Other details that had confused me were suddenly clear. Rebecca's motive for suicide was more understandable now, since she was probably reeling from killing Charlotte the night before. Rebecca's mother's non reaction to her daughter's death also made sense, given the humiliation that Rebecca's trial had probably brought her.
As the water beat down against my head, I imagined Rebecca stalking Charlotte in the rain. Rebecca was gripping the steel sharpener, maybe concealed inside her coat. As Charlotte approached her building, Rebecca had probably rushed up behind her and forced her way inside. I pictured the steel sharpener going into Charlotte's bony back and her body crumpling onto the floor. Then I imagined Rebecca standing over the body with a gleeful, crazed expression before walking away in the rain.
The shower water was still very hot, but I got chills anyway, thinking about how Rebecca could've easily killed me during one of our fights, or while I was asleep.
I turned the dial on the shower massage to its strongest level. The firm, single stream of hot water kneading into my back and neck muscles still couldn't relax me.
"Everything's gonna be okay," Barbara said.
"Yeah, sure it is," I said.
I was getting dressed in the bedroom when the buzzer on the intercom sounded again. Now what the hell did the police want?
Deciding that this time I'd definitely refuse to let them into the apartment, even if it meant getting arrested, I said into the intercom,
"What is it?"
"New York Post," a man's voice said.
Shit, I should've realized that the media was going to be all over this story.
"No comment," I said.
As I walked away, the buzzer sounded again. I ignored it and went back into the bedroom and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. That Post reporter was still ringing the buzzer, and I realized he wouldn't give up until I gave him some kind of statement. I put on sneakers with no socks and left my apartment. Approaching the vestibule, I saw a young blond guy with his finger on the buzzer to my apartment. Beyond this guy, behind the other door leading to the outside, there seemed to be about ten other people.
I opened the inside door and the small crowd rushed into the vestibule through the other door. They all seemed to be speaking at once, pointing mikes in my direction, shouting questions.
"All right, all right," I said. When they quieted down I said, "Just go back outside and I'll make a statement."
The reporters started to move back outside when I heard someone approaching behind me. I turned around and saw it was Carmen. She was hunched over with her chin tilted up, glaring at me.
"What's going on now?" she said.
"Nothing," I said.
"What do you mean, nothing?" she said. "The cops were here before, and now all these reporters are here, causing a racket."
"Please just go back into your apartment," I said.
"Why do I have to go back into my apartment? This is my hallway as much as it is yours. I've been living here thirty-seven years. I can stand wherever I want to stand."
I realized it didn't make a difference whether Carmen heard my comment in person or read about it in tomorrow's papers.
I went outside and Carmen followed behind me. I was surprised to see a few news cameras aimed at me, in addition to all the microphones.
Photographers were there too, and I squinted as the flashes went off.
"This has all come as a shock to me," I said. "All I ask is that you please have some respect for my privacy during this very difficult time. Thank you."
As I headed back into the building, stepping around Carmen, the reporters shouted questions at my back. I made out a few of the questions "Did you know about Rebecca Daniels's past?" "How does it feel to know your girlfriend was a psychotic murderer?" then the voices merged into loud noise.
Following me to my apartment, Carmen said, "What's this about your girlfriend murdering people? What happened now?"
I went into my apartment and bolted the door and put the chain on. Then I went into the hallway closet and took the Phillips screwdriver out from the toolbox in the closet. I unscrewed the cover to the buzzer and yanked out several of the wires. Hopefully the reporters wouldn't harass me anymore, but just in case I wanted to make sure I didn't have to listen to the buzzer all night.
Going out to dinner was out of the question now, with all the reporters out there.
"How about we eat in instead?" I asked Barbara.
I didn't sense her presence the way I had earlier.
"Barb, are you here?"
I waited, but I still didn't sense anything. I figured I wouldn't push it; I'd just try again later.
I decided that ordering food in was a bad idea. For all I knew there were even more reporters outside now, and they'd rush the door when I let the delivery guy in.
There wasn't much in the house to eat: a packet of Cup-a-Soup and a jar of marshmallow fluff in the cupboard, and a package of frozen peas that I used as an ice pack in the freezer.
After I had the Cup-a-Soup, I turned on the TV to the Cartoon Network and ate fluff on a spoon as Tom chased Jerry.
"God, you're so immature," Barbara said.
"Are you here?" I said.
"You know what your problem is? Your problem is you never grew up. You can't let go."
"Barb?" I said. "Barb?"
There was no answer.
During "Popeye," I found myself nodding off. I left the dirty dishes on the coffee table and went into the bedroom and lay down.
I fell asleep and quickly began to dream. Barbara and I were in a split ranch-style house, decorated like Aunt Helen's house, but it wasn't, in someplace suburban that looked like Dix Hills, Long Island, except there were mountains. Then the scene switched to Manhattan and we were in Barbara's old apartment on Eighty-fourth Street. The apartment looked exactly like her old apartment, except the ceilings were much higher and the furniture was different Danish modern, like the furniture in Aunt Helen's house. Then Barbara became Charlotte and the dream turned horrifying. Charlotte was sitting on my lap, playing with my hair and kissing me. I tried to get her off me, but she was too heavy; then I stood up, trying to walk, but she was still attached to my thighs. Then Charlotte turned into Kenny and I tried to get away from him, but we were stuck like Siamese twins, and he was laughing in his sick, demented way.
I woke up sweating, convinced that Kenny was attached to me. After a few seconds, I realized I'd been dreaming, but I couldn't calm down.
The room was empty and very quiet. I still didn't sense Barbara anywhere.
THE NEXT MORNING there were only a few reporters camped in front of the building. As I went down the block they followed me, shouting questions at my back as if I were Princess Di.
Finally I turned around and shouted, "Leave me the hell alone!"
They followed me for another half a block, but gave up as I turned onto Amsterdam. Walking along Seventy-ninth Street, I looked behind me, thankful that the reporters weren't there.
Crossing Broadway, I stepped off the curb while the light was still yellow, and then I heard the loud, screeching brakes. Thanks to quick reflexes, I managed to jerk backward out of the way, just avoiding getting hit by an SUV. The driver a young Asian guy gave me a long, mean stare before he continued on, shaking his head.
I continued down to the subway, feeling shaken up and out of it.
Several people on the packed platform seemed to be staring at me, and I wondered if it was because they recognized me from the news last night or if they just thought there was something wrong with me.