What are you doing here? What is this?”
“No idea. It was on my windshield this morning.”
I wasn’t planning on reusing any of the women from my first week, but now that she’s here, it feels preordained. Who am I to question fate?
“Have a seat. Please. Can I get you a drink?” I look at the waitress, who comes over immediately.
“Look, I’m a little freaked out,” Stella says, looking over her shoulder. “How did you get my address?”
“Your address?” I order for both of us. “I don’t have your address. I don’t believe I know your real name.”
“Then how does this get on the hood of my fucking car?”
I pick up the envelope and read the inscription on the front.
For Bradley Little, The Vista Hotel, Room 502.
So much for the coincidence. The dress was intentional, then. Someone is taunting me—but who?
It doesn’t take long to figure out.
Jesse Youngman.
I open the envelope, and a small sheet of paper drops out. On it, a page ripped from a poetry book. I recognize it immediately. The Last Duchess by Robert Browning. I taught it for over a decade.
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive.”
“Bastard.”
“Huh?”
“Ah, it’s a practical joke,” I say, forcing a smile. “An old friend is staying with me at the hotel. He must have thought it would be funny.”
Stella’s drink arrives, and she visibly relaxes. “Can you tell him to knock it off? Not all my clients are as classy as you. It freaked me out.”
“Of course, my dear.” I fold up the poem and stare at Stella’s made-up face. She’s a beautiful young woman—probably more attractive when she isn’t dressed for work. “Now that you’ve come all this way, would you like to stay?”
She looks pleased with the idea, and I wonder if it’s just the money she likes, or if she’s developing feelings for me. “What’s the poem about?”
“It’s about a man who killed his wife and is about to marry someone else.”
“Jesus, really? I thought it was about a painting.”
“It is that, too.”
“I was good at English at school. Teachers said I was a natural.” She looks sadly into her drink. “Didn’t last past ninth grade, though.”
As she talks about her childhood, I try to focus on her beauty, on how it will be, later, in the dark, just us, her living body beneath me, our souls…
But all I can think about is Jesse. How did he know about Stella?
And why did she come here, dressed to the nines, just to deliver a letter?
Why didn’t she just leave it at reception? What’s her game?
I down my drink in one.
“Let’s go.”
She raises one eyebrow, but nods. “Down to business.”
“No,” I say. “Not business.”
I walk quickly from the bar to the elevator, her heels click-clacking behind me. When the elevator door closes, she leans down to rub her ankle.
I grab her wrist and pull her up to face me.
“You’re keen, aren’t you?”
She lets out a moan, a practiced, crafted moan, an artisanal moan. She thinks that I’m overcome with passion. But then my grip tightens, and the performance drops.
“Hey, man, you’re hurting me.”
“What’s his name?”
She tries to pull away, but can’t manage it. She’s stronger than Grace, but not strong enough. “Who?”
“The man who gave you the letter. Who was it?”
“You said—”
“You met him, didn’t you? He hired you? He saw us together and tracked you down?”
“Calm down, dude. I told you what happened.”
“Yes, but what happened makes no sense!” I grab her arm and push her against the wall of the elevator. “Tell me the truth, you little slut. How much did he pay you?”
To her credit, she doesn’t look scared. Just angry. But she’ll learn.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My hand finds its way to her throat. It fits perfectly, a hook across her windpipe. How easy it would be to crush the life from this woman. How long would it take? A minute? Two?
“You’re a lying b—”
Before I can finish my sentence, she brings her knee to my groin, and then jabs the long nails of her thumbs into my eyes.
She misses, but I can feel them slice across the tops of my cheeks.
She darts to the buttons and mashes them wildly.
I’m on my side, thinking of nothing but the white heat of pain pulsing from my testicles, when the elevator dings open.
Level four. She sprints out, and the door closes before I can stand.
So much for my pleasant evening.
When the door opens for my floor, I hobble out, feeling a mix of anger and shame.
Not my best work. Idiotic, really. If Stella calls the police, I’ll be back on their radar.
No longer a bumbling professor in mourning, but a potential predator.
I’ll be a suspect again. I’m lucky that whores hate the police.
I’m not myself. How could this happen? He knows I’m here, and he’s messing with me.
Or maybe it isn’t him. Maybe it’s one of the graduate students from the university, an ex seeking her revenge. God knows there were enough. That’s what cooked me in the tenure review. Some unflattering stories came out, stories that had been hoarded by my enemies on the faculty.
But the dress, the poem. Why would they pick those? It’s too specific.
No, it must be Jesse. I need to move on. I’ll check out tomorrow and find another spot. I’ll have to leave my boat, but that’s OK. It might keep him off my scent for a while.
As I open my door, I’m struck with fatigue. The alcohol, the pain, the anxiety, it’s all too much. I just want to sleep. As I go inside, I kick off my shoes, then wince in pain. There’s something sharp on the floor. I flick on the light and swear under my breath.
Jesse’s lost his mind. Across the floor, he’s scattered pebbles, stones, and moss.
From the ocean, perhaps.
Or a river.
The mess ends at the table, where I see a knife, standing upright like a ship’s mast. As I get closer, I see it’s been driven through a hardback book. It's not one of mine, though it's a title I’m very familiar with.
The Last Date.
Grace’s novel.