The Lies I Told(23)

I’d woken up in the hospital two days later. Brit had been sitting at my bedside, her eyes shadowed by smudges, her hair oily and slicked back, her eyes half-closed.

“Water,” I whispered.

Brit had sat up, looked around as if she’d expected to see someone else, and then realized it had been me who’d spoken. She rose, reached for the buzzer, and called the nurse. Nurses and then a doctor had come into the room. My eyelids were raised, and a bright light was soon shining on my irises.

“Marisa, can you hear me?” a man asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No.” Though I was already presuming it was a hospital, I didn’t have the words or the energy to articulate the thought. I sensed someone pacing, moving back and forth in an agitated line. Brit. It had to be Brit. Everyone else was operating with clinical precision.

“You’re in the hospital,” the man said. “You were in a car accident and suffered a head trauma.”

“Okay,” I whispered. “Water?”

Someone held ice chips to my mouth, and I sucked greedily on the cold moisture, which trickled over my lips but didn’t nearly come close to satisfying my thirst. “That’s all I can give you for now. Baby steps. You’ve been through some trauma.”

Soft hands took mine in a firm, tight grip. “You scared the hell out of me.” Brit. “I thought I was going to be all alone.”

“No,” I said. “Too tough.”

Brit’s shaky laughter mingled with sniffles, and when I cracked my eyelids again, I saw the blurred image of my sister swiping away tears. Poor Brit. Always at my side when I was sick in the months after Mom died. And later cleaning up my self-inflicted messes.

A knock on my apartment door had me turning from the window and the city skyline. I sipped the seltzer, now tasteless and flat, and set the can on the counter. I checked the time, wondered who would come by so late.

I opened the door to Alan. He wore jeans, a worn Georgetown sweatshirt, tattered flip-flops, and tousled hair, all suggesting a long study session.

“I saw your light on,” he said. “I’ve been working and thought I’d take a study break.”

“What’re you studying?” I asked.

“Decomposition rates,” he said ruefully. “Evidence in an upcoming case.”

“Attorney?”

“Prosecutor.” He scratched the side of his neck. “Thought you might like a beer and some conversation. Tether me back to the living.”

His pickup lines were improving. “Sure.”

I closed my door, not bothering to lock it because the building was secure, and followed him the ten steps to his apartment. Entering, I found myself facing a wall of unpacked boxes.

“Excuse the mess.” He didn’t sound terribly upset by the chaos, but he seemed like the kind of guy who knew when to say the polite thing.

“No worries. It took me months to unpack.”

I glanced at diplomas leaning against a brick wall. University of Virginia. Georgetown. Smart. Skis leaned against another wall beside a road bike and a half dozen pairs of running shoes. “Tell me about decomposition rates.”

Clare had been in the elements four days, and the average daily temperature had been forty degrees. She’d been found lying facedown in the water, which had complicated the decomposition process. The parts of her submerged in water had turned black, but what had faced the air was bloated and breaking down.

He handed me a bottled beer. “You sure? Not a pretty subject.”

The icy bottle felt slick against my fingers. I should’ve handed it back to him. But I wanted to feel normal. Be a regular person. I twisted off the top, telling myself that the smell of the beer would be enough. “I assume it’s a murder case you’re working on.”

“Correct. But can’t discuss the details.”

“Sure, I get it.” Needing to feel normal, I slowly raised the bottle to my mouth, letting the cool glass tease my lips. Hundreds of banked AA meetings should buffer any ill effects of a little beer. I sipped, letting the malty liquid linger in my mouth before I swallowed. I walked to the window overlooking the river. “Your view is better than mine. I see north into the financial district, but you get that plus the lights in Church Hill. And this place is about twice the size of mine.”

“I like space.” Alan leaned against a pillar planted in the center of the room. He now looked more like the version of Jamie Dornan from The Fall. “Still can’t picture you wrangling nervous brides.”

“They like that I don’t get rattled by the inevitable failed plans and mishaps.”

“A lot of people are cool under pressure. What makes your work so different?”

I dug my thumbnail into the bottle’s label, then took a second sip. “I see the emotion.”

“Explain.” Head cocked, he appeared genuinely interested.

“I capture the must-do moments. First look, mother slash father of the bride seeing baby girl dressed up, cutting the cake. But I also capture the offbeat moments. They often go unnoticed, and yet they can encapsulate the day.”

“But how do you see them coming? Some can be very spontaneous.”

“Call it a sixth sense. The energy in the room shifts. I get into the flow.”