Nine Lives(30)

“You should go to work,” she said.

“I should. Look, I have something for you.” He pulled a flip phone out of his pocket. “It’s a burner, in case you need to let me know where you are. I wouldn’t trust your own cell phone, or your landline.”

“I know.” She took the phone from him.

At the door she kissed him on the lips, and when she sensed that he was about to ask her if she wanted him to stay, she pushed him back out onto the front step. Before closing the door, she spotted the unmarked police vehicle about fifty yards away.

Alone in her townhouse, she went to her desk and pulled out the overfilled, cluttered drawer where she put all the crap she didn’t really need but didn’t want to throw away either. She walked the drawer into her bedroom and dumped the contents out on her bed. There were programs from funerals she’d attended, takeout menus, old receipts, Christmas cards, an expired passport. There were also several business cards, and it took her a while, but she found Gwen Murphy’s card. She was a real estate agent in Jamaica Plain, outside of Boston. Using the burner phone, she called the number listed.

“This is Gwen Murphy.”

“Hi, Gwen, it’s Jessica Winslow,” she said. Then added, “From college,” after noticing a slight pause.

“Yes, of course. Sorry, I’m driving.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Go ahead, I’ve got you on speaker.”

“I have a big favor to ask. Two big favors to ask. Do you remember at Darlene’s wedding you mentioned that you owned a cottage in Maine?”

“Of course I do. I still have it.”

“Is there someone there now?”

“No. It’s empty. Why? Did you want to use it?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could use it. I know it’s a lot to ask but I was thinking of heading up to Maine right away.”

“That’s fine with me,” Gwen said. “Everything okay?”

“Without going too much into it, I need to get away, and I need to do it anonymously.”

“Oh, okay,” Gwen said, and Jessica could hear the change of tone in her voice. She knew her friend probably thought she was on the run from an abusive situation.

“So I need to ask you to not mention my going to your cottage to anyone. To keep this conversation a complete secret.”

“Of course I can do that.”

“I’m serious, Gwen, you have to promise to absolutely forget that I’ll be there.”

“I’m serious, Jessica, I will,” Gwen said, her voice hushed, as though to prove how serious she was taking it. Then she provided Jessica with the address of the cottage on the St. George Peninsula, and where the extra key was kept. And she promised her that no one else would be showing up at the cottage.

After ending the call, Jessica thought for five minutes, convincing herself that hiding out in Maine was the best option, despite the fact that it felt like she was running away. She rinsed out her beer can and began to pack.





2





SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 4:07 P.M.


It was late afternoon and Alison hadn’t left the apartment all weekend, not since she’d gotten back from her pedicure the morning before.

She’d told herself that it was a rare luxury, having a weekend all to herself, but now she was restless and bored. Ten years ago she could have called up any number of her friends who still lived in the city, but they had all left, except Doug, who was out of town, and Natalie, who, last time she checked, was still downtown, barely hanging on, a full-blown alcoholic living off a diminishing trust fund. When was the last time she and Natalie had hung out? Six months, at least, or maybe a year ago. She looked at her phone—she still had Natalie’s number—and decided on a whim to give her a call. Maybe they could go to the Swan down in the East Village, drink Bloody Marys for dinner, then hang around all night, see who came in. It would be like stepping back in time.

She made the call, but an automated voice told her the number had been disconnected. She checked to see if she had Natalie’s email address—she did—and wrote, “Hey Nat, Al here, wanted to see if you’d like to go on a Sunday evening bender for old times’ sake. The Swan’s still in business, isn’t it?” Then, after sending the message, and feeling strange about it, she decided to look up Natalie, find out if she still even lived in New York. It took her a moment to come up with her last name—on her phone’s contact list she was simply listed as Nat G—but it came to her. Gimbel, like the old department store. She punched in “Natalie Gimbel” and the first thing that came up was an obituary from two months ago. She clicked on it, and saw a picture of her old friend, smiling into the camera, sun-wrinkled and with streaks of gray in her hair. She’d actually left New York and had been living out in Sedona, Arizona. There was no cause of death, but the obituary stated that in lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Honeysuckle Treatment Center, and Alison connected the dots. How had she not heard? Had none of her old friends known, and if they had known, why hadn’t they let her know?

Alison took a deep breath, but her windpipe felt constricted, as though she couldn’t quite get enough oxygen. Her chest hurt, and her immaculate living room, and its objects, looked suddenly strange in her vision, unreal, as though she were seeing them for the first time. Her limbs felt hollow, and a voice in her head said, You’re dying, this is it. But another voice said, It’s a panic attack. You had one before, in college. It felt just like this. And the second voice won. She didn’t call 911, but slowly waited for the feeling to pass, and eventually it did.