Then we were in bed and we were having sex, but the whole time she was still quizzing me and the damn room wouldn’t stop whirling.
So how was the sex? Not bad. I guess. I mean, sex with a total stranger is always good-right? Okay. Maybe I was a little distracted or even worse, but my head didn’t feel right. But I was pretty sure she didn’t notice.
It’d been so long since something good happened to me, I kept thinking about what it takes for luck to change. For something to fall your way.
Next thing I knew she was all dressed and brushing back her hair and putting on her jacket. And I was up, though shaky, moving to open the door, ready to offer a few tender good-byes. “I’ll call you tomorrow” and all that.
But then her face changed and she didn’t follow me to the door. She crossed her arms in front of her. Even in the dim light, I could see her face was flushed. Was that a shadow or a lipstick stain on her chin?
She stuck out her hand. “I want the bracelet back,” she said softly.
I blinked a few times. “Bracelet?”
She rattled them on her arm. Like she was showing me what a bracelet is. “I was wearing six,” she said. “I put them on your bed table when I got undressed. Did you think I can’t count?”
I shrugged and wrinkled my forehead and did my innocent act. Like I couldn’t follow what she was saying.
“Did you hide it while we were in bed? Just give it to me.” And she turned the cold, green stare on me.
I squinted at her. “You think I’m a thief?”
I had that feeling I get, that sharp pain in my chest, my throat all tight. The first time, I thought I was having a heart attack. After that, I knew what it was. And I knew it was something I had to deal with.
“It’s fucking Cartier. It’s an antique Cartier bracelet. I’m not leaving without it.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t have any bracelet.” My heart pumped up a little. I pictured the bracelet where I slid it, between the mattress and the bed frame.
“Stop the bullshit,” she said, and she sighed like a bad actress. “Do you think I won’t call the police?”
I didn’t think she would but I said, “Police?” An angry cry escaped my throat. The pain in my chest grew sharper, and I really felt my heartbeat race. “I’m not a thief.”
She took two quick steps toward me. Her fists were tight at her sides. “I think you are. Give me the bracelet. Give it to me-thief.”
She didn’t make a sound when I slapped her face. Just blinked her eyes and worked her jaw up and down.
I was surprised how soft and warm her skin felt against the back of my hand.
I could breathe again, but I was instantly sorry. My hand throbbed with pain, but that wasn’t the worst of it. I knew I’d screwed up.
She rubbed her cheek, the green eyes accusing me. She still hadn’t made a sound.
I kept hearing the slap.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to do that. Really. No lie.”
“Are you fucking crazy?” she whispered.
“Know what? Here. I’ll get your bracelet. I’ll give it back to you, and that’ll be that. Everyone happy. No problem-okay?”
My hand shook as I pulled the bracelet from its hiding place. I gave it back to her.
She stared at it in her hand. Just stood there gawking at it. Like she never thought she’d see it again.
“No hard feelings,” I said.
How dumb is that?
She glared at me one more time. Brushed her hair off her forehead. Pulled her jacket tighter around her and disappeared out the door.
I was breathing hard. Wheezing a little. I stared at the door as if I expected her to come back.
I rubbed my fist.
That was an example of how I lose it. It only took a second and there I went. But the whole thing was messed up. I knew I wasn’t angry at her.
I knew who I’m really angry at. It’s anger that’s been in my chest for ten years. I can’t get that Christopher Thomas job out of my head. It’s there with me every morning. It’s the dread. It’s the cold dread.
I helped, did my job. And I expected to be paid fairly. Maybe I was naïve, but I thought those guys would spread it around like they said.
Naturally, they didn’t. Not enough anyway.
When was I born? Yesterday? And here I was, twelve years later, stealing a bracelet from a woman in my bed. How low can you go? Finding yourself desperate like that can make a guy angry.
So, now I’m going to do something about it. That’s what I decided, standing there looking at my bruised knuckles. That’s what I decided. I’m going to get what is mine.
Then I started feeling shaky again like maybe I was gonna pass out, and I realized that bitch slipped me a roofie. Jesus. I’ve slipped a girl or two a roofie in my time, so it’s, like, only fair, but, hell, why’d she do it?
I started remembering her asking me all those questions, but for the life of me I can’t recall a single one or what I answered. Shit.
What’d I tell her? What the fuck did I tell her?
17 Marcia Talley
Sarah Ballard plumped up her pillow and stared at the clock on her bedside table, watching the digital display quietly snick-snick-snick through the minutes as she relived the previous evening’s events. She didn’t need to turn over to know that her husband’s side of the bed was empty. Eight twenty-three a.m. If Stan had returned home after walking out on her following yesterday’s argument, CNN would already be blaring from the living room TV and the smell of fresh coffee would be teasing her nostrils. The house was silent. Rosemary Thomas’s ghost was wrecking yet another of her marriages.
But whom was she fooling? Her marriage to Stan had been foundering for some time. An unlikely pairing-he, an up-and-coming estate lawyer, and she, a cop’s wife. She thought about how they’d come together. It was the case, of course. The case she’d pushed Jon on-even when he’d told her he had a hunch the evidence was skewed. The case that ruined so many lives, but brought her and Stan together. He’d entered her life when she was vulnerable, showered her with love and attention, while Jon was disintegrating. Stan was ambitious, exciting, while Jon had always been a bit of a dreamer. But now she’d come to see those very qualities that had attracted her to Stan as nothing more than an example of his unmitigated selfishness.
She slipped out of bed. If Stan didn’t want to go to Rosemary’s memorial, she would. She owed it to herself, to Jon, to her previous life, the one she’d lost the day Rosemary Thomas was put to death.
It was noon. Jon Nunn usually got up around this time-he couldn’t face the morning gloom. He got out of bed, headed to the kitchen and straight for the coffeemaker.
The doorbell sounded. He yawned as he made his way to the door and opened it. Sarah, his ex-wife, stood on his doorstep, stylish heels planted firmly on the mat that said GO AWAY. Sarah. Looking as beautiful as the day they were married. Before he fucked it all up. But he could tell from the swelling around her eyes that she’d been crying.
He massaged the sleep out of his eyes, half convinced that when he removed his fingers, she would have disappeared.
But Sarah was still there, smiling apologetically, and saying, “May I come in?”
Jon shrugged, stepping aside as she walked into his living room, suddenly embarrassingly shabby and small. “Coffee? I was just putting some on.”
She raised a bag, holding it by its brown, string like handles. “Coffee. Two percent, three sugars, right?”
She’d remembered.
Jon took the coffee, thanked her, then pointed to the love seat, glad that he’d picked up his dirty laundry the night before. “I can’t say I’m not happy to see you. But why are you here, Sarah?”
He took a sip of his coffee, waiting for the answer.