who just happened to work at a hedge fund-lavished expensive jewels and Caribbean vacations on her like the Gulf of Mexico might dry up at any moment. Despite this, Darcy still gave out her phone number to any suitor who asked. Always off by one number, though, and thankfully men were pretty stupid.
Amanda had never been to the Bahamas. Or Mexico. She'd never been outside the continental United States. It wasn't that
Lawrence and Harriet never tried to take her on family vacation, but they would always be that: Lawrence and
Harriet. They would never be her parents-her family. She never had any desire to go away with them. It was like going away with a roommate you didn't particularly get along with.
Children found themselves at odds with their parents all the time, but there was always an inherent love, a binding that surpassed most animosity. She never had that bond. So the animosity lingered.
It wasn't hate, they were good people after all, but there was never any desire to spend more time with them than she had to. Brief chats at the dinner table, superficial discussions about homework, friends, occasionally boys and the future.
Amanda loved to talk about the future.
Darcy was constantly stuck in the present. The 'what now.'
Which is why Amanda liked her.
Today Darcy was wearing a stylish Versace pantsuit and a maroon tank top underneath. Her buoyant cleavage was visible above the lapels. Appropriate attire for a not-for-profit organization. A thin string of pearls danced around her neck, and the diamonds in her ears could have choked a horse.
'Baby, you want to talk?' she repeated.
'You know, I appreciate the gesture,' Amanda said, 'but
I'm okay. Thanks anyway.'
'You don't look okay, honey darling,' Darcy said. That was another Darcy trademark-taking two NutraSweet words and sticking them together like syrup on top of fried sugar.
'What's the matter?'
'Really,' Amanda said, self-consciously pulling her V-neck sweater up a little higher. 'It's okay.'
Darcy rolled a chair over, nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process. 'Is it boy trouble?' she asked with a mischievous smile, clearly hoping it would be. Though Darcy's idea of boy trouble likely consisted of 'he doesn't pay attention to me' and not the 'he just witnessed his ex-girlfriend being thrown off a roof ' variety.
'Things could be better in that department,' Amanda said.
She began typing on her keyboard, nothing but gibberish, but hoping Darcy would get the hint.
'Oh, do tell! My Greg, any time he's not performing up to snuff I tell him. I say 'listen, honey babe, you know I love you, but we need to get a few things straight because my chi isn't being harnessed.''
'Your chi?'
'Hell yes, babycakes, my chi. If my chi isn't being harnessed I need to let my man know about it. It's like a tree root.
It can go a few weeks without being watered, but unless you want it to dry up permanently you gotta feed it some water.
Nourish that sucker.'
'I think that's about all I need to know about your chi.'
'Suit yourself. So what is it? Man trouble? Something else? Come on, babypie, tell me.'
Amanda stopped typing. She didn't want to talk to Darcy but…
The truth was she had nobody else. For over twenty years,
Amanda had grown up a stranger to everyone, even those supposed to take care of her. She was always introverted, never talking unless being talked to. It was great for developing sardonic comebacks, but meaningful conversations occurred as often as meaningful relationships. And that's where the notepads came in.
She hadn't written on them in months. Since she and Henry had gotten serious. Since she found someone who made her feel like she wasn't a stranger anymore. Someone who felt like he would be in her life longer than a leaf fluttering.
Someone who felt like he would stay with her forever.
And yet here she was, sitting at work at seven o'clock at night, having finished up her daily tasks, biding the time until everyone left and she could fall asleep on her boss's couch.
Amanda had feared early on about what would happen if she and Henry split up, grew distant. After their first few months, she never imagined they could grow apart. She never feared tomorrow would bring an empty bed. Today, Amanda wondered if that tomorrow had arrived.
Amanda looked into Darcy's eyes. They were coated with makeup, brought out by jewels, but they were also honest.
Darcy seemed genuinely interested, genuinely concerned.
Whether it was a fleeting concern Amanda couldn't tell, but if she didn't let out some steam she would either explode or cry.
She smiled at Darcy. Opened up the web browser on her computer. Went to the home page of the New York Dispatch.
Clicked on the headline banner, opening up their top story of the day.
The headline read: Murdered Politician's Daughter Critically Injured After Being Thrown From Rooftop.
'The same person who killed Athena Paradis,' Amanda said, as Darcy scanned the article. 'He threw Mya Loverne off a roof.'
'That guy scares the shit out of me,' Darcy said, seemingly oblivious. 'I mean, I'm not the biggest Athena Paradis fan, but
I can't say the girl deserved to die. To think there's someone like that walking around out there… God, just gives me the creeps.'
Then Darcy's eyes stopped scanning. She was reading a line three-quarters of the way down the page. She underlined a sentence with her fingernail.
'Is that…'
The line read: Loverne is also reported to have been ro mantically involved with Henry Parker, a junior reporter at the New York Gazette who himself was the focus of a murder investigation just last year.
Amanda felt a terrible lump rise in her throat.
'That…that's your boy trouble?'
Amanda laughed softly, didn't know why, then nodded, heard a patter as the first droplet hit her keyboard. Darcy's face was a mix of sympathy and confusion. That's your man?
Amanda leapt from her seat without turning the screen off, threw on her coat and fled the office, running into the New
York night where the lonely streets awaited her.
48
I walked to my desk without stopping for any hellos, any questions, queries or anything. I ignored everybody. I sat down at my desk knowing eyes were watching me, waiting to see what would happen, debating whether to offer support, taking mental wagers on who would be the first to break the seal and open conversation. I turned on my computer and immediately ran a search for the words Quien es and Billy the
Kid.
I found several matches. And that vague Spanish line took on a whole new meaning.
When Pat Garrett allegedly killed Billy the Kid, the Kid's last words were Quien es. They were supposedly uttered in the dark, before Garrett put a bullet through Billy's heart. Words spoken from Billy to Pat Garrett, and now William Henry Roberts to me.
I was his Pat Garrett. The man who would make Roberts famous.
Quien es.
