Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(53)

“I know, but things are going to be different now. The city is a target. It’s not safe. I’m thinking maybe I should move back home.”

“To Ashtabula?” Dumbfounded, Marianne reminded her, “You left there for a reason. You said it was too conservative, there was never anything exciting to do, your neighbors were homophobic—”

“But there aren’t any suicide bombers in Ohio, Marianne.”

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t—”

“Listen, right now, I don’t know what I want to do, okay? Except go to bed and forget about all this horribleness. And you should do the same.”

Marianne spent a futile couple more minutes trying to convince her girlfriend that New York is where she belongs; that if Rae could just come back here, she’d feel at home again.

But in her heart, she doesn’t believe that. Even she herself doesn’t feel at home here now. Life in New York is never going to be the same. But will life anywhere else in this country ever be the same?

“We’re all targets, Rae,” she pointed out. “It’s not just New York. They hate Americans. Ohio is in America, too.”

“Well, I’d feel a hell of a lot safer there than I would in New York—and so would you. Admit it.”

“No way.” Marianne isn’t giving up on New York, no matter what’s happened—or what might happen. Her family and friends and memories are here, she was born here, and she’s going to die here—of old age, God willing, and not at the hands of terrorists.

She climbs into bed, furious at Rae. How can she be such a coward?

Then she turns off the light, sinks back onto the pillow, and wonders . . .

How can you?

Just this evening, she canceled her dinner at her mother’s, afraid to leave the apartment because the handyman gave her the creeps. Not only did she upset her mother, but she now hasn’t eaten all day—there’s not a crumb of food in the apartment—and the combination of low blood sugar and varnish fumes has given her a ferocious headache.

This is crazy.

I’m crazy.

Marianne sits up, climbs out of bed, and marches over to the bedroom window. She hesitates only a moment before unlocking the latch and raising it.

Immediately, a cool night breeze gusts into the apartment and she sucks it into her lungs gratefully. Maybe the wind has changed direction since this morning, because the air doesn’t even smell smoky anymore. Or maybe it does, but she just can’t tell because it’s still fresher than the stale, varnish-laced air she’s been breathing for the last six hours or so.

The ever-present sirens are louder now, but that’s okay. She already feels better.

She opens the windows in the living room, too, and notices that the one that had been painted shut earlier now rises easily, courtesy of the creepy handyman.

Just beyond its screen is the fire escape.

For a moment, Marianne considers climbing through the window and sitting outside for a little while, to clear her lungs and her thoughts.

But she dismisses the idea. It’s late, she’s tired . . .

And sad.

Is Rae really going to leave New York?

For a moment, she toys with the idea of going with her.

Ashtabula . . .

No.

It isn’t just about leaving her hometown and her mother—her family, her roots—behind. It’s about fear.

Rae is leaving New York because she’s afraid.

If Marianne follows her, it would be for the same reason. Not that she’s afraid to live in New York, because she isn’t. Bad things happen everywhere.

But it would mean she’s afraid to let go, afraid to go back to being alone, afraid to start over . . . again.

Fear is what took hold of her mother after her father died. She had let herself become so dependent on him that she had no idea how to live without him.

Marianne never wants to find herself in that position, ever.

She loves Rae . . . but she can live without her.

She goes into the bathroom, opens the small vented window there, then hunts through the medicine cabinet supplies she unpacked just this afternoon.

She’s out of Advil, but there’s a sample packet of Tylenol PM. Perfect—it’ll take care of her headache and her nerves. She swallows the two capsules with tap water from her cupped palm and goes straight back to bed.

She takes one last glance at the cruise photograph of her and Rae before she turns out the light.

Things will look brighter in the morning, she promises herself, closing her eyes and waiting for the sedative to do its thing as sirens wail on in the night.

In a midtown hotel room lit only by the blue light from the muted television, Vic dials a familiar phone number. He’s exhausted, and he only has a few hours before he has to head back out again, but his need to make this connection is as important as his need for sleep.

Ange Manzillo answers on the first ring with a breathless, “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s just me.”

“Vic?”

“Yeah. Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Are you kidding? Who can sleep? We’ve got fighter planes buzzing over the house.”

“I know—I’m here.” He keeps an eye on the television, where a split screen shows footage of the burning towers from yesterday and a FEMA agent being interviewed live, plus several bullet point announcements and a news crawl along the bottom.