Page 68 of The Writer
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
MORE THAN TWENTY stories up.
More than two hundred feet.
Falling at a rate of thirty-two feet per second squared, she reaches the ground in approximately three and a half seconds. She screams all the way down and hits the pavement with a sickening thud. Her champagne glass shatters about six feet from her body, coating the sidewalk in glistening shards. A puddle of black blood slowly spreads beneath her.
“That’s for Declan, you pretentious bitch.”
Breathless, Cordova wants to watch what happens next but knows he can’t; he can’t risk anyone seeing him. As the first bystander’s scream comes from below, he stumbles back from the railing and trips over Denise’s cat, who’s jumped off the chair and is now running around the terrace yowling, a god-awful noise.
He gets back to his feet, knowing he has to move fast.
His own three-card monte.
Cordova retrieves his champagne flute, takes it to the kitchen, quickly washes and dries it, and places the glass back in the cabinet where he found it. He’s not worried about prints—he never took off his gloves. The only prints they’ll find on the bottle belong to Denise Morrow and whoever handled it before her.
His heart is beating wildly.
He goes to Denise Morrow’s couch and retrieves his cell phone—not his personal phone but the burner he bought earlier. His personal phone is currently in Harrison’s pocket along with Saffi’s and Daniels’s phones. If anyone feels the need to pull their location data for tonight, they’ll find all four of them at the Jets game. He powers the cell on just long enough to send a group text to the burners Saffi and Daniels are carrying— Go Jets! —then breaks the phone in half, slips the pieces in his pocket, and heads down the hall to Denise Morrow’s office. The damn cat follows him the whole time, meowing in distress.
In the office, he finds Denise’s MacBook powered on and beeping incessantly.
Beep!
Beep!
Beep! Beep! Beep!
“What’s that all about?” he asks the cat, but the cat is in no mood to answer. He’s staring up at Cordova with a look of hatred on his face.
Cordova opens a new Microsoft Word document and quickly types five words:
I’m sorry. I can’t anymore.
Not his best work, but hell, she’s the writer, not him. He makes the font a little bigger, centers the text, then clicks Print. Denise’s laser printer hums to life and spits out the page. He’ll leave the note under the champagne bottle.
Beep!
Beep! Beep!
In a neat stack at the corner of her desk is the manuscript of Denise’s latest book, The Taking of Maggie Marshall . Part of him wants to grab it but he knows he can’t. It will be found here as she left it. Most likely it will be published posthumously. Most likely it will sell better than all her earlier books. Isn’t that what always happens when a writer dies? He can’t help wondering what that book will mean for Declan’s reputation. Is he still the villain of her story or did she update the book to put it all on Geller Hoffman? Is Lucero some twisted martyr?
“Doesn’t really matter,” he tells the cat. “One news cycle and the world will forget.”
Beep! Beep! Beep!
“Christ, what the hell is that?”
With each beep, a small message box appears at the top right corner of the screen but vanishes before he can read it. He moves the cursor up and over and manages to click on the message, which brings up an open browser window. A page from Denise Morrow’s website. It takes Cordova a second to realize what he’s looking at, and when he does, the world diffuses; traffic sounds are muffled, everything is underwater. He reads the top of the website page.
Welcome to QuimbyCam!
For the next 48 hours, see the world through the eyes of my cat!
There’s a video feed directly below that, and in the frame is his own face. He’s being filmed from the side, the image bouncing and jerky.
Cordova slowly turns to the cat, who is perched on a corner of the desk staring at him. Dangling from his collar is a small black box—a camera no larger than a sugar cube.
Quimby offers a long meow; his green eyes narrow to slits.
On the screen, directly below the live video feed, messages fly by.
[Wimbly823] Did he just kill her?
[TheGrimPeeper] No way, it’s some kind of publicity stunt.
[Bud4Me] That was no stunt!
[TwistedRead] Who is he?
[Wimbly823] Please don’t let him hurt the cat!
[TheGrimPeeper] It’s fake! That didn’t even look like a real balcony! They’re on a set somewhere. Hollywood bullshit 4sure.
[MosleyBear] Doesn’t she live at the Beresford in NYC?
[Deb Alta] I know that guy! He’s been on the news.
[MosleyBear] Channel 4 just reported a jumper at the Beresford…