SWF Seeks Same

She moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder. A tingle of alarm played up the nape of her neck, like the very tip of a soft feather drawn over flesh. What was going on here? “How ‘bout you? Where’d you live before New Jersey?”

He told her, but she barely listened. Someplace in Connecticut. Not that it mattered. No way to know if it was the truth. A thousand voices in Hedra were screaming for her to be careful. She’d heard those warnings before and ignored them, and regretted it later. Alcoholics and gamblers must hear those same unheeded voices.

She and Andy danced until closing time and agreed to meet there the next evening. He kissed her lightly on the forehead as they parted. Nothing pushy, but a promise. Subtle foreplay.

And the next evening she went. She couldn’t stay away.

She waited until almost midnight and he didn’t show up.

After turning down her tenth offer of a drink or a dance, she decided to leave. She threaded her way across the crowded dance floor and past a line of people waiting to get into the main room. A short man with a gray beard and a gold-flecked silk jacket turned away from the woman on his arm and winked at Hedra. She said, “Nice coat, but that’s about it, asshole,” and walked past him and out the door.

Zinging the bearded man had given her a great deal of pleasure, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d made him a substitute for Andy. He was the same sex; that was close enough.

Midnight was too late for a woman alone to ride safely on the subway.

Alone. Not what she’d planned.

It wasn’t unusual to be stood up, she assured herself, as she hailed a cab to take her back to the Cody Arms. That was how it went in the singles scene in Manhattan, a cruel and devious game, each partner playing with the softest part of the other. Hadn’t she always known it?

Still, she’d liked Andy a lot. She’d wanted desperately for the voices to be wrong, for him to be who he said he was.

But was anybody who they said they were? Really?

During the cab ride through the dark and rain-slick streets, snow began to fall.

At the Cody Arms, she paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi, feeling a few cold flakes on the back of her neck as she bent down and slammed the rear door. The cab pulled away and left a swirling turmoil of blue-gray exhaust that held the glow from the street light, then drifted low and disappeared in darkness.

She turned up the collar of her new blue raincoat and hurried across West 74th Street, listening to the clack! clack! clack! of her high heels spiking the pavement. She wanted to be warm. Safe. Home. Soon as possible.

There was no one in the lobby or the elevator. She rode up to the third floor, waited patiently for the elevator to go through its yo-yo act to minimize the step up. As the sliding doors hissed open, she strode out into the hall, already fishing in her purse for her key.

As soon as she closed the apartment door behind her, she felt much better. Calmer. And she realized she was very tired. Being stood up was a strain. The hell with you, Andy, you inconsiderate bastard. She’d have a cup of hot chocolate and then read herself to sleep.

She didn’t notice them at first. Not until she’d hung her coat in the closet by the door and taken three steps into the living room.

Then her breath became a cold vacuum and she stopped and stood still. Mother of God!

What was going on here? Were they real, sitting so calmly and unmoving on her sofa? Staring at her?

Not real, she decided.

Not possibly real.

An illusion.

She dug her fingers into her palms and laughed nervously, startling herself with the high-pitched rasp that exploded from her constricted throat. When she inhaled she found the air thin and dizzying and felt as if she might suffocate.

The large, tweedy man holding the brown package and the dead cigar said, “Nasty out there, isn’t it, dear?” And she knew he was real.

Real, too, was the figure next to him on the sofa.

Sitting in Hedra’s place.

Allie Jones.

Chapter 36

HEDRA knew she was in a trap but had little idea of its tightness or dimensions. She had to feel this one out. Move carefully.

What could they know about her?

Actually know?

That she’d moved into the apartment under false pretenses. That she wasn’t using her real name.

That was all, really; they couldn’t possibly prove she’d lived here before. They knew nothing about her actions during that time.

They can’t prove anything, she told herself. She’d obscured every track and neatly snipped every loose end. Just like in the mystery novels she read so avidly. They can know but they can’t prove. Don’t let them bluff you.