If it were concentrating on the right thing, it would notice right away that my door is slightly ajar.
By touch I find my apartment key, start to extend it to the lock, but freeze.
Just stand there a moment. Not breathing, not moving at all.
The world suddenly takes on a fourth dimension, warbling in and out of focus, and I’m backtracking through my mind the past ten minutes—driving down Interstate 395, glancing every thirty seconds in the rearview mirror in case of a tail—and then I’m thinking about parking in the apartment complex lot, walking toward the stairs, and I can’t believe that my mind wasn’t focused like it usually is, that instead of worrying about covering my back I was worrying about what I should wear to my eventual job interview.
I reach into my purse, grab for my gun—a SIG P320 Nitron Subcompact—but the gun isn’t there.
Of course it’s not there. Because today we went to the Smithsonian and they make you walk through metal detectors and so I took out my gun, placed it in the glove box, and normally I would have retrieved it right away, but I’ve been so preoccupied that I forgot it and that’s where it is now, in the glove box along with the owner’s manual and tissues and my emergency ration of tampons.
I consider backing away, retracing my steps, retrieving the gun, coming back up here properly armed.
The only problem then is I lose a good sixty seconds. Not only that, if whoever is inside is a pro, they’ve heard me coming—maybe even watched me pull into the parking lot—and of course it doesn’t help that my keys jangled when I extended them, so now whoever’s inside knows I’m standing right outside.
Maybe I’m overreacting—maybe Josh just forgot to close it when he left this morning—but I know that’s bullshit because Josh is smarter than that, especially with other people’s stuff, and then I think maybe it’s Josh inside, having come back because he decided to dump that stupid bitch and keep what we have going, but I know that’s not the case either and I know that the closest weapon I have to me right now is in the kitchen, a butcher block full of sharp carving knives.
Five seconds have passed. The world warbles back into place, losing that fourth dimension.
I raise my right foot and kick the door and immediately pivot away, place my back against the wall, waiting for a gunshot. When a second passes and nothing happens, I peek inside. Nothing; all the lights off. I hurry in, staying close to the wall, keeping my breathing shallow, listening for any sound. Four seconds pass and then I reach the kitchen but stop before I enter, crouch down to peek around the corner, because anyone watching will expect me to still be standing and will be aiming for a headshot. Again nothing, nobody at all. I slip into the kitchen, losing my shoes so my socks are silent on the tiles. I go directly to the counter, grab the longest carving knife, and turn back around.
Still nothing.
Now sufficiently armed, I start toward the doorway leading into the living room. The light here isn’t great either, not with the shades drawn, but it’s not total darkness and I have no problem spotting the person sitting on the sofa.
“Stop right there,” I say loudly, the knife held up with the tip pointed straight out.
I take a step forward, squint so my eyes adjust to the dark. Then I lower the knife. “Goddamn you, Nova,” I say.
“No lock is too small to keep me out.” He gives me a drunken smile and holds up a bottle of Cuervo, shaking it slightly so the tequila inside sloshes around. “Now why don’t you help me finish this bad boy off?”
Twenty
“Walter’s a fucking asshole.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“He’s trying to cover his ass, Holly, that’s what he’s doing. You know what I say? I say fuck him.”
We’re up on the roof of my apartment complex, sitting on cheap lawn chairs staring out over the buildings at the setting sun. Neither of us speaks for a time, and in that moment or so the only sounds in the world are the traffic drifting up from the street and the rusty wind chimes someone placed up here long ago tinkling as they sway in the breeze.
“Walter’s not the bad guy here,” I say finally.
Nova takes a swig of the tequila, shakes his head. “No, I guess he’s not.”
I take the bottle from him. “He saved my ass a long time ago. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“I’ve heard some but never the entire story.”
“It happened in Iraq.”
“I know that part, yeah.”
I open my mouth to continue but decide now’s not the time. Also I’m not sure I want Nova to hear the story. Not because he wouldn’t understand—I know he would—but because it’s such a personal thing, the one time when I truly failed as a friend and as a human being.
“Walter says I’ve been on a gradual decline. Have been for the past two years.”
Nova says nothing, just keeps staring out at the horizon.
“What—you agree with him?”
Nova stands up suddenly. Stepping forward, he hawks a loogie and lets it fly up over the edge of the building. He watches it a moment, just watches it, and for some reason I picture it in my mind, that wad of phlegm flying down toward the parking lot, coming apart the farther and faster it goes. Maybe it hits a car, maybe it hits the pavement, maybe it hits the grass. Whatever the case, it hits something because that’s its nature, its purpose.
When Nova turns back to me, he says, “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“The thing with your father was fucked up. It would have traumatized anybody.”
“Oh,
