by companies I don’t recognize. Beyond that, only two other things remain: a small stack of notepads that chronicle and detail my every memory of Melody, and the case of compact discs that act as the soundtrack for those memories. I take all these things and place them on a small table in the corner, in case the cleaners service the room while I’m showering: the bag, the discs, three note-filled pads stacked in chronological order.
I take a long time washing myself, and as I turn off the shower and grab a towel off the rack, I realize I left my comb on the dresser adjacent to my bed. I open the bathroom door and swear I hear the latch to the door of my room click shut, though it happens so quietly I doubt myself. I step into the bedroom and feel a sweep of swirling air, as though the door had closed as I imagined. My naked skin comes alive with goose bumps at the change in temperature from the steam-filled bathroom to the chilled bedroom and I realize I’m jumping like a witness who really has something to fear.
No matter: I leave the door to the bathroom wide open as I towel off and finish getting ready, take a few final minutes to examine myself in the mirror, notice the last traces of bruising from Sean’s released anger, see the long gray blemish at my hairline where he slammed my head into the doorframe of the Explorer—indeed, a souvenir—the permanent mark that will be the newest addition to my collection of scars, and I wonder if any other woman will assess my face and body the way Melody did.
I slip on my new pair of glasses, same prescription as determined by a contracted optometrist, but different frames—big round frames that could only have been intended for use as sunglasses. I look like a movie star trying to draw attention instead of evade it. But the actual lenses are perfect, clear and scratch-free, so large I can see clearly from the widest angle. These glasses, like the new me, are unscarred, undamaged.
I stare at myself.
I stare at Jonathan Bovaro while I still can.
This is the moment I turn and walk away from him forever, have a permanent out-of-body experience. I will from this day forward begin to read and hear about myself and refer to it in the third person. I will look at pictures of myself and perhaps say, “That guy’s a dead man,” or “I hope someone takes that scumbag out.” Down the hall are marshals waiting to escort me away, to push the boundaries and walls of Safesite to a distance far away. When I walk from my room, everything about my former self will disappear, will be a collection of memories that will define some other person, like a distant relative or soon-forgotten loved one.
Here is where I should feel the panic. Here is where I should say goodbye.
Right before I turn off the bathroom light, I instead say this: Good riddance.
I walk to the table and collect my things, still lined up in perfect order, all neatly assembled.
I open the overnight bag and toss in my comb and toothbrush, gently place the CD case into the open slot on the side, and as I pick up my perfectly stacked set of journals and prepare to protect them, sandwich them between two pairs of unfaded and unworn jeans, I stop in mid-motion, do a double take: The journals are out of order.
I make my final walk down the hall and approach the central desk to find out who would’ve been in my room, but I stop short, notice someone fast approaching from the corner of my eye. I turn and look—Sean slides up to me with a warped grin and a hand on his holster.
I drop my bag on the ground and say, “Okay, when does this part end?”
He keeps his smile and shakes his head, looks me up and down, studies my baggy banana-cream-pie-colored sweater, my jeans that are an inch too loose and a half inch too short, my loafers, my movie star glasses. “Smokin’.”
“You’re not a marshal. You’re not even—I don’t know, what are you, exactly? Why are you here? Please tell me you’re not my contact in WITSEC.”
He crosses his arms and says, “I’m not. I’ll be the first to admit I would not have your best interests in mind.”
“You think?” I say, rubbing my scarred forehead.
“Just here to see