Rex jumped up onto the couch, stretched himself out over her lap, and yawned.
“Just you and me for now, huh?”
The cat purred as she stroked the scruff of his neck.
Ashley thought about another glass of wine. She thought about slipping out of her sweats, slipping into something low-cut, something black, something that would go great with heels. She thought about flashing lights and loud music and the rush she got on the dance floor, moving her body, nodding her head to the beat, the crush of people around her, the men and women, though mostly it was the men she thought about, even on a week night, the men who would buy her drinks, give her their numbers, maybe promise her a good time. She even considered it, lifting the cat off her lap and heading to the bedroom to change, but instead she found herself yawning once, then twice, then leaning her head back against a pillow and closing her eyes, telling herself she would just rest for a minute, maybe two, and see how she was feeling then.
Sometime later the phone woke her. Her eyes fluttered open. Her hand went to her mouth, where there was a line of drool. Rex was no longer on her lap. The Kardashians were no longer on the TV. She squinted at the clock on the wall, saw it was nearly four o’clock. In the afternoon? No, she realized, it was still dark outside, so it must be the morning. Who would be calling her this early?
She fumbled for her phone, saw who was calling, answered it with a groan.
“Tom, do you have any idea what time it is?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, after a long moment, his voice soft: “I thought you should hear it first from me.”
His tone was one she hadn’t expected, especially at this early hour. It sobered her, and she sat up straight on the couch, trying to focus herself as she spoke the next two words.
“What happened?”
eleven
Someone’s shaking me.
At first I think it’s just part of the dream I’m having, this phantom hand on my arm, but the truth is I don’t know if I am dreaming. I’m just floating more than anything else, that soothing slumber of sleep, and the hand, it keeps shaking me, accompanied now by a voice, a faint, distant voice saying my name.
I open my eyes.
Duncan is crouched over me in the dark, his hand on my shoulder.
“John, wake up. Wake up!”
I shrug off his hand, yawning as I start to sit up. “What are you doing? What time is it?”
“Nearly five. I, um …” He stands there, all at once looking confused, embarrassed, a strange look for a guy who revels in anonymous sex and is well worth over seven figures. I notice now that he’s not wearing a black shirt, like he requested, but a fucking plaid long sleeve. He clears his throat. “There’s something on the TV I think you should see.”
I yawn again, lean back down on my bed. “Can’t it wait?”
“No, man, I think you really need to see this. Like, right now.”
Even though I’m half asleep, there’s something in his tone that gives me pause. Also, when has Duncan ever come into my room, either day or night? Never. The guy gives me my privacy, and besides, it’s not like we’re good friends. Roommates, sure, though I may be more an indentured servant at times, and yeah, occasionally we’ll watch a movie and share a pizza or takeout, but that’s usually as far as it goes. I never ask about what’s going on in his life, and he never asks what’s going on in my life. Even this past weekend, when I briefly attended my father’s funeral and was gone for nearly the whole day, he didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer any information.
Relenting, I climb out of bed and follow him down the hall to the living room. There’s an empty Tostitos bag on the couch, only a few crumbs left. If I remember correctly, that was a brand new bag when I saw it earlier tonight in the kitchen, which means Duncan must have devoured the whole thing when he came home, what, an hour ago? For a guy who plays video games all day, I don’t understand how he manages to keep the weight off. Must be all the sex.
But the current state of the Tostitos or his ultra fast metabolism isn’t the reason Duncan woke me up. The reason, whatever it is, is currently on TV, evidenced by the fact that Duncan is now pointing at the screen.
“That?” I ask. “You woke me up for a fucking infomercial?”
On the screen that crazy guy is selling that crazy product-you probably know the one-and without even waiting for a reply I start heading back down the hall toward my room.
“No, man, wait up. It was just on here, breaking news and shit. Here, let me try another channel.”
I pause, sigh, turn back around. I sink into the couch as Duncan hefts the remote and flips through the channels. I’m sitting on the end of the couch, my elbow on the armrest, my hand cradling my head. I’m still half asleep, and ready to drift off at any second.
But then I hear it, a half second before Duncan says, “This is it!” and turns up the volume. I hear the reporter say a name, a name I know very well. I hear the reporter use the words tragic and death, and it wakes me up all at once, like getting a freezing bucket of water thrown in my face.
The reporter holds the mike just like she’s been trained, staring straight back into the camera, saying, “Right now police aren’t giving many details, but as you can see behind me, they have covered Melissa Baxter’s body.”
Behind the reporter, flashing lights brighten the night. The cameraman-perhaps listening to his conscience not to give in to the news media’s standard sensationalism-doesn’t pan to the group of people (presumably cops and detectives) standing over something that’s been covered with a tarp. But they are in the background, enough so the viewers can glimpse them and paint a picture in their minds.
“Catalina,” another voice says, the deep baritone of a male newscaster no doubt snug and secure in the studio, “do the police suspect there was foul play involved, or is it apparent that Assistant District Attorney Baxter jumped after this alleged murder-suicide?”
Catalina doesn’t even blink, keeping her focus straight on the camera. “We still don’t know much, Tim. Police say they will make a statement soon, but what we have learned is that Melissa Baxter’s husband and children have been found dead.”
The picture flips to the newsroom, a gray-haired, bronze-tanned man nodding appreciatively. “Thanks, Catalina.” Then, staring straight into the camera: “We will be staying with this story closely and will update the information once we hear more.”
Duncan hits the mute button, tosses the remote aside. He shakes his head, starts pacing the living room, muttering, “Vultures, man. Fucking vultures!”
I don’t speak. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
“I remember you mentioning your sister a while back. Like, I think it was when she was promoted to Assistant District Attorney. And tonight, after I got home, I’m just chilling here watching some TV when this fucking breaking news thing comes over, and they say what’s happened and I’m like, holy fucking shit.”
He stops pacing and looks at me.
“John, are you okay? You look pale.”
Still I don’t speak. I’m not sure what to say. I mean, what’s the appropriate thing to say when you find out your sister has allegedly murdered her family before committing suicide? I don’t know which building she lives in, exactly, but I know the area of the city, and they’re all tall buildings. Twenty stories at least, forty or fifty stories at most. How long does it take someone to step off the roof or out of one of their windows before they hit the ground? No more than a couple of seconds, surely, but just how fast is it for the person tumbling through the air, watching the ground growing larger and larger?