His voice caught when he added, “She never stopped hoping things would turn out all right.”
“What exactly was it that she burned, PJ?”
“Her diary,” he replied. “I guess you could call it that. Letters she’d been writing to herself. She said it was her therapy and that she didn’t want anyone to see them. They were very private, her most private thoughts. The day before she left, she burned all her letters except two.”
“The two I saw,” I almost whispered. “Why? Why didn’t she burn those two letters?”
“Because she wanted me and Walt to have them.”
“As a remembrance?”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching for his beer and roughly rubbing tears from his eyes. “A piece of herself, a record of thoughts she had while she was here. The day before she left, the day she burned the stuff, she went out and photocopied just those two. She kept the copies and gave us the originals, said it sort of made us indentured to each other–that was the word she used. The three of us would always be together in our thoughts as long as we had the letters.”
When he walked me out, I turned around, throwing my arms around him in a hug of thanks.
I headed back to my hotel as the sun settled, palms etched against a spreading band of fire. Throngs of people clambered noisily toward the bars along Duval, and the enchanted air was alive with music, laughter, and lights. I walked with a spring in my step, the army knapsack slung over my shoulder. For the first time in weeks I was happy, almost euphoric. I was completely unprepared for what awaited me in my room.
16
I did not recall leaving any lamps on and just assumed the housekeeping staff must have neglected to switch them off after changing the linen and emptying the ashtrays. I had already locked the door and was humming to myself as I passed the bath when I realized I was not alone.
Mark was sitting near the window, an open briefcase on the carpet beside his chair. In that moment’s hesitation when my feet didn’t know which way to move, his eyes met mine in speechless communication, thrilling my heart and seizing it with terror.
Pale and dressed in a winter gray suit, he looked as if he had just arrived from the airport, his suit bag propped against the bed. If he had a mental geiger counter, I was sure my knapsack was making it click like mad. Sparacino had sent him. I thought of the Ruger in my handbag, but I knew I could never turn a gun on Mark James and squeeze the trigger if it came to that.
“How did you get in?” I asked dully, standing very still.
“I’m your husband,” he said, and reaching in his pocket, he displayed a hotel key to my room.
“You bastard,” I whispered, my heart pounding harder.
His face blanched. He averted his eyes. “Kay–”
“Oh, God. You bastard!”
“Kay. I’m here because Benton Wesley sent me. Please.” Then he got up from the chair.
I watched him in stunned silence as he produced a fifth of whiskey from his suit bag. Walking past me to the bar, he began filling glasses with ice. His motions were slow and deliberate, as if he was doing his best not to further unnerve me. He also seemed very tired.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, handing me a drink.
Moving past him, I unceremoniously dropped the knapsack and my pocketbook on top of the dresser.
“I’m starved,” he said, loosening his shirt collar and yanking off his tie. “Damn, I must have changed planes four times. Don’t think I’ve had anything to eat but peanuts since breakfast.”
I said nothing.
“I’ve already ordered for us,” he went on quietly. “You’ll be ready to eat by the time it gets here.”
Moving to the window, I gazed out at the purple-gray clouds over the lights of Key West’s Old Town streets. Mark pulled up a chair, slipped off his shoes, and propped his feet up on the edge of the bed.
“Let me know when you’re ready for me to explain,” he said, swirling ice in his glass.