Chapter Forty-Seven
Forty-Seven
Gwen
I sent Porter into the city with the five hundred dollars’ cash I kept in my apartment for emergencies and told him to get noticed.
I told him to put a hotel room on his credit card for the night and I would reimburse him.
I needed him to have an alibi and I couldn’t have him coming back to my apartment if I was about to do anything in the realm of what I was telling myself I was about to do.
He sent me to look for Natalie at a cheap, grungy motel in Revere Beach. It was two blocks from the actual beach, enough distance to obstruct any view of the ocean but close enough to give it a vaguely nautical name. It was the end of the offseason and there were only a few cars in the parking lot.
Most of the motel was dark. There was a light on in the first-floor room that was two doors to the left of the vending machine—the one Porter thought she was staying in.
It was forty-five minutes before I saw her silhouette pass by the window.
I couldn’t know it was her for sure, but it wasn’t a three-hundred-pound man, so it was enough to make me sit up in my seat.
Stalking was not nearly as exciting as they made it seem on TV.
I should have kicked the door down the moment I got there; sitting quietly in the dark had really deflated my sails.
There was no sense of urgency. She wasn’t going anywhere and I didn’t know what I was going to say or how I was going to say it. It was Natalie. I needed her to listen to me. I needed her to stop. But nothing I had ever tried before had worked.
- - - - -
Two hours later and nothing had changed. She hadn’t left the motel room and I hadn’t left the car. Maybe she was done with the whole thing. Maybe she was going to slink off into the sunset and I wouldn’t have to hurt her. I’d never wanted to hurt her.
I yawned. Then I thought about leaving. Tomorrow night might be better for escalation and murder.
I’d have a late-afternoon espresso and skip the stalking part.
But before I could wimp out under the guise of strategy, her silhouette appeared in front of the curtains again—at least I assumed it was her.
The figure stayed there for a moment, staring out onto the street.
It was as if she were looking at me, but I couldn’t tell if the curtains obstructed her view the way they did mine.
Then I saw the curtains separate, enough for her to get a good look outside and for me to get a decent enough look at her face. It was definitely her. She released the curtain and slipped away.
I popped open the glove compartment and pulled out the largest, pointiest knife I’d been able to find at the thrift store, originally for self-defense and not necessarily to ambush my old friend with. I didn’t want to use the knife and I still hoped there was a chance I wouldn’t have to.
I gripped the handle in my sweaty hand and waited. Minutes passed and I started to second-guess the whole staring-at-each-other-across-the-parking-lot moment. Had she even noticed me or my car? Stalking was hard. I understood why my father preferred impulsivity when it came to killing.
I almost put the knife back in the glove compartment, but then the motel door opened and Natalie stepped out onto the paved landing.
Then there was no doubt she was looking directly at me.