It was also the first time she realized what she was capable of.
It was the first time she thought she could kill him.
Es verdad.
Really and truly kill him.
– '-'-'THE MURDERESS She couldn't believe her life was turning out so well.
So far, it had been a dream of a day. She woke up, alone and liking it. Went for a run, did the entire Central Park reservoir twice around. She ran easily, with her mind clear, able to concentrate on exactly what she was doing: putting one foot in front of the other, breathing deeply, in and out. She kept her own pace, competed against no one. Ran out of the park until she was half a block from her apartment building – she adored living on the Upper West Side; what could be better? – then walked briskly the rest of the way, smiled at her doorman, rode up in the quiet elevator, stepped back into the apartment she loved so much. She spent a minute stepping through the apartment, touching the art on the walls, the piece of fabric from India that had been mounted and framed and hung in the living room over the elegant Shabby Chic couch. Touching them made them real to her. The way her life was now real to her.
She had ground the dark, French Roast coffee beans the night before and put the powder in the top of the gleaming black Cuisinart coffee maker, along with a dash of cinnamon and a touch of vanilla, so all she had to do was pour in four cups' worth of water and flick the switch. The aroma of brewing coffee immediately filled the kitchen while she yanked her sweaty clothes off, dropped them on the living room floor and left them there, ran in and took a hot shower, let the steaming water, pleasant little stings of heat, rain down on her body while she scrubbed herself clean and shampooed her hair vigorously, twice.
Her clothes had been laid out the night before – organized was better, she had long ago concluded – and she stepped into the suit she'd decided to wear that day to work. She wouldn't get home before the party she was hosting that night, so this outfit would have to suffice for both. The black pinstriped skirt was short enough to be revealing and sexy but loose enough to be tasteful. The matching jacket was conservative but beautifully tapered. She buttoned it to within two buttons of the top, revealing only her long, graceful neck and the very top of her angular chest. To counter the conservatism of the cut and fabric, she wore no shirt underneath. Let everyone wonder. She had concluded something else long ago: mystery was also better.
She wore two-inch heels. She'd be on her feet all day, but she decided against flats, went with the Manolo Blahnik slingbacks that had been such an extravagance when she'd bought them. The extra inches boosted her up to five foot five and that, she decided, was a respectable height.
Her reddish hair – once a mousy brown, now lightly hennaed so it had a coppery glow – was layered and cut short. She'd had it touched up the day before. She wanted everything to be in place for tonight. Tonight was meant to be special.
She nudged the toe of her right shoe under her running shirt and sweatpants and kicked them up in the air. Cupping her hands and catching them expertly, she dropped them in the hamper in the hallway closet, went back into the kitchen and had two cups of black coffee – why, she wondered, does four cups of water always make only two and a half cups of coffee – while she read the Times, which had been delivered to her front door.
Even the long subway ride down to work had been particularly nice. A very handsome guy eyed her appreciatively the whole way down. He was around her age, wore expensive jeans and a pressed and firmly starched white shirt, and there was nothing leering about his stare. He got off the train before she did and he smiled at her, an appreciative smile, acknowledging the fact that she looked good and that it was nice to see someone who looked good.
Work, too, had been easy so far. She'd made the sale she'd been hoping all week to make. The clients had been indecisive but ultimately had trusted both her taste and her assessment that the piece they were buying was going to appreciate substantially in value. She was thrilled when they'd finally said okay; she didn't even bother to try hiding her pleasure. She had a bottle of Perrier Jouet sent to their apartment with a note that read, 'You made the right choice. Drink this while enjoying your new purchase,' and she received a dozen roses from them – sent before they could have received her gift – with a note that said, 'Thanks for making our lives easier and more pleasurable.'
She had a delicious little lunch right around the corner – turkey on black bread with Brie and honey mustard – and then a cappuccino with skim milk at the Italian coffee place a block farther away, one of the last neighborhoody places, sad to say, left in that part of SoHo. Gianni, the usually grouchy seventy-ish counterman, even threw in a chocolate biscotti, saying, 'On you it looks good.'
It was only toward the end that the dream of a day took a rocky turn. She was on the phone, doing a favor for another customer, giving some advice to a young artist who was looking for a place to display, when she heard the front door open and he walked in. Flustered, she didn't get off the phone, talked to the artist for perhaps five more minutes. Knowing she was being rude but not really caring, not knowing what else to do exactly. Then the conversation was exhausted and she hung up, had to deal with the situation.
'I wanted to see you,' he said.
He looked good. Of course, he always looked good. This was him at his best, though. Tight jeans worn over a pair of brown cowboy boots, a yellow T-shirt. A light beige suede jacket. Hair mussed. Why couldn't he ever keep his hair combed?
'You know I'm happy to see you. But we've been through all this,' she told him.
'This is different,' Kid said. 'It's not what you think. I just need to talk.'
She smiled, not exactly believing that all he wanted to do was talk.
He saw her smile and said, without smiling in return, 'I need help.'
'What kind of help?' she asked and now she believed him because she'd never seen him quite so serious.
'Can you meet me later? Tonight?'
'I can't,' she said, and felt as if she were lying but she wasn't. Tonight was too important and she couldn't leave. When he kept staring at her, she repeated it, stressing the word so he'd at least try to understand, 'I cant.'
He still said nothing, and in the silence she thought, He knows so much about me. More than almost anyone. Then she thought, What he could do with what he knows. What he could do…
'Please,' he said. The word was so faint that she wasn't sure she had heard it at all. Then he said it again, firmer. 'Please.'
'I'm sorry,' she told him, and she couldn't believe the words were coming out of her mouth. She was being so strong. Or was she being cruel? Or worse, self-destructive?
She watched him turn, disappointed and hurt, and go out the door, saunter away down the cobblestone street. He did tend to saunter.
The phone rang again. It was the artist-in-waiting, with a couple more questions. She gave him answers but she didn't really hear the questions. She was too busy thinking about the end of her perfect day, and what it meant, him being hurt like this. She realized that she would have to go see him one day. Soon. And she realized what she was going to have to do.
And why.
TWENTY
In mid-March, Kid said it was time to begin the final push. 'You are now strong enough to begin phase four,' Kid announced. 'What I think is that if you stopped now, stopped progressing, I mean, you could live like this. Your body is basically back to normal, your injuries are pretty much healed. There's pain, I know, but it's manageable pain.'
Jack thought this over and nodded. 'Most of the time it is.'
'You can live like this but I don't want you to. You shouldn't have to,' Kid went on. 'The problem, at this level, isn't so much the pain itself as the fear that goes with it. It's no longer a question of healing, it's a question of strengthening. It's a question of how strong can we make you and the answer is you have to be strong enough to eradicate the fear.'
'What's that on your arm?'
