a musty old sofa, and a few old tables. Wooden stepladders, half a dozen or more, to reach the telescopes and the higher shelves of the bookcases. I instinctively scan all visible surfaces for evidence of violence or debauchery; I don’t know what I thought I would find. In fact, there is nothing, nothing that I can see in the dusky light of early evening. Except—
I’ve still got the box of tissues in my hand, and what I thought was a white carton with little flowers on it is in fact a white carton with specks of dried blood on it.
Okay, so…what? All sorts of people with all sorts of clandestine or nefarious intentions are using the old observatory as their base? Whoever broke the windows on the fourth floor mopped up the blood from the gashes on his hand with tissue paper from this box, then hid the box on the top landing—why? Why not throw it into the Dumpster, too? Selena and her boyfriend have late-night tête-à-têtes up here, so it must have been they who hid the key in the box of tissues. Why not just take it away? The only reason for Selena and Mr. X not to pocket the key is that they know that other people are also using it and that these other people would become suspicious of them if the key went missing. At the same time—what if this third party suddenly happened upon them when they are in the middle of a tryst? Awkward. They hadn’t even closed the door behind them, yesterday evening, or I wouldn’t have seen the crack of light.
I don’t give a hoot. I couldn’t care less about who is doing it with whom in the various attics, basements, elevators, or broom cupboards on campus. Let them all go to hell. I want my bag and my coat, and then I want to go home.
Except I don’t know where that is.
Chapter 16
NEXT MORNING I DO NOT SET OFF for New York City. Instead, I get my bike out of the shack, pump up the tires, pack my little rucksack with sandwiches, chocolate, and a thermos of coffee, and start cycling. I wish that I could jump out of my skin. Out of my life. But I can’t, and running away is not going to solve my problem. Maybe I’ll just go on pedaling along the Piedmont till I reach Hagerstown, Maryland. Or southward, toward Chattahoochee National Park. Why should I head northeast? There is nothing for me there. There is nothing for me here, either, it seems, but this is where I’m marooned, so I might as well reconnoiter the area.
The first five miles are bad. I’m listless and bored. The idea of cycling all day seemed better in theory than it is in practice. But I am not a quitter. That’s what this is all about. The first stretch along the Ouse riverbank is thronging with families and couples whiling away the time before lunch. From a distance it’s a sight that sinks my spirits even further, but as I thread my way slowly through the crowd, I pick up snatches of bickering and kvetching that cheer me up a little, malevolent bitch that I am. I’m profoundly glad when I turn off toward the lake that is tucked into a bend in the river.
The monotonous pedaling and the wind on the water calm me down. On a bench with a view I have the most delicious cheese sandwich I’ve ever eaten and two plastic cups of tepid but equally delicious coffee. Hardly anyone is around and the few elderly stalwarts that I meet smile at me with open, friendly, weather-beaten faces. It’s invariably couples that I see. Their average age seems to be about seventy-five, and more than one couple is holding hands.
“Come in and have a nice warm muffin!” one of them says to me, walking past my picnic.
“Oh, thanks! But no thanks. I…I just want to be alone.”
What sort of a reaction to the kindness of strangers is that?
I am almost thirty years old, and I have never met a boy, or a man, who made me dream of walking along a lake with him holding hands when we’re seventy-five. Except Alex Gresham, of course. Is that evidence of bad luck, of choosiness, or of immaturity? My mom has an opinion about this, but I don’t think I’m too fastidious. I’m just not particularly interested, most of the time, and then, for no