pulled it over to stand on. Standing on the desk, she was just able to reach the top shelf, and pulled out the first dusty hardcover. As she riffled through its pages, Kate was struck by a wave of déjà vu that felt almost physical. Her knees buckled. She had a clear memory of going through the books on these shelves before. Of standing on this desk, and of the way her bare feet felt against the grain of the desk’s wooden surface. A bubble of anxiety formed in her chest. She said her mantra to herself and did her breathing exercise. The déjà vu passed, and in its place, Kate was flooded with the dreams of the night before. In her dreams, she’d searched through these books, as well. At least, that was what she remembered. Tipping the books upside down, their pages sliding out and covering the floor of the apartment, the pages filling the rooms like snow fills an empty swimming pool.
Did I really dream about searching all these books, and now I’m doing it? Kate thought. And for one terrifying moment, she thought she was still dreaming. Then the feeling passed.
She made herself coffee before going through the rest of the books. She must have checked hundreds before she finally found something of interest.
She had reached a stretch of books on one of the low shelves that felt different, and Kate felt that these books—a lot of Stephen King, The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan, two Chuck Palahniuk novels—had belonged to Corbin. She went through these books more carefully than she had with the others, and it paid off. In a paperback copy of something called Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, she found three photographs of the same girl. It might have been the same girl from the photograph Kate had found earlier in the closet off the den, although it was hard to tell because these pictures were slightly out of focus, taken on a narrow bed in what looked like a narrow bedroom. The walls were white, and an unframed poster—a Picasso print?—was taped to the wall.
In the first photograph, the girl, laughing, was striking an exaggerated pinup pose, propped up on an elbow, the photographer above her. She was wearing faded jeans and a pink camisole. In the next one she was laying back on the bed in a more natural position, her face now serious. Kate imagined Corbin’s—these must be his pictures—instructions: No, don’t be silly, just be natural. You look beautiful. She did look beautiful, especially in the third and final photograph. It was a close-up, her skin dotted with freckles, her mouth slightly parted. Looking at the pictures, Kate felt as though she was spying on something incredibly private, prying into a shared, and sexual, moment. She placed the pictures back in the book and replaced the book on the shelf, then quickly looked through what remained of Corbin’s novels, finding nothing.
She leaned back against the shelf and closed her eyes briefly. She was exhausted, and not sure how much time she’d spent ransacking the apartment. And all she’d found was evidence of an old girlfriend tucked away in a forgotten book. What had she been expecting?
There was a clock on the fireplace mantel, and Kate checked the time. Just past seven. Maybe she should get a quick nap in since she had her class today. She curled up on the nearest sofa in the living room, her head on a satiny, embroidered pillow. She closed her eyes and was almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.
There was a knock on the door, three sharp raps, and Kate bolted upright. She stood, still half asleep, and walked toward the door. There was a mirror near the door and Kate looked at herself. Her hair, unwashed for a couple of days, hung lifeless and lank. She pushed it back behind her ears. She looked through the peephole; it was Mrs. Valentine, the older woman who had shown Kate the apartment when she’d arrived on Friday. Kate swung the door open.
“Oh, Kate, did I wake you?”
“No, no. Come on in.”
Carol Valentine was swathed in a complex white sweater belted across the middle. “I won’t come in, but I wanted to invite you to our apartment for that drink. Any chance you’re free tonight?”
Kate’s mind quickly ran through a number of excuses, but then she heard herself say: “Tonight’s perfect. I’d love to.”
They agreed on seven o’clock, and Carol Valentine departed