No One Knows Us Here(82)

I stood, waiting, holding my body completely still. If I stood like that, no one would notice me. No one would remember seeing me at all. It would be as if I didn’t exist. I waited for a quarter of an hour, maybe longer. I wasn’t even sure what I was waiting for until the first rush of the crowd faded away, down the streets, away from the dark Park Blocks and into late-night restaurants and bars.

The symphony players filed out of the concert hall last, out on Salmon Street, carrying their instruments in cases. Some of them were laughing, talking. Others walked quickly, heads down, in a rush to get back home, out of the chilled air. Maybe they had husbands or wives. Little children waiting to be kissed good night.

I didn’t know how I would recognize Sam, dressed like all the others, but I did. I saw him right away, his hair messy, flopping as he walked. He was walking with a man and a woman, and I was afraid I’d have to call for him, to draw attention to myself. I imagined everyone—the entire symphony—stopping dead in their tracks to stare at me, to note the bruises blooming over my skin, the blood drying around my nostrils. They’d remember something like that. They’d know the exact time. They’d all be in perfect agreement.

I willed Sam to sense my presence under the tree, in the shadows, but he didn’t look up as he and the others walked up the path. In a moment, they would pass me by, and I would be forced to slink after them, to yank him by the arm from the path like a masked villain. I had to get his attention now. Before he could slip past me, I stepped out of the shadows and onto the path.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, almost crashing into me. Then his eyes opened wider, taking me in.

The other two in his group were still walking, absorbed in their conversation. I stepped back off the path and turned my face away from the light as Sam called after them. “Hey, guys,” he called out. His voice sounded unnatural, like a bad actor trying to come off as casual and failing. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

A painful back-and-forth ensued. They wouldn’t just let him go. They insisted that he join them. He had promised—one drink. Sam said no, he was tired. It had come over him suddenly, this fatigue. He didn’t have it in him after all. He needed to get home. Finally they relented and walked away.

Sam watched as they proceeded down the path. He watched until they crossed the street and disappeared around a corner. I crept away over the grass, so when he turned back to find me, he had to jog into the park to catch up to me. I turned around to face him, and I could see him trying to absorb everything: me, my battered face, my trembling hands. He didn’t say anything. He gathered me up in his arms and held me, squeezing me so tightly that I almost couldn’t breathe. I rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes. I wrapped my arms around his waist. It was going to be okay.

After a minute, Sam placed his hands on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length, inspecting me. He tried to pull the glasses from my face, but I wouldn’t let him. “Glasseyes,” I whispered. His fingers ran over my face, gently, feeling my bruised skin.

“I’m okay,” I said, because the look in his eyes was killing me. Like he couldn’t bear it, the sight of me. “I’m okay.”

Gently, he removed the sunglasses, and I flinched, my eyes adjusting to the glare of the streetlights in the distance.

I could only shake my head at him, and I could see him taking it in, deciding. Deciding what to do. “We need to call the police,” he said after a moment. “You need to file a report.”

I should have agreed. It was what I wanted, what I had tried to do. I had tried, too. I had yelled for Consuela. I would call the police and they would see me, my bruised face. They would see Leo lying on the floor, the thin little slice in his neck, made with a knife so sharp they would hardly know it was there if it weren’t for the pool of blood. They would conclude I had had to do it, that it was self-defense. They would send me in for questioning, and I would lie. I’d tell them that Leo had banged my head against the cabinets, and maybe they would believe it—because why wouldn’t they? It would make sense to them. He banged my head against the cabinets, I grabbed the knife, I sank the knife into his throat. Just like that.

They might ask why I didn’t call the police, not right away. Well, I didn’t have a phone. I had destroyed my Mirror. That made sense. I’d explain that part. They might ask about the knife. If it was self-defense, they might ask, can you explain the knife? Can you explain, Miss Rabourne, why you picked the knife up off the floor and washed it? Why you dried it and polished it and hung it back on the rack? Why you took the towel you used to dry it off and stuffed it down the front of your dress?

I looked up at Sam. “I can’t go to the police,” I said.

His face changed. The concern in his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, all shifted. He had been concerned for my welfare, enraged on my behalf—and he still was. I knew he was. Now I could see something else in his features. Fear. “What did you do.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. His voice was calm, but he gripped my shoulders more tightly when he said it. “What the fuck did you do?”

He wasn’t asking because he judged me. He was asking because, whatever it was, whatever I said next, he was going to help me. He would do anything for me.

When I closed my eyes, hot tears ran down my cheeks, all at once. I swiped them away with the back of my hand. My hands were trembling. I squeezed my left hand in my right, trying to stop them from shaking. A shiver ran through me, and then my whole body caught up with my hands. It wasn’t that cold outside, but I was shivering as if the streets were slick with ice, as if I were buried in snow.