The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett(40)

“True artists know how to cut their subjects open and bleed them onto the canvas.”

“That’s probably not the best phrasing, considering, but I get what you mean,” I said.

I let the fire warm me and imagined I was in Enzo’s apartment again. Art covering the walls. Blue light coming from the lava lamp in the corner. Books stacked on the floor instead of on shelves. A tiny kitchen where it didn’t look like any cooking had ever been done.

“It was interesting,” I told Sundog. “Being in Enzo’s apartment was like being in his mind.”

I stopped.

I thought about what I’d just said.

I had an idea.

? ? ?

“I was thinking,” I said to Enzo.

“Oh?”

I had an hour before I got off work. Enzo sat in his usual booth, drinking coffee and waiting for my shift to end. I pretended to wipe down the table next to his, even though it was already clean and no one was watching me.

“You can tell a lot about someone by where they live.”

“I guess so.”

“All their stuff is there. Like, if something mysterious is going on with the person, you’d probably find evidence in their bedroom or whatever.”

Enzo raised his eyebrows. “Get to the point, kid.”

“Well, don’t you think we should check out Lizzie’s apartment?”

Enzo didn’t reply, and I feared I’d crossed some sort of line. Maybe going to her apartment was too much of a personal invasion. Maybe he didn’t want to take me that deeply into Lizzie’s world.

“It was just a thought,” I said, backtracking. “We don’t need to.”

“No, you’re right. I haven’t been there since…before.”

“Is it too weird?” I asked.

“No, it’s a good idea. The police might have missed something. We can go tonight.”

“We can get in?”

“I have a key,” Enzo said.

That gave me pause. He had a key to her apartment. I wanted to ask if she had a key to his place too, if she could go there anytime she wanted. If she could drive over on a whim, simply because she wanted to be in his home, surrounded by his art, surrounded by the Enzoness of it all.

“Hawthorn?” Enzo asked.

“Sorry. Just thinking. Yeah, let’s go tonight.”

An hour later, we were on our way to the place where Lizzie Lovett lived. I hoped we’d find something telling. Maybe an essay titled “Where I’d Go if I Ever Turned into a Werewolf.”

? ? ?

Lizzie’s apartment was only a couple blocks from the Sunshine Café. The building was old and run-down, not much better looking than Enzo’s.

“Lizzie Lovett lives here?” I asked.

“The diner doesn’t exactly pay well.”

We got out of the car, and Enzo led me to a ground-floor apartment.

“Why didn’t you two move in together?” I asked.

Enzo hesitated. “I don’t think either of us was really at that place yet.”

I wanted to ask a million questions, like what was preventing him from being at that place, but we’d arrived at a door, and Enzo was putting his key in the lock.

“I feel like we’re breaking in,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure the cops wouldn’t be thrilled to find us here.”

But he opened the door anyway and gestured for me to go ahead. I stepped into Lizzie’s apartment. It was dark and silent. Behind me, Enzo fumbled with the light switch.

When the lights came on, I imagined it would be like the curtain rising on the show of Lizzie’s life. I’d cross the threshold and step into Lizzieville. Instead, I found myself looking at an apartment that was bare except for a few pieces of furniture.

“Someone cleared it out,” I said.

“No. This is how she keeps it.”

“What?” It seemed impossible. There was no clutter, no art on the walls, no dishes in the sink. Everything was impossibly clean. “It’s like this all the time?”

“She started going through this Spartan phase a little while ago.”

It could have been a hotel room. Completely impersonal, a place you don’t intend to stay very long.

The apartment was only a little bigger than Enzo’s, but the emptiness made the difference seem vast. I walked through the living area and into the bedroom. Enzo followed behind.

The white comforter and pillowcases made Lizzie’s bed look like it belonged in a hospital. The only other furniture was a nightstand. But on the nightstand, there was finally a sign of life. A picture frame—an indication that Lizzie had loved ones. I picked the frame up. There was no photo in it.

“What used to be in here?”

“A picture of the two of us,” Enzo said. “Lizzie’s mom gave it to the police.”

I wondered if it was the picture I’d seen in the newspaper right after Lizzie had gone missing.

“How does she live like this? There’s not even a TV.”

“She doesn’t spend much time at home, I guess.”

“You guess? She’s your girlfriend.”

“I don’t make her report every detail of what she does when we’re not together.”

“But you must have some idea,” I pressed.