Page 37

THIRTY-SIX

Alex jolts awake to her alarm beeping. It must have been going off for nearly an hour, a shock as Alex is a notoriously light sleeper. She leaps from bed, snatching a towel off the back of a chair. Her apartment has turned chaotic since she started the job. With no spare time, her clothes have become a mess, creeping across her bedroom on various surfaces. She chooses a blue shirt and a loose pair of pants from a pile of clean laundry on her table. Not her best outfit, but she doesn’t have time to be picky. She rushes in the shower and the bottle of soap slides out of her hand, shattering into the bathtub.

“Damn it,” she shouts, jumping out of the tub soaking wet so she doesn’t cut herself. In the window Mildred flaps away, startled by the outburst. She watches with a sinking feeling as the expensive golden soap bubbles swirl down the drain.

This day is already not going the way she wanted it to. She throws her clothes on, brushing her wet hair into a low bun and putting on sunglasses to disguise the dark half-moons that have appeared under her eyes this past couple of weeks. She steps out onto the street. She needs just a moment to think, to catch up with her thoughts. But she won’t find one. Not now. Since last night she’s been replaying the Francis scenario different ways in her head. She still can’t envision Howard actually murdering Francis. It seems too visceral, too crass. She thinks of the call she overheard the first day. His voice, angry on the phone: “What can I possibly do about it?” There was also the incident at the Nest, the implication that Howard Demetri had sway beyond the reach of a normal person. She wonders if he could have used some sort of service to dispose of Francis. A third party. The idea puts a cold metallic taste in Alex’s mouth.

She avoids Howard’s office as she comes in, purposefully walking the long way around the newsroom toward the old hallway. She imagines Francis walking down this same hallway, possibly with the knowledge that her boss was trying to get rid of her. By all accounts, Francis liked Howard. Alex had read only positive things that Francis said about him.

In the office she goes to one of the photographs of Francis on the wall. It’s black and white, from decades ago. She is perched casually on the side of a desk; her hair is past her shoulders and wavy, parted in the middle. She is sitting between two men: one thin with a goofy smile and a bow tie; the other more serious, with a heavy brow and a round face. As she studies it, she is shocked to realize that the man on the left is Howard Demetri. He is almost unrecognizable in his younger years, hardly the dapper New York City social giant that he is now. The other man has something familiar about him as well, but she can’t place it. Something about the face. It looks like someone. Regina , Alex realizes with a jolt. It must be her father.

There’s a noise in the hall that jerks her attention away from the photograph. It sounds like something is running along the wall, the way a child might trail their fingers. As it comes closer, Alex reaches instinctively for the letter opener on her desk. She hides it in her palm and steps toward the door. She puts her hand on the door handle, already anticipating the empty hallway. How many times will she hear things in the hall and find nothing there? It is enough to make her stop trusting herself. But the noise grows louder, scraping against the wall now so close to the other side of the door that she holds her breath and pulls it open.

She screams when she sees the face right there on the other side.

“Lucy. God, you startled me,” Alex pants, embarrassed. She looks at the bin of letters in Lucy’s arms; one larger cardboard envelope sticks out from the bin and bends against the wall, explaining the scraping noise Alex was so afraid of.

“You okay, Alex?” Lucy looks concerned. “Just making a delivery. I thought I’d bring you a few extra letters, or a hundred, since you finished the others.” Her smile disappears when she looks down and sees the letter opener clenched in Alex’s fist. “I can come back.”

“No, Lucy. I’m sorry, please.” She tries to laugh it off, quickly setting the letter opener on the desk and stepping away from it. “Sometimes I get creeped out back here.”

“It’s okay, Alex. I know that this job can be a lot of pressure,” Lucy says. “You need to make sure you’re getting enough rest.”

Her assistant is being too kind. Alex will be lucky if she doesn’t march straight down to HR after this and warn them that their new advice columnist is walking around waving sharp objects at people for no good reason.

“Thank you for bringing these. I’m just—” Alex stops, unsure how to continue. Just what? s he thinks. Just unhinged? Paranoid? Trying to implicate my boss in a murder plot?

“Exhausted,” Lucy finishes for her. She gives Alex a sympathetic look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can tell. Can I get you anything else? A coffee maybe?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll make one myself,” Alex says, grateful for the distraction. She needs to calm down.

“Well, I’m here if you need me,” Lucy says. “I’ll come back up and check in later in case you do.” She looks eager to escape the room. Could Alex blame her? she thinks as the door shuts again. She sighs. Right now, the best thing for her is to work. She has another column due.

Still feeling jumpy, she turns her attention to the letters, lifting one from the bin.

Dear Constance,

Every day I wake up with the feeling that I am not doing enough. My children and husband need near constant attention. I feel that I can give and give, and it will never fulfill their endless needs. At the same time, I can feel the life draining out of me. The things I once enjoyed seem like such a distant memory that I can no longer even remember what I liked about them. But the way I’m living isn’t tenable. How do I find myself while in survival mode—

She puts the letter down, the answer beginning to take shape in her mind. But she can’t stay focused. Alex finds her eyes wandering to another letter on top of the pile. Her heart twists in her chest at the sight of the familiar typewriter font on the front of the envelope. Alex unfolds it, and her chest clenches as she sees the short message in the center of the page. Just like the last one.

Dear Constance,

You are a fraud. You don’t belong here. You have caused so much trouble. I know who you are. You can’t escape your past. I am watching you.

Alex fumbles in her purse for the other letter. Her fingers tremble as she opens them side by side on the desk. The same font, same format. It is the same person who wrote the last letter, Alex has no doubt. She feels a shiver works its way up her back to her skull.