The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,46

just because I can throw together a decent, manipulative plot, but because I knew everyone I was dealing with, even if they didn’t know a lick about me. How can this mystery girl just stroll in and start breaking up people she’s never met before?

“So, should you tell Huxley or should I?” Steve asks before adding, “About me being roofied?”

I don’t have an easy answer. “I think we should wait.”

“Wait?” Steve looks ready to lunge out of the screen and shake some sense into me.

“Until you’re home for Christmas break.” It’s a shame he has a game this weekend and couldn’t come home. “She can’t hang up on someone standing right in front of her.”

“Deal.”

***

I am six years old again. That’s how I feel as Fred and I enter Radio City Music Hall and are met by a majestic lobby brimming with old style. I notice the detail in the columns, the plush carpeting on a staircase that’s probably older than my town. I squeeze Fred’s hand the entire time.

“Thank you.” I kiss him once we reach our seats. People mill around us with drinks and playbills in hand. Old ladies in mink coats glare at kids in jeans and sneakers in their row. The buzz of the holidays is palpable.

“You know what my favorite part of shows is?” Fred asks. He adjusts his forest-green collar poking out of his V-neck sweater. All he needs is a crackling fireplace with stockings hung behind him. “The overture. I love when the lights go down and the music starts, before the curtain even rises. All of my hopes and expectations reach a fever pitch, and those few moments, I believe I’m about to see the best show ever, even life-changing.” He hides his head behind his program. “I need to learn to stop talking.”

I lower the pamphlet and stare into his bashful eyes. You have to appreciate those moments when somebody lets you in. “You’re weird. I like weird.”

“I like weird, too.” We kiss again, and those mink-coated old ladies flash us aww looks.

Fred runs to the bathroom before showtime, and I check my phone for updates on my locker. I look through old footage, but still no Revenge Artist in sight. I use the free time to scroll through everything I know about this person’s schemes. There has to be one mistake somewhere in some plan. What did this mystery girl do wrong at Steve’s party, besides the obvious? Where did she trip up?

The pills. Maybe if I can track down where the pills came from, I can find the Revenge Artist. I perform multiple searches about where someone would buy Rohypnol before realizing that Google is probably calling the police right about now. It looks like they aren’t prescribed, so our mystery girl must’ve gotten them through alternative channels.

Fred charges down the aisle, arms swinging. I scramble to shove my phone in my purse, but I’m not coordinated while under stress. The phone flies off my purse and skids on to the floor.

“Here you go.” Fred hands me my phone, but not before getting a good look at the contents. “Do you have a surprise in store for me later?”

I figure we’re a couple, so we’re honest with each other. He’s on my team, so no sense in hiding my research. I explain that I’m on the hunt for the Revenge Artist, especially after what she did to Steve. He listens without reacting, his elastic expressions taking a rest.

“Becca, do you really believe this? That instead of Huxley and Steve breaking up for whatever reason, he was drugged and set up to look like a cheating boyfriend?”

“I have video proof!” The service in Radio City is atrocious, so I can’t pull up the video. “I’ll show it to you later.”

“If you have proof of a drugging, shouldn’t you bring it to the police?”

“I don’t know who this girl is. I need to find her first.”

“You need to find her?”

I put my phone away, this time getting it inside my purse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fred leans over the arm of his chair and rests his hand on my leg. I stiffen at his touch. “If you were truly concerned about what happened, then you would let trained investigators handle this. But you need to handle this. Your couples can’t just break up. There has to be a bigger explanation.”

How could Fred be so skeptical? I thought he would always be on my side. “You think I’m making all this up?”

“Not