“I’m not sure.”
“I think you know.”
I glanced away from her. “When I get too close, I know it. I’ve gotten too close before. I ask myself why it happens.”
“People like us can’t help it. We have a compulsion, something drives us. That’s why it happens,” she said.
I could not admit to her my fear. Had Mark answered the phone, I didn’t know if I could have admitted it to him, either.
Abby was staring off, her voice distant when she asked, “As much as you know about death, do you ever think about your own?”
I got off the bed. “Where the hell is Marino?”
I picked up the phone to try him again.
16
Days turned into weeks while I waited anxiously. I had not heard from Marino since giving him the information about The Dealer’s Room. I had not heard from anyone. With each hour that passed the silence grew louder and More ominous.
On the first day of spring, I emerged from the conference room after being deposed for three hours by two lawyers. Rose told me I had a call.
“Kay? It’s Benton. ” “Good afternoon,” I said, adrenaline surging.
“Can you come up to Quantico tomorrow?”
I reached for my calendar. Rose had penciled in a conference call. It could be rescheduled.
“What time?”
“Ten, if that’s convenient. I’ve already talked to Marino.”
Before I could ask questions, he said he couldn’t talk and would fill me in when we met. It was six o’clock before I left my office. The sun had gone down and the air felt cold. When I turned into my driveway, I noticed the lights were on. Abby was home.
We had seen little of each other of late, both of us in and out, rarely speaking. She never went to the grocery store, but would leave a fifty-dollar bill taped to the refrigerator every now and then, which more than covered what little she ate. When wine or Scotch got low, I would find a twenty-dollar bill under the bottle. Several days ago, I had discovered a five-dollar bill on top of a depleted box of laundry soap. Wandering through the rooms of my house had turned into a peculiar scavenger hunt.
When I unlocked the front door, Abby suddenly stepped into the doorway, startling me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I heard you drive in. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I felt foolish. Ever since she had moved in, I had become increasingly jumpy. I supposed I wasn’t adjusting well to my loss of privacy.
“Can I fix you a drink?” she asked. Abby looked tired.
“Thanks,” I said, unbuttoning my coat. My eyes wandered into the living room. On the coffee table, beside an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, were a wineglass and several reporter’s notepads.
Taking off my coat and gloves, I went upstairs and tossed them on my bed, pausing long enough to play back the messages on the answering machine. My another had tried to reach me. I was eligible to win a prize if I dialed a certain number by eight P.M., and Marino had called to tell me what time he would pick me up in the morning. Mark and I continued missing each other, talking to each other’s machines.
“I’ve got to go to Quantico tomorrow,” I told Abby when I entered the living room.
She pointed to my drink on the coffee table.
“Marino and I have a meeting with Benton,” I said.
She reached for her cigarettes.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” I continued. “Maybe you do.”
“Why would I know?”
“You haven’t been here much. I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”
“When you’re at your office, I don’t know what you’re doing either.”
“I haven’t been doing anything remarkable. What would you like to know?”
I offered lightly, trying to dispel the tension.
“I don’t ask because I know how private you are about your work. I don’t want to pry.”
I assumed she was implying that if I asked about what she was doing I would be prying.
“Abby, you seem distant these days.”
“Preoccupied. Please don’t take it personally.”
Certainly she had plenty to think about, with the book she was writing, what she was going to do with her life. But I had never seen Abby this withdrawn.