The Cloisters(75)

“I don’t know,” I said. “Enough to get by with a roommate in New York.”

“Any big purchases recently? Cars? Vacations? Jewelry?” Detective Murphy scanned my wrists, ears, and throat.

“No,” I said.

“It’s possible,” said Rachel, from the end of the table, “that Patrick found out.”

We both turned to look at her. I couldn’t help but think about the cards I had seen in the library the week before—the Chariot, in particular, a symbol of rapidity, quick succession, turning of the wheels, racing through time. It felt like we were speeding up now, and I wanted to have a moment to pause, to slow us down, perhaps even rewind.

“You should check with Louis,” Rachel said, “to see if they store that security footage or recycle it.”

“There are no security cameras in the garden sheds,” said Detective Murphy, almost to herself. Then she added, “Is Leo in today?”

I nodded.

There had always been something lawless about Leo. The way he talked and carried himself, the way he didn’t care what other people thought of him. The way he played the bass not because he loved the music, but because he loved the noise—wild and chaotic, even a little violent. But I still wasn’t sure it added up to murder, although I knew that under his punk ennui was a finely honed ambition, something he hid between the volumes of Sam Shepard plays, tucked in his pocket with his work gloves.

“Okay,” said Detective Murphy, sliding her notes into her pocket. “I’m going to go talk to Louis. We probably won’t be able to move on this until tomorrow. We need to get warrants; we need to go through the tapes. We’re going to need to corroborate your story. You didn’t happen to take a photograph of the item, did you?”

“No.” I remembered the way Leo had drummed his fingers on my skin that morning, a quick percussion of lust. All the while, the carving of Saint Daria sat on a shelf in his closet. I shook it off. “No,” I repeated.

“Okay. We’re going to take it from here.” Detective Murphy paused. “Thank you. For being so forthcoming.”

When the door had closed behind her, Rachel reached her hand to mine and gave it a squeeze. “You did the right thing.”



* * *



We tried to work that afternoon, but I struggled to focus. It was as if the speed I had experienced earlier had given way to a glacial pace, the day had become tarry. I stared at pages and reread sentences until my brain could no longer parse the easiest meanings. I realized that I had seen it. It had been in the cards—me, the Queen of Swords, using knowledge to cut others down.

I realized then that while my connection to the cards had been gradual, I trusted them. I trusted them, in many ways, more than I trusted myself. And so far, they had not been wrong. Whether that was a function of luck or something else entirely, I wasn’t ready to say.

After staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, I decided to get up and stretch my legs. I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face, only to find Rachel standing in the hallway, waiting for me when I was done.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I said. But there was something in the way Rachel had taken comfort in this news of Leo’s culpability that made me uncomfortable—a saccharine kindness that rang false.

And as much as I tried to avoid the gardens for the rest of the day, I found myself willing Leo to cross my path in other parts of the museum. Maybe I lingered too long in the kitchen or crossed the cloisters too slowly, part of me needing to see him. As if he might tell me a different story, one that would explain away my fears and absolve my guilt for turning him in. But it needed to be accidental so that I didn’t explicitly impede Detective Murphy’s investigation. And so, it was like fate intervened when, at the end of the day, we heard a knock on the library door and Leo popped his head in.

“We just finished trimming the flowers and have two buckets for free if anyone wants to take some home. Seems a shame to throw them out. Ann?”

Only hours ago I would have been elated by the offer, the tenderness of it. But now faced with Leo, I didn’t know what to say or how to act. At least, not in front of Rachel.

“I can put them in a jar and bring them in for you, if you want?”

Rachel reached out and put her hand over my own. “We don’t need any flowers, Leo,” she said.

“Can I talk to you outside?” he said to me, his eyes still on Rachel’s hand, on her gesture.

“I—”

“Leo,” Rachel intervened, “now isn’t the best time for Ann to leave.”

“Okay. We can talk in here then.” He slipped through the door and let it close behind him. The way he filled the space was noticeable, and for a split moment, I wondered if I should be worried.

“Leo, I think it’s best if you go,” said Rachel, standing.

“Can we get a minute alone?”

“Both of you, stop,” I said.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking at me.

The silence in the library was uncomfortable. Through it, we could hear the steady steps of visitors as they made their way along the corridor outside. That was how The Cloisters operated, as a deeply private place for a few staff and as a spectacle for the visitors. Nothing could make me give up being on this side of the door, I realized.