I cringe at my pathetic attempt at a joke.
Lenzen ignores it.
“Do you have anybody you could ring up?” he asks. “Family? Friends?”
It’s only now that I realize what a mellifluous voice he has. It sounds like the dubbing voice of an aging Hollywood actor, but I can’t think who.
“Linda?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I have the feeling you shouldn’t be on your own right now.”
I stare at him. I don’t understand. I attacked him; he has every right to call the police. Or retaliate.
“Unless he really does have something to hide and would rather not get involved with the police.”
It’s not until after the last word is out of my mouth that I realize I didn’t think that; I said it out loud.
Lenzen takes that on the chin too. He seems to have resigned himself long ago to the fact that I’m completely insane. And I am, too — insane, mad, a public menace.
Best-selling author, 38, shoots journalist, 53, during interview.
Lenzen has an alibi. Lenzen is innocent. It’s going to take me some time to get used to this new state of affairs.
“Maybe your parents,” he says.
“What?”
“Maybe you could give your parents a ring. So you’re not on your own.”
“No, not my parents. My parents and I, we…” I don’t know the end of that sentence.
“We don’t talk much,” I say eventually, although I had been going to say something else.
“How unusual,” says Lenzen.
His suntanned hands lie on my kitchen table and I feel a terrifying urge to touch them. I tear my gaze away. His pale eyes are resting on me.
“What do you mean?” I ask, when his remark finally gets through the membrane that surrounds me.
“Well, you told me your sister was murdered. And, of course, I’m no expert, but a tragedy like that normally welds a family together rather than driving them apart.”
I shrug. The word “normally” has no meaning in my world.
“With us, it’s different,” I say.
It’s no business of his, but it does me good to say that. My parents aren’t interested in me; they’re not interested in my books. They won’t even let me buy them a bigger house. All they’re interested in is their dead daughter.
Lenzen sighs. “I have a confession to make, Linda,” he says. Every hair on my neck stands on end.
“I wasn’t entirely honest with you regarding the premise of this interview.”
I swallow hard, can’t say a thing.
“I knew about your sister.” I’m gobsmacked.
“What?” I croak.
“Not the way you think,” Lenzen says quickly, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I came across the murder case when I was researching for the interview. In fact, I’m surprised no one had unearthed it before, but then the Internet wasn’t as crazy at that time as it is nowadays. There wasn’t such detailed documentation of everything.”
I can’t follow him.
“Well, at any rate, I know about your sister’s case — a dreadful affair. I understand you, Linda; it’s not easy coming to terms with a thing like that.”
“But you pretended you didn’t even know I had a sister.”
“I’m a journalist, Linda. Of course I didn’t start by laying all my cards on the table; I wanted to hear what you had to say first. Put yourself in my position. A woman who was the main suspect in a murder case many years ago writes a book in which that very murder is described down to the last detail. It’s a bloody sensation! But if I’d known that you’re so”—he falters—“that you’re so fragile, then…”
His words seep into my consciousness.
“The main suspect?” I say flatly. Lenzen looks at me in surprise.
“I was never under suspicion.”
“Hm,” says Lenzen. “Well, I suppose that whoever finds the corpse is automatically one of the main suspects to begin with, and that it doesn’t have anything to do with you as such.”
I swallow. “What do you know?” I ask.
Lenzen squirms. “I don’t think I…”
“What do you know? Who have you spoken to?” I yell. “I have a right to know! Please,” I add softly.
“All right then,” he says. “I spoke to the policeman who led the investigation. And you were indeed the main suspect for a long time. Didn’t you know?”
“Which policeman?” I ask.
“I don’t know whether I can tell you,” Lenzen replies. “Is it really that important?”
I see a face before me — one eye green and the other brown. No, it’s not possible!
“No,” I say, “not that important.”
I’m hot; the air is electrically charged. I long for rain, but there’s no rain coming. The storm has simply passed us by; it will break elsewhere. Only the wind can still be heard, whistling around the house.
“In any case, it’s clear that you’re innocent,” says Lenzen.
“They were never able to prove anything against you. You didn’t have the hint of a motive.”
I can’t believe we’re talking about whether I’m guilty or innocent.
“And, of course, it’s really not your fault that you can’t leave the house,” Lenzen adds.
“What?”
Again, I feel a jolt of fear.
“What’s that got to do with any of this?”
“Nothing, of course,” Lenzen hastens to assure me.
“But?”
“It was only a casual remark.”
“You’re not the kind to make casual remarks,” I reply.
“Well, some of the people investigating your sister’s murder case back then interpreted your…retreat as, well, how can I put it…as an admission of guilt.”
“My retreat?” My voice cracks with anger and despair; I can’t help it. “I didn’t retreat! I’m ill!”
“What I’m telling you isn’t my opinion. But there are people out there who don’t believe in this obscure illness; they see a murderer who has fled from society. There are those who think you live in a kind of self-imposed solitary confinement here.”
I feel dizzy.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Lenzen says. “I thought you’d heard it all long ago. It’s a good story, that’s all.”
“Yes,” I say.
I’ve run out of words.
“The worst is the doubt. A vestige of doubt always remains,” Lenzen says. “That’s the awful thing. Doubt is like a thorn you can’t get ahold on. It’s terrible when a thing like that destroys families.”
I blink.
“Are you trying to tell me that my family — my parents — think I’m a murderer?”
“What? No! God…I would never…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
I ask myself when I last spoke to my parents — really spoke to them, not just the I’m-fine-how-are-you? farce. I can’t remember. Lenzen is right. My parents have distanced themselves from me.
And there are people out there who have told Victor Lenzen they think I killed my sister.
I remember how nervous Lenzen seemed when he arrived, and I understand why. He wasn’t unsure of himself because he felt guilty, but because he was wondering how mad, how dangerous, the woman he was about to interview was.
Victor Lenzen didn’t come to my house to interview a world-famous, best-selling author. He came to find out whether said author is not only eccentric but also a murderer.
We were both after a confession.
A painful burning sensation spreads through my abdomen, rises up to my throat and breaks out of my mouth in a hollow and utterly humorless laugh. It hurts, but I can’t stop; I laugh and laugh until the laughter segues into sobs. I am overcome by the fear of being stark raving mad.
My fear is a deep well that I have fallen into. I’m suspended vertically in the water. I try to touch the bottom with my toes, but there’s nothing there, only blackness.