Die For You

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” When would all this hit the news? I wondered. Soon, I would think. Authors are rarely celebrities, but something like this could make me one. It would be just the kind of hook the media needed to sell the story: BESTSELLING AUTHOR’S HUSBAND TURNED VILLIAN-TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION.

“I need that money, Jack.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. “I’ll wire it tomorrow.”

“No. I need it today. In cash.”

There was a pause where I heard him tapping on his keyboard-multitasking, which I hated. Then: “Very funny.”

“Jack, pay attention,” I said. “I’m not kidding.”

Another pause, but the tapping stopped abruptly. “What’s going on?”

Jack and I had been friends since NYU. We met in a creative writing class. But he never had the patience-or the talent-for the actual writing, he realized. He just wanted the sale. After graduation he went straight to work at a literary agency, where a few years later he represented and sold my first novel. Eventually he started his own agency. We were allies, friends, and colleagues.

And once, just weeks before I met Marcus, we’d traveled together to a conference, where we’d gotten loaded at a local bar and wound up sleeping together. It might have always been there, this attraction, just beneath the surface, but the friendship and business relationship were so good that we’d just ignored the other, more volatile, aspect of our affection. I talked to him almost as often as I did my sister or my husband, but neither of us had ever again addressed the night we spent together. In the wee hours after our lovemaking, I’d dressed hastily and left his hotel room while he slumbered heavily. I wasn’t even certain if he remembered what happened that night.

Now I told him everything about the recent events of my life. Everything beginning with the night Marc didn’t return home, ending with the Web site open in front of me.

“Holy Christ,” he whispered into the phone when I was done. “Isabel, is this for real?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Unfortunately, it is.”

“You’re hurt. Are you okay? Really okay?”

“I think so. How do I know? How is one supposed to handle a situation like this?”

“I think you’re not, Iz. I think you’re supposed to get into a bed somewhere and let the professionals handle it. Cops, lawyers-that’s what these people do.”

If we were in the room together, he’d put a hand on my shoulder or usher me to a chair somewhere. I imagined him running a big hand through his thick, dark hair. I wished I was looking into the warmth of his dark eyes, noticing he needed a shave, feeling relaxed and calmed by his presence. Instead I stared at the harsh beauty of the woman still on my screen and felt something akin to indigestion, some acidic brew of anger and fear.

“I can’t do that. I’ve already given too much power away. He stole from me. He hurt my family. He’s not going to stroll off, with the police always just behind chasing warrants and following leads. No.”

Jack issued the exasperated sigh that I’ve heard often in our relationship, a kind of tired blowing out of his lips. He regarded me as generally pig-headed and stubborn and had said so many times-during contract negotiations, with editorial matters, regarding women he’d dated whom I found wanting, or where to have lunch.

“So now what?” His voice had raised an octave in concern. “You’re on the run from the police? This is not good. We need to rethink this.”

“I’m not ‘on the run.’ I didn’t do anything. I’m just trying to figure out what’s happened here, to fix all the damage. So, are you going to give me my money or what?”

“Am I aiding and abetting you right now?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I repeated.

“But if asked by the police, I’m supposed to say you haven’t contacted me and I don’t know where you are?”

“I haven’t. You called me,” I said. “And you don’t know where I am.”

There was silence on the line. “Okay. I’ll get you some cash.”

“I’ll find you later.” I was about to end the call but I heard his voice and put the phone back to my ear.

“I wish I could say I was surprised that this guy turned out to be a disaster,” he was saying. “I never liked him.”

“This guy? He’s my husband of five years.”

“I know. I never liked him,” he said, sounding grave. “Seriously.”

“You never said so.”

“You never asked.”

“Still.”

“I was trying to be supportive. I could see that… you loved him.” There was a strange pitch to his voice, something I hadn’t heard before. And in that moment I realized: He did remember.

“Jack.”

“Just please be careful.”

AFTER I’D FINISHED with Jack, I wrote down the number on the screen. But rather than dialing, I searched the online reverse directory and got an address in Queens. I wrote that down as well. It took all the strength I had to stop looking at my dirty-hot assailant. But I felt a clock ticking, knowing that the longer I was here, the more likely whoever might be looking for me-police or otherwise-would catch up.

I logged on to my Web site e-mail account and searched the trash folder, which I’d never emptied. The second of the two e-mails I’d received was still there; the first one was gone. I knew that the trash folder automatically purged after a week. I stared at the message, the cursor bar blinking blue over it. The name in the “from” field was Camilla Novak. The subject line read: Your husband…

The text in the body read:

Your husband is a liar and a murderer. The past is about to catch up with him. And you need to save yourself. You’re in great danger. Please call me.

She ended with her name and a phone number.

Even reading it now, I can see why I deleted it. It was so overwrought, so silly. A week ago, I would have imagined it spam, on par with all those e-mails announcing that I’d won some European lottery, or that someone who’d had a crush on me in high school was looking for me. My box was always full of this kind of garbage. They were lures, looking for the most gullible, loneliest, most paranoid fish in the pond. I deleted mercilessly. Too bad I didn’t have such good judgment in the real world.

I hesitated just a moment and then dialed the number on the screen from my cell phone. It rang so long, I didn’t think anyone would pick up. Then there was a very sultry female voice on the line.

“Hello?”

I found I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I hesitated, almost hung up.

“Hello?” she said again.

Finally, I found my voice: “It’s Isabel Raine.”

There was only silence on the line where I heard her breathing.

“You wrote to me about my husband,” I went on. “You said he was a murderer and a liar. That I was in danger.” I sounded amazingly cool and distant, my voice not betraying the adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

Still silence. Then: “I made a mistake. I lied. I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t. You need to tell me the truth.”

“It’s too late. It’s too late.” I heard a buzzer ring on her end. “I have to go. Don’t call again.”

She hung up, and I immediately called her back. My call went straight to voice mail.

“I know about your boyfriend, about the real Marcus Raine. What happened to him? You have to help me.” But I was talking to air.

I quickly found a local listing for Camilla Novak online, wrote down the address and phone number, hoping it was the right person. The listing was in SoHo, not too far from where I was now. Then I Googled: “marcus raine missing nyc.” I wanted more details. I needed to arm myself with information before I raced into the fray.

A list of matches filled the screen and I scrolled through old newspaper articles, which didn’t offer any new