In Her Skin(49)

I’m unconvincing, because Zack plows on.

“You know I worked with Temple for a while, right?”

“I didn’t. In what subject?”

“English. It wasn’t—it wasn’t a good fit. I was glad they called me about you. And frankly, a little surprised. Anyway. This probably isn’t an appropriate conversation to have. Forget I even brought it up.”

“I brought it up.”

Zack reaches to scratch Wolf’s ears roughly, like she loves. “Yeah. Well. I was talking with my girlfriend about this the other night. I’ve met people like Temple once or twice in my life. In law school, unsurprisingly.” He laughs, as though I ought to get his joke. I frown. “You just need to be careful. There are people in this world who don’t feel empathy the same way as other people. They see people as pawns and life as a game to win. I’ve seen enough of Temple to know that she has some of those qualities. Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

My wrist buzzes: a big no-no during study time. I check my wrist anyway, because I want to hide my reaction to what Zack said.

Tell Zack you’re done for the day. I’m out front with an Uber. Getting Starbucks.

And leave the sweater: it looks dorky.

I look down at the lime J.Crew sweater from the day I told the cops I had no memory: the one you told me to wear. I am chilled. For the life of me, I cannot remember if you have seen me today in this sweater. I don’t think so, but this is not the kind of thing I would have been unsure of before. What’s with all this “unsure”?

I stand. “I have to go.”

Zack closes his laptop. “We were done anyway. Promise me something. If you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, someone outside of your family, call me, okay? I’ll text it to you.”

“No!” I yell. It suddenly occurs to me that they are reading my texts, my e-mails, my search history. Of course they are. Bottom line, Jolene Chastain is a con who cannot be trusted, though they will try their hardest to buy my trust. I push my history book toward him and turn it to page three.

“Write it here,” I whisper hoarsely.

*

“They’re making a new hole in the wall.”

This is what you tell me later that night over what are not vanilla bean Frappuccinos but rum drinks at Mont Vert, where you know a bartender who thinks we’re in college, and the booths are high and private. Gerry waits in the alcove, his face a mask of disapproval.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

You sip your drink neatly and set it back down. “My parents. They say it’s to blow insulation in, but you have to wonder.” You nod at my drink, called, fittingly, a Crash and Burn. “You’re nursing your cocktail. Drink.”

I sip. The drink is spicy and I don’t like it, but we’ve done this before—in fact, it’s the only place we can do it, and I know you will be relentless until I finish it. The truth is, I like how I feel when I drink with you. It was hard at first to be together, to let you kiss me, but it’s easy after a few of these, even though hours later my head feels like a sledgehammer hit it. Also, it makes me feel like myself: I am the con and I am superior to you and I am still winning. Winning, because I am the one with the house and the clothes and the watch and the adoption papers and the puppy, and the real Vivi is dead, and all I have to do is play along and my life is so much better.

“So do your parents know I know yet?” I ask for the hundredth time.

“Not because I told them. But you should know that Dr. Krebs doesn’t believe you’re Vivi. Detective Curley’s onto you too.”

I scowl into my drink. These pieces of news are not things I didn’t already suspect.

“Are you just looking for things to worry about? You know what happens if someone tries to out you.” With two fingers, you snuff the candle between us. “We’re naturals. I told you.”

I scowl. I want to be angry with you, but the hot feeling between my legs is there, and the head and the heart are not the same, and alcohol is not my friend. You brush the inside of my arm over and over again with your fingertips, then kiss my wrist. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?”

I grab your hand hard and you smile. “Let’s leave,” I say.

“Sorry, I have plans.” A man stands over our table. He is dark and hot and dangerous-looking, probably a Boston University student, but when he opens his mouth to say “Let’s go, gorgeous,” he sounds a lot older.

You rise and walk away, his hand on your waist, never looking back, and I am left, throbbing with want.

*

They found Zack Turpin shot at an ATM in Brighton. The estimated time of death was ten thirty p.m. I know it is only a coincidence that you stayed out with that random guy until past eleven. I know it is a notoriously dangerous ATM that gets held up all the time and Zack was the kind of guy who would never shrink from the dangerous-looking dude with his hand in his pocket who walks up to the ATM behind him because that would be jumping to conclusions and Zack takes a while to come to conclusions.

I know now that when they finally come, those conclusions are right.

Gerry seems to think Zack’s shooting is something we all have to worry about. That it means some greater threat to us. The Lovecrafts are upset in the way rich people get upset when bad things happen to people who serve them. Mr. Lovecraft talks of the dangers of being unaware while in an ATM, as though Zack did something foolish by taking out money. There is much discussion about what to send the fiancée, along the lines of food and flowers and even money, and these are not things Zack would have wanted. Zack would have wanted not to be dead, because he was promising and hopeful in ways I cannot imagine being and he did not do anything wrong.