I feel the rush of tears break over the banks of my eyes. I hope it’s true, I really do. I hope she’s a good egg caught in a rotten basket. It’s time to put her to the test.
“Giselle, you need to listen to me. You need to listen very, very carefully, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, through sniffles.
“Can you get to the Cayman Islands?”
“Yeah. I have open tickets. I can go anytime.”
“Do you still have your passport?”
“Yes.”
“Do not contact Rodney. Do you understand?”
“But shouldn’t I let him know that—”
“He doesn’t care a jot about you, Giselle. Can’t you see that? He’ll take you down, too, at the first chance. You’re just another pawn in his game.”
I hear her struggle to draw in breath. “Oh, Molly, I wish I were more like you. I’m not. I’m not at all. You’re strong. You’re honest. You’re good. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can be alone.”
“You’ve always been alone, Giselle. Poor company is worse than none.”
“Let me guess. Your gran told you that?”
“She did,” I say. “And she’s right.”
“How could I have ever fallen for a man so…”
“Vile?” I offer.
“Yes,” she says. “So vile.”
“Vile and evil are composed of the same letters. One begets the other.”
“Rodney and Charles,” she says.
“Vile and evil,” I reply. “Giselle, we don’t have much time. I need you to do as I say. And it has to be fast.”
“Okay,” she says. “Whatever you ask, Molly.”
“I want you to pack your basic necessities into a single bag. I want you to carry your passport and whatever money you have right next to your heart. And I want you to run. Not out the front doors of the hotel, but out the back ones. Right now. Do you hear me?”
“But what about you? I can’t just let you—”
“If you are a friend, you will do this for me. I’m not alone anymore. I have real friends, true ones. I’m going to be fine. I’m asking you to do as I say. Go now, Giselle. Run.”
She keeps talking, but I don’t listen because I’ve said everything I need to say. I know it’s rude, and if this weren’t an extraordinary situation, I certainly wouldn’t behave in this curt and clipped manner. I hang up on her without another word.
When I look up from my phone, there’s a coffee-shop employee standing by my table. She’s shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. I recognize this behavior. It’s what I do when I’m waiting for my turn to speak.
“Was that you?” she asks. She points to the TV screen.
How am I supposed to answer?
Honesty is the best policy.
“That was me. Yes.”
There’s a pause as she takes this in.
“Oh, I should add that I didn’t do it. Murder Mr. Black, I mean. I’m not a killer. You have nothing at all to worry about.” I take a sip from my mug.
The coffee-shop employee stiffens and sidles away from my table. She turns her back on me only once she’s safely behind the counter. I watch as she rushes to the kitchen, where she is no doubt talking to her supervisor, who will soon come out and look at me with wide eyes. I will recognize the expression instantly. I will know that it means fear because I’m getting better at this—understanding the subtle cues, the body language that expresses emotional states.
The more you live, the more you learn.
That same supervisor will look me up and down and verify that it’s me, the one on the news. She will call the police. The police will say something to calm her down, tell her not to worry or that the news conference had the details wrong.
All will be well. In the end.
I take a deep breath. I enjoy another calming sip of tea. I wait and I watch the hotel entrance.
And then: there it is at last—what I’ve been waiting for….
The police emerge through the revolving doors with a man in front of them—Rodney, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, making it easy to see his lovely forearms in handcuffs. Trailing behind him is Detective Stark. She’s carrying a navy-blue duffel bag that I recognize immediately. The zipper is half-open. Even from here, I can tell it’s not filled with a dishwasher’s clothes and personal effects but with bags containing white powder.
I pick up one neat quarter of my raisin-bran muffin. How lovely. It’s fresh. Isn’t it interesting that this shop bakes goods in the late afternoon? You wouldn’t think many people would choose muffins in the afternoon, but there you have it. Perhaps there are others out there in the world just like me.
People are a mystery that can never be solved.
It’s true, Gran. Very true indeed.
The muffin is delightful. It melts in my mouth. It feels good to eat. It’s something so human, so satisfying. It’s something we all have to do to live, something every person on Earth has in common. I eat, therefore I am.
Rodney’s head is pushed down into the backseat of one of the police cruisers. Several of the officers who ran into the hotel a few minutes ago are standing guard at the bottom stair. Nervous hotel guests huddle on the landing, seeking comfort and reassurance from their doorman.
Detective Stark climbs the stairs, says something to Mr. Preston. I see them both look my way. There’s no way they can see me, not with the late-afternoon light hitting the shop window.
Detective Stark nods my way, almost imperceptibly, but still, it’s a nod. It’s meant for me. I’m certain of it. What I’m not certain of is what it means, this small gesture from afar. I’ve definitely had my fair share of trouble interpreting Detective Stark, so all guesses are just that—suppositions, not certainties.
I have never been one for gambling, mostly because money has been so hard for me to earn and so easy to lose. But were I to place a bet, I’d say that Detective Stark’s nod carried a specific meaning. And what it meant was: I was wrong.
Chapter 25
I walk at a leisurely pace back to my apartment. It’s funny how when you’re feeling the impact of stress, it’s hard to appreciate the small, inspiring things around you—the birds chirping their last lullabies before puffing up for a night’s sleep, the cotton-candy sky as the sun sets, the fact that you’re on your way home and unlike every other day for the last several months, when you open your front door, there will be a friend there waiting for you. It may be the first time since Gran’s death that I feel such a sense of hope.
Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.
My building is up ahead. I quicken my pace. I know Juan Manuel will be desperate for news, real news, not just a thumbs-up emoji.
I glide through the front doors and take the steps to my floor two by two. I turn down my hallway, take out my key and enter.
“I’m home!” I call out.
Juan Manuel rushes my way and is standing much closer than a trolley-length away from me, not that his proximity bothers me. I’ve never had an issue with people being near me. My issue has always been the opposite—that people keep their distance.
“Híjole, you’re home,” he says, his hands together. He opens the closet, grabs the shoe cloth, and waits as I take off my shoes.
“Did it work?” he asks. “Did they catch the fox?”
“Yes,” I say. “I saw it with my own eyes. They caught Rodney.”