“Somewhere outdoors is the best place, in the woods, by the water, a cliff.”
“Surprise them, jump out of nowhere, lull them into a sense of security.”
“Blunt-force trauma, stabbing, a gun with a silencer.”
“Explosions, strangulation, poisoning.”
“Make it look like an accident.”
“Leave the body at the scene. If you move it, you risk leaving hairs, fingerprints, fibers on the body.”
“Never leave the body at the scene.”
“Use plastic bags. Wear gloves. Burn your shoes and clothes afterward.”
“Bury, burn, dump in the ocean.”
Eventually all the letters started swimming together, and her field of vision grew cloudy. She felt groggy and tired, so she shut off her computer and returned to bed. Just before sleep came and carried her away, something flashed before her eyes, something she’d just read, a sentence that stood out from all the other sludge—a tip, the only really sensible one:
Make it look like an accident.
31
The building Philip Storm works in is tall. I count twelve stories from my vantage point outside the front door. It contains the offices of a number of different companies. Men and women in serious business attire and equally serious hairdos pass through the front doors. I lean against a column and observe them, looking for someone with dark hair combed back flat. Only a couple of minutes after arriving, I already think I’ve spotted him twice. Both times I was on my way over to him but stopped myself when I realized my mistake.
What should I say to him when he does turn up? How should I explain who I am and why he needs to listen to my warnings? What exactly am I planning to warn him about?
I should have a plan, think through what I’m actually doing. On some level I understand that, but the throbbing in my head has taken over. My sense of urgency, that something is imminent—something I need to stop—makes it hard for me to complete a full thought.
Finally I can’t handle waiting any more. I walk toward the stream of people coming out, walk through the doors and over to the reception desk by the elevators. I say his name in a voice that is a bit too shrill. The receptionist, a woman with her hair up in a tight bun, types something into the computer in front of her and then looks up again.
“Philip Storm left the office over an hour ago.”
I stare at her, thinking back to what Leo said, that his father had an important meeting and would be home late.
“That’s not possible,” I say. “Please check again.”
She does. Then at my urging, she even tries calling him.
“Unfortunately,” she says shaking her head, “he’s turned off his phone.”
“But this is important. I need to get in touch with him!”
My voice is bordering on falsetto now. I put my hands on the counter and lean forward. The woman with the bun-shaped face stiffens.
“Please calm down. Mr. Storm will be back in the office Monday morning, and you can simply—”
“If he’s not here and not at home, then where is he, hmm? What about that?”
Then I realize that the answer is obvious. I leave the receptionist’s counter, and in somewhat jerky steps, I head for the exit. Once back out on the street, I hurry along the sidewalk. Of course. I know where he is and who he’s with.
I jog past the same restaurants and shops I had passed a few days ago in Philip Storm’s tracks. There are more people out and about this time, couples and families and groups of friends. One family is walking toward me side by side, taking up nearly the entire sidewalk. I almost run right into the mother. Without letting go of the baby carriage, she grabs her three- or four-year-old daughter who’s walking next to her, and protectively pulls her in closer. We watch each other and—for a fraction of a second—I see something flicker through her eyes, something that cuts right through me. No, I want to yell, I’m not like that, not really.
I rush on, but something is different. There’s a roaring in my ears. What am I doing here? What am I doing? It’s as if I’m seeing myself from the outside, seeing how I’m acting, with no plan, how I’m not thinking any further ahead than my next step. The look in that young mother’s eyes lingers in my mind.
My legs slow down. Soon I’m there, on the street, at the door where I saw Philip Storm with the red-haired woman. What now? I don’t have the entry code, but even if I find a way to get into the stairwell, I can’t just run around knocking on doors at random. Or can I?
I look around, take in my surroundings. Cars and street signs, display windows and restaurants. People. Everywhere there are people talking and laughing and hugging. Something is in the air, something joyful and full of expectation. The weekend is practically here. People are on their way home or off somewhere to unwind and hang out. I look at my own reflection in one of the restaurant windows and discern the contours of a lonely, gloomy figure. Then my eyes change their focus, switching from looking at my own reflection in the window to perceiving what’s inside, a restaurant full of happy people sitting together around sturdy tables. Couples, friends, colleagues. And then I focus again on the lonely figure in the reflection—she who is no longer with anyone, she who doesn’t have anyone’s hand to hold or eat with or hug.
Thinking about you. Hope you’re doing well.
What are we doing? What have we done?
Without any demands or expectations, just to see each other and talk a little. I miss you so much.
Suddenly I just want to cry, go back home and shut myself in, lower the blinds and never show myself to the outside world again.
And right then, that’s when I discover them.
They’re sitting at a table fairly far back in the place, near the bar. They’re each holding a beer, and the redhead is drinking from her glass as Philip says something. He’s clearly saying something extremely funny, because she gives a start and lifts her glass away from her mouth, sets it down on the table in front of her, and then blossoms into a burst of laughter. It’s just the two of them at the table. They’re sitting across from each other with no bodily contact as far as I can see, but they can’t take their eyes off each other.
He’s sitting in there, the man who’s the reason I’m here at all. The man who needs to know what I know, needs to have the chance to… My head is spinning, and my mouth is dry. Where do I start? How should I phrase this? And, last but not least, how will he react? The personal trainer at the gym, the receptionist in the lobby of his office building, the young mother with the baby carriage I almost ran into, the expressions on their faces flash through my mind. What if Philip Storm looks at me the same way they all did? What if he turns what I say against me and accuses me of being mentally ill, maybe something even worse… My pulse picks up, but I think, One thing at a time, and the words are sort of calming, so I repeat them silently to myself: One thing at a time. My indecision abates. I take a few steps to the side, open the door to the restaurant, and go in.
A skinny man dressed all in black greets me, and I tell him I just want to have a drink. He directs me to the bar. There are still a few barstools free. I sit down on the one closest to the table where Philip and his companion are seated and order glass of white wine. As soon as I have it in my hand, I turn to face out toward the rest of the restaurant. I need to see Philip and the redhead together, need to hear what they’re saying to each other. Then I’ll figure out what the next step will be. One thing at a time.