about her marriage, her secrets. Of course it has to do with me.”
His condescension enraged her. She wanted to tell him she knew who he was, too. So what if he had talked to her old colleagues, or even to Leonard? She had read his letters to Miranda. Thirty, forty, fifty missives from him. She had him in his own words. She had a record of him.
She could have screamed all that, but that morning’s fight with Louise had exhausted her, and now she was distracted trying to keep her knee from jiggling, trying to slow down her words. He had only brought up her past to show her that he was in charge. If she fought back, he would go to Theo and tell him the rest of what had happened at the newspaper. Whatever version he had heard. Even if he had the facts right, it was a story Kate didn’t want anyone else to tell.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead, trying to make her voice deferential. “You’re right. You’re doing me a favor, meeting with me.”
Hal inclined his head. “In that case, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here? Talking about depressing subjects on such a beautiful Sunday afternoon?”
The birds were clamoring at the window again. Steam had stopped rising from her espresso. Kate bit her lip, then leaned forward.
“I’m here,” she said, “because I think Miranda was murdered.”
MIRANDA
SERIES 2, Personal papers
BOX 9, Diary (1982–1993)
* * *
DECEMBER 12 1987
When I worked at the restaurant, we had a sign in the break room. SMILES = TIPS. So I smiled, taped my blisters, drank five Diet Cokes a shift to stay awake, counted my tips, and smiled, smiled, smiled.
These days there’s no motivation to smile: I don’t need the tips anymore, and people don’t expect me to be happy. In fact, the more I smile, the more confused people get. I tried to be friendly to one of Theo’s teachers the other day and I swear she nearly ran away.
Of course, I like not living off tips. I like not having to bow and scrape. But I do miss having people smile back. I got a jolt of their happiness. Like those batons they hand off in relay races. Some days I just want someone, anyone, to pass me a baton.
FEBRUARY 19 1988
Jake hasn’t sold anything in months. Needless to say, he’s angry. He’s been thumping around the house for days. Whenever I see him, it’s like coming across a wild bear. Lashing out, claws extended.
I don’t know what to do when he gets like this. He doesn’t like it when I yell back and he doesn’t like it when I am too quiet. So I experiment with the in-betweens. Every time, I adjust my tone a little. Like a volume dial on the stereo. Notch by notch.
One of these days, I’ll find the exact right tone, and I’ll mark it with a line so I can find it again every time. Then I’ll have the good part of my husband back, and everything will be easy.
MARCH 8 1988
Jake in a worse mood than ever. He stopped by the gallery last week and saw that the painting he sent Hal isn’t even hanging up. Disaster ensued. Complete Feral Animal.
I try to spend my days in the darkroom. Working until my eyes are stinging and the drying line is full. If Theo isn’t at school, I put him under one of the counters with some Legos and he builds tiny sculptures in the dark. I mentioned this to Kid and he asked if the chemicals were bad for children. I guess probably they are. But I don’t want Theo getting in Jake’s way when he’s like this. Today I tied a bandanna over his face like a mask. I told him we were playing cops and robbers.
MARCH 14 1988
Lunch with Hal today. Restaurant near the gallery. White tablecloths, wine and water in matching crystal goblets. Hal’s tastes have gotten expensive since we’ve gotten richer. He ordered octopus and it came in its original shape, head lopped off, eight tentacles spread across the plate, dangling off the rim. Tiny suction cups curled and blackened.
I arranged the meeting. Called down yesterday to tell Hal I wanted to talk about that show in Nebraska. Obviously that wasn’t the real reason. When the octopus only had four tentacles left, I asked Hal why he still hadn’t sold Jake’s painting.
Hal said no one was going to buy that painting. It wasn’t in style, it