"That might be best."
I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.
"Can I call you? After work?"
"No. The work can wait."
"Excuse me?"
"The work can wait, Alan. Let's go."
We didn't go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.
Twice.
Chapter 32
I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.
Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven't worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other's buttons.
I'd called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn't be home, without giving her details.
She figured them out anyway.
"I'll let Nathan know where you are if he calls."
"His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won't. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell."
Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.
The ceiling had no answers for me.
I didn't have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.
At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.
It was horrible.
I'd had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn't a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.
I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.
At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.
"Jack? That you?"
"I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast."
"You sound terrible. Are you okay?"
"No. I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. It's probably just a panic attack. I don't have my damn sleeping pills and I'm bouncing off the walls."
"Why don't you have your pills?"
Moment of truth time.
"I'm in Alan's hotel room."
I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.
"You still love him."
"Yes."
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?
"You need some time apart, to figure things out?"
"Yes." I was crying now.
"A week? A month?"
"I don't know, Latham."
"I understand."
Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?
"I might never come back, Latham."
"You have to choose what's right for you, Jack."
"Aren't you mad at me?"
"I love you. I want you to be happy."
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.
"There's no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!"
"Call me when you've made a decision, Jack."
He hung up.
I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.
I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.
Alan knocked on the door.
"Jack? Are you okay?"
He let himself in, sat down next to me.
"Dammit," I cursed, rubbing my eyes. "Dammit, dammit, dammit. I'm not this weak."
Alan laughed.
"Why are you laughing?"
He put his arms around me.
"You're not weak, Jack. You're human."
"And that's funny to you?"
"I always suspected it. I just never thought I'd see it."
He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.
If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn't get overwhelmed.
Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn't be allowed out.
After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.
One thing at a time.
Chapter 33
"Who's there?"
No answer.
I squinted, trying to see through the darkness of my bedroom. My digital clock displayed 3:35 in bright red; the only light in the room.
I sat up and reached for the lamp by my bedside. Clicked it on.
Nothing happened.
I reached higher and felt that the lightbulb was missing.
Carefully, slowly, I eased open my nightstand drawer, seeking out the .38 I put in there every night.
The gun was gone.
Something in the darkness moved.
"Mom? Alan?"
No answer.
I breathed in deep, held it, straining to hear any sound.
A faint chuckle came from nearby.
My digital clock went out.
The hair rose on the back of my neck. The darkness was complete, a thick inky cloth. Sweat trickled down my spine.
The closet.
"I've got a gun!" I yelled to the darkness.
Another chuckle. Low and soft.
Fuller.
Another movement. Closer this time.
My heart pumped ice through my veins. Where were Mom and Alan? What had he done to them?
How do I make it out of here alive?
My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don't look back.
I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.
I screamed, and woke myself up.
Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the .38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I'd just completed the last leg of a triathlon.
"Jack?"
Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the gun.
"What's happening?"
"Just a bad dream."
"You're going to shoot a bad dream?"
I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the drawer. My fingers wouldn't let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.
I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.
I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.
"Morning, Mom."
Mom wore a pink flannel nightgown with a cat stitched on the front. She sat at the breakfast bar, sipping out of a mug, you guessed it, with a cat on it.
"Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty."
"Court." I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. "You okay?"
"This cold weather is affecting my hip."
"It's got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on 'broil.'"
"My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it's freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets."
I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.
"Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?"
"Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I'd hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know."
"Why not invite him here?"
"He's retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn't ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates."
"He can stay with us."
Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.
"Really?"
"Sure. If he doesn't mind sharing the sofa bed." I winked at her.
"Well, I think I'll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing."
I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan's health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called "I Can't Believe It's Not Cancer."