we each gave off an anticipatory tremor that bound us as strongly as any embrace. Slowly, I lowered my hands, resting them at the edge of my knees. Had I unfurled a finger, it would have touched the button on his coat.
“I am not a thief,” I said, keeping my words barely above a whisper, making no more noise than the hiss of our dying fire. “I have been many things in my life, but I’ve stolen nothing.”
“What have you been, Hedda?”
“I have no doubt you’ll know soon enough, Mr. Carmichael. You needn’t hear it from me.”
He stood, a small click emitting from his knee, though he didn’t acknowledge it. Notebook once again nestled in his pocket, he donned his hat and turned halfway to leave before looking back, as if suddenly remembering something. “One more thing. That photographer you mentioned? With the studio?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes. J. P. Haley. What did he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing. Turns out he doesn’t exist.”
Chapter 15
Dini woke Wednesday morning moments before the chorus of Barry Manilow’s “Daybreak” served its programmed purpose of being her alarm. She unplugged her phone and rolled back into her pillows, scrolling through the stream of messages that flowed between her fingers and Quin’s throughout the previous day and long into the night. Bits of his day, his purpose—funny details about the sincere hearts of Community College academia, questions about the ever-present streamers and eggs and paper flags.
D: IT’S FIESTA. You WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.
He sent her a picture of two ducks flapping happily in a campus fountain, then a second with his mock-frightened face in the corner—a selfie with the ducks banished to the background.
D: DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE AFRAID OF DUCKS.
Q: DUCKS IN THE PICTURE APPEAR SMALLER THAN THEY ARE IN REAL LIFE.
They made plans for lunch (burgers), and she coached him through the menu at Alamo Café (green chile chicken enchiladas), and sometime around eight in the evening he texted that he was in his room, and he’d ordered up chocolate cake and tea in Hedda’s honor and was reading.
Q: DETECTIVE CARMICHAEL JUST CAME ON THE PAGE.
D: HANDSOME GUY, ISN’T HE?
Q: HEDDA SEEMS TO THINK SO.
D: KEEP READING.
He interspersed their conversation with reaction GIFs that she perfectly placed to moments in the book, along with a screen shot of the exact location of Carmichael’s notebook en route at that moment.
D: CANNOT WAIT!!!!!
Q: WHY DO I FEEL YOU ONLY WANT ME FOR MY MEMORABILIA?
D: BECAUSE YOU ARE A VERY SMART GUY. LOL.
Flirting was so much easier in text messages, though she found she had just as little control over her fingers as she did her tongue, with quippy responses flying out so fast she imagined tiny jolts of lightning beneath her fingers. Still, she appreciated the invisible communication, given that she had a semipermanent color cream on her hair and a charcoal mask to get rid of what she lovingly called the famous Blackstone blackheads. She’d set Quin’s number to notify with the first warbling notes of Bread’s “If” and was rinsing her face when the song summoned her.
Q: THE END.
D: OF THE BOOK, NOT HEDDA.
Q: YOU DIDN’T TELL ME IT WAS A ROMANCE.
D: EVERY STORY IS A ROMANCE.
That was the last text of the night, and as she read it in the pale morning, she found herself smiling through the entire chain. Laughing just where she’d laughed yesterday.
When they set eleven as the time she’d pick Quin up at the hotel, it seemed perfectly reasonable. Now, after lazing in bed reading text messages, the hours had been swallowed up. She’d done some reconsideration on her outfit for this show, now wanting something that Quin would appreciate as well as her audience. This was new, this idea of dressing for a man. Audiences, yes. Slinky black for the magician’s theater, kooky cool for children’s parties, jeans and T-shirts for school functions, silk jacket and slacks for private parties. She chose a black, sleeveless turtleneck sheath dress. Its modest length came to her knees, but the fabric hugged her figure. Arya had been with her when she tried it on, declaring Dini looked like a hot cartoon character bad girl. With a nod to spring, she added a wide belt embossed with floral stitching and slipped her feet into a pair of pale yellow stilettos. She didn’t wear heels often, but she wore them well. A twisting look in the mirror revealed tattoos he hadn’t seen yet—a trail of tiny card suits—hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades—which, from a distance,