upgrade from me.
Corbin: She seemed nice.
Kate didn’t write anything back, not immediately. Neither did Corbin, and it felt like an awkward silence, if you could have an awkward silence during an e-chat.
Kate finally wrote: I’ll let you know if anything happens here.
Corbin: Okay. Bye.
Kate logged out of her e-mail browser. She was still cold, despite the blanket, and shut the laptop, pressing its warm plastic against her chest. Why had Corbin lied about being in her flat in London? Unless he was hiding in there, the blinds pulled, refusing to answer the door. It was possible, of course. Martha could be a little aggressive.
Sanders came into the bedroom, jumped up onto the bed, and meowed. Kate sat up, and Sanders leapt to the floor, racing toward the front door. She followed him and let him out, then went to the kitchen for a drink of water. The digital clock on the microwave read 6:25. It seemed late. Had she fallen asleep on the bed?
After drinking two glasses of water, she realized she was hungry, made herself a piece of toast from the stale sourdough bread, then slathered it with butter and honey. She carried the toast with her across the apartment, turning on lamps and pulling curtains halfway closed. The door to one of the spare bedrooms was open wider than she’d remembered, and she went inside. It was that time of night when the fading light outside made the inside seem darker than it was. She turned on a bedside lamp and finished her toast, having to lick honey from her fingers. This bedroom was vaguely feminine, with flower prints hung on the wall and a cream-colored blanket on the bed. She noticed a slight indentation on the blanket, and looked closer. There were white hairs—Sanders’s hairs—and Kate pressed her hand on the bed; it was still a little warm from where he’d had his afternoon nap. That was why the door was ajar. She breathed a little deeper and left the room, leaving the light on.
She peered into the dark, windowless cave of the den, considering trying to watch some television, but she felt too jumpy. Instead, she decided to sketch, getting the sketchbook and pencils from the bedroom and bringing them to the living room. She stretched out along the couch and opened the book. She was prepared for the picture of Alan that she’d drawn on her first full day in Boston. It was less than a week ago, but felt like a year. She studied it. She’d caught his likeness, she thought, except for the eyes. They were vague, a little glazed, instead of intent. She stared at them, her scalp prickling. Had his eyes been changed, maybe a little? No, she told herself, but they seemed smudged. Maybe it just happened on its own.
Yeah, his eyes got smudged but the rest of his face didn’t.
Did I do it? she thought. Of course not, George said, but she ignored him. Her days and nights since she’d arrived in Boston had been so fuzzy that it was hard to remember. It wasn’t unheard of that she went back over drawings she’d done and altered them slightly, usually with a fingertip. Cleaning up lines, adding texture. She flipped past it, determined not to make herself insane, and found a fresh, unmarked page. She quickly sketched Alan again, trying to get the eyes right this time. When she was finished, she held the book at arm’s length and looked. It was Alan, but she’d tried so hard to get the intensity of the eyes right that he looked pissed off, a little bit scary. Then she realized that that was exactly how he’d looked when she’d peered through the peephole earlier in the morning, when she hadn’t let him in. Had she made a mistake? He’d probably just been worried that she’d left without saying goodbye. But, no, the sketch was accurate—he’d been upset. She’d made a big mistake, not just in sleeping with someone she barely knew, but in sleeping with someone who, at the very least, was a voyeuristic creep, and maybe a whole lot more. She turned to the next page, and quickly drew Detective Roberta James’s face. She did a pretty good job, nailing the high cheekbones, the dark eyes. It was the mouth that wasn’t perfect. Too severe, the lips not full enough. She smudged it out and gave the detective a half smile. Satisfied, she labeled the sketch and dated it, and