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With sincerest regards,
Thom Graves
After rereading it with mild amusement, Thom opened up the other file. It was a story, one he’d started many years ago. He hadn’t gotten very far with it, so he read the whole thing.
From Paris to Berlin
a short story
by T. E. Graves
The train, after a seesawing start to the journey, had smoothed out just as the sprawling exurbs of Paris had been precipitously replaced by a series of yellowing fields under gray skies interspersed with stone farmhouses. Nick was about to light a cigarette, then remembered that he’d purposefully chosen the nonsmoking car so that he could stick to his wholly unrealistic goal of only smoking half a pack a day.
Instead, he removed the Julian Barnes book he’d been struggling with and cracked it open. The book at least gave him the opportunity to gaze just above its top edge at his neighboring travelers. Weren’t French people supposed to be attractive? Just as that thought went through his head, the nearest door hissed open and admitted a tall, possibly French but definitely attractive woman of indeterminate age.
Nick used all his powers of suggestion to will her to sit in the empty seat across from him and couldn’t quite believe it when it worked. She tucked one leg under the other and pulled out a paperback copy of Len Deighton’sBerlin Game. It was one of Nick’s favorite books and now he knew that this meeting was fated.
Awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful awful
That was all he’d written. Three mediocre paragraphs plus his own review of them. Besides feeling disgust in himself that he ever thought he could be a good writer, something else nagged at him. He suddenly realized what it was. Both the files had the name “Deighton” in them. Was that why they had been opened?
He passed Jason’s closed door on the way down from his office and found Wendy peeling potatoes in the kitchen, listening to NPR. “I have a very strange question,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Have you been on my computer recently opening Word documents?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
She smiled her mean smile, the one she saved for when Thom had just said something stupid. “Of course I’m sure. Why are you asking?”
He told her about the two opened files and how the only connection they seemed to have was the name Deighton.
“I think I know what happened,” Wendy said. “I didn’t mention it because I wasn’t sure, but I think Jason was on the stairs listening to my whole conversation with the detective yesterday. I heard a creak, and then when I went up afterwards he was acting shifty.”
“Did he do the thing where he pretends to be thinking about his answer?”
“He did. You know he’s in a detective phase right now. He’s probably investigating you to find out if you killed Alex.”
“Jesus. Well, at least I’m not going insane.”
“You should change your password.”
“Okay,” Thom said, knowing he probably wouldn’t. “That turkey smells good.”
“Yes, it does.”
Thom went and got himself another half cup of coffee, and while he was pouring it Wendy said, “He wouldn’t find anything incriminating on your computer, would he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy.”
“Are you talking about porn, or are you worried I typed up a confession to all the murders I’ve committed in my time?”
“Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. We just need to remember that we don’t have a little kid in the house anymore. He hears and sees everything.”