19
Janelle arrived mid-sentence, mid-plan, hopping out of the rideshare with her arms wide open. She was dressed in a new coat—a
massive, shaggy blue one. She embraced Stevie and bounced.
“. . . and if we leave really soon we can still get a halfway decent spot at Times Square,” she said. “I found someone who
knows a back way in. You look amazing.”
This was a lie. Stevie’s short blond hair hadn’t been washed in two days and was sticking up obtusely, she had yet to wash
her clothes, and her only concession to presentation was wrapping her scarf around her neck in a way that felt kind of French.
She was almost certainly lying to herself about that last one, but this veneer of Frenchness, like Lance’s Stanley Tucci, was more vibes than reality.
Vi climbed out more slowly and sneezed, pulling their black-and-white-checked coat tight around their shoulders. They smiled
and hugged Stevie, sneezing as they did so. Stevie helped them inside.
“You have no idea how excited she is about this,” Vi said. “You know how she loves doing the things.”
Janelle’s enthusiasm for seeing and doing whatever a place was famous for, or whatever the holiday or occasion called for,
was the stuff of legend. She had planned their entire trip to London (before it was derailed by a murder) to make sure they
hit every important building, museum, and monument. New York was the place for New Year’s Eve, so it was only logical that
Janelle was going to be there when the ball dropped at midnight.
“All for 8H?” Al said as they approached the desk. “You gotta sign in. Sign in.”
He handed over the logbook so Vi and Janelle could sign their names and times of entry.
“I don’t know how well we’re going to be able to see the ball . . .” Janelle said.
“You don’t wanna go to the ball drop,” Al said. “It’s a mess over there.”
“It’s so exciting, though,” Janelle said, smiling.
“It’s piss. People piss on the ground. Nowhere else to go.”
Janelle’s smile stiffened, but she refused to drop it.
“Franklin?” Al said. “Wait, wait. There was a package for Franklin for 8H. I held it because I thought it was a mistake. Here
you go.”
He pushed a large box around the side of the desk.
“What is this?” Stevie said, picking it up.
“An air mattress,” Janelle replied with a smile. “Sleeping issues sorted.”
Vi started to sneeze repetitively.
“I have a cold,” they said, their voice scratchy. “Sorry.”
Janelle and Vi instantly changed the atmosphere. It wasn’t quiet anymore. It didn’t have a lonely feel. Janelle turned on
every light, examined the kitchen, commented on the need for more beverages, had a look at Helen’s fruitcake and deemed it
unacceptable as food but seemed like a solid bake, and generally brought life back into the equation. Some people have that
ability, and she was one of them.
The talk of New Year’s Eve plans continued as Nate eyed Stevie nervously across the room.
“So,” Stevie said, “we were going to stay here.”
“Stay here?” Janelle repeated. “We’re in New York. On New Year’s.”
“But you can go to the ball drop. . . .”
“I wouldn’t mind staying,” Vi said.
“Then we’ll do something here,” Janelle said. “The important thing is that we’re together. So we’ll need supplies. Hats. Party
blowers. I saw people selling those on the street so we can go get some of those. And we have a kitchen, so why don’t we make
something? Like nachos. Why don’t we set up a nacho station along the kitchen bar here? Movies and nachos and the four of
us together. That’s perfect.”
New York was prepping for the big event that was going down in the next few hours. There were noticeably more people in the
streets, more tables of hats and glasses and noisemakers.
“Are you really okay?” Janelle asked as they walked through the grocery store at the end of the block. “I know you’ve seen bodies before but that doesn’t mean you’re all right.”
“I think so,” Stevie said.
“We’ll have a great night,” Janelle said. “We’ll hang out. No horrible things. No deaths. No David. This is a night for us.
Okay . . . chunky or smooth salsa? I like smooth, but that’s just me . . .”
Larry’s number came up on Stevie’s phone. She held up one finger, indicating she would be right back, and moved to the end
of the aisle.
“I made your call,” he said. “I had to go through a few people to get it. The neighbor died of heart failure. Completely natural
causes. No poisons, nothing weird. Now stop whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she lied.
“People die,” Larry said. “Don’t go looking for things that aren’t there. There’s enough real trouble in the world, Stevie.
Go see a museum or something. Make one of those dancing videos. Live your life with your friends.”
“Okay,” Stevie said, her voice dry.
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
“And don’t call me about any more death certificates, okay?”
“Okay.”
Stevie felt all the energy flow out of her body. She deflated. Helen had had a heart attack. Whatever happened in the past happened. But Helen had not been murdered. Sometimes, things are exactly what they seem. It was time to have nachos and be with friends.
It was just before eight when Janelle started browning the beef in one pan and the vegetarian meat in another. Stevie had
shredded cheese on a grater that had clearly never been out of the cabinet before and must have been terrified to have been
taken from its peaceful slumber in the dark. Vi had just turned on Barbie, because they’d seen it enough that it could be half watched while the food was being prepared. Nate was in the bedroom,
working, but had cracked the door open an inch to be social, and probably so he could see when the nachos were ready.
“Okay,” Janelle said, “we should prep the stations: sour cream, pickled jalapeno, green onion . . . and, should we put beans
on the nachos now, before the oven, or keep them on the side?”
“Now, you coward,” Vi said from the sofa.
Stevie misjudged the thin edge of the cheese and scraped the side of her thumb. She pulled back her hand in time before she
dripped blood in their only cheddar. She grabbed a paper towel.
“One sec,” she said, heading to the bathroom.
She rinsed off her hand and found she had lifted a decent-size flap of skin, so she began poking around in the cabinet for a bandage.
The cabinets, of course, were full of nothing but air.
Forced to improvise, she thought of something she had seen in cooking shows, where chefs sometimes wore a plastic glove when they were working.
She had nitrile gloves in her bag. Janelle would be impressed by her professionalism.
First, though, she sat down on the toilet seat to keep pressure on the cut for a moment.
That minute or so of non-activity was really all it took. She could feel her phone in the pocket of her hoodie. If she had
to sit there for a moment anyway, she could check her feed once, then she would put her phone away for the rest of the night.
There was no follow-up comment on her post. She was about to put the phone back, but since it wouldn’t hurt to add another
moment of pressure, she glanced over at David’s feed, which he had not updated in some time.
There was a new picture. He was standing on a street, holding up a champagne bottle. Behind him was the unmistakable Empire
State Building.
He was there. In New York. Close by.
The urge to communicate with him took her over completely, like it was poured over her head from a bucket, shivery cold.
She couldn’t do this. She could not text him, not now, from the bathroom on New Year’s Eve, with nachos happening in the other
room. That absolutely could not happen.
Except . . . she had already opened her texts. Her hands were already over the letters. A quick one. Careless. Oh, are you in NYC? And he wouldn’t write back and she would seem over it and mature and urbane.
Stevie: are you in nyc?
Then . . . three dots. He was writing something.
Until the dots disappeared, just as suddenly as they had appeared. Dots again. Dots gone.
Stevie squeezed the phone, bearing down on it with laser focus, willing the message out of the void, wondering what she would
do when the message came, deciding not to care. Only the message mattered.
Dots. Then:
David: yes.
I guess my letter was too pathetic
Letter?
Stevie: what letter?
Dots.
David: I sent a letter with the coat
didn’t you get it?
you’re wearing the coat
Stevie: I didn’t see a letter
hang on
Stevie came out of the bathroom taking the long, slow breaths she had been taught in therapy for her anxiety. Janelle was
arranging cheese on top of a tray of nachos like a snow fairy distributing flurries over an enchanted landscape.
“I need to talk to you,” Stevie said quietly. She indicated the bathroom. Janelle shook cheese from her fingertips and followed.
“Is it a bad cut?”
“Was there something inside David’s coat? A letter?”
Janelle sighed and slumped against the doorway, looking disappointed. Defeated.
“I found it when I was looking over the coat in your room. You were so upset, and you’d failed one exam already—then your
parents called and all of that happened. I didn’t want any of it to get worse with whatever bullshit he wrote down. So—”
“Where is it? Do you have it?”
“I was going to give it to you as soon as we got here,” Janelle replied. “But the thing had happened with the neighbor, which
had to be traumatic no matter what you say, and I didn’t want you to be hurt anymore. And it’s so full of shit—”
“Did you read it?” Stevie asked.
Janelle stalked over to her bag. She returned with a small brown envelope.
“Here.” She handed Stevie the letter.
There was one word on the outside of the envelope: Stevie.
She couldn’t read this under Janelle’s penetrating gaze. This called for the rat room.
Izzy said I should write a letter on actual paper because writing things down is supposed to help you Gain Clarity. She’s
kind of right. I’ve done this one six times now. I think this version is the one I am going with.