The Murder Rule(2)

“When I booked you, I left instructions to wait down the street,”

Hannah said.

He shrugged his indifference. His eyes met hers briefly in the rearview mirror. “The airport?”

“Yes.”

The car pul ed slowly away from the curb and Hannah looked back at the house.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Just give me a second.” Hannah was out of the car before he’d come to a complete stop. She ran to the trash cans that were lined up neatly to one side of the garage. She opened the recycling can. It was ful of empty milk cartons and yogurt containers, with cardboard packaging neatly folded on top. Hannah rummaged through everything, tel ing herself al the time that this was crazy, that she was being paranoid, and yet feeling nothing but a sense of inevitability when her hand closed around a bottle that wasn’t empty at al . She drew out a ful bottle of Grey Goose, then another. She searched again, but that was it. Goddamnit. What did this mean?

The bottles were ful . But . . . at least they hadn’t been opened. That was a good sign. Laura might have bought them, but she hadn’t had a drink. So far, at least, she had kept her promise. Hannah opened the bottles, poured the vodka into the lawn, and put the empty bottles back into the recycling can. Then she ran back to the cab.

“Everything okay?” the driver asked. She could see his eyes again in the rearview mirror, assessing, curious.

“Fine.”

He drove on through dark and empty streets, and they didn’t speak. Hannah looked out of the window, watched the houses as they passed, saw the occasional light come on as early risers started their day. She thought of Laura, waking alone to a dark house.

HANNAH’S FLIGHT LANDED AT DULLES AT TEN-THIRTY A.M. AT

eleven-thirty she boarded a bus. She fel asleep almost before the bus left the station and slept on and off al the way to Virginia. The bus pul ed into Charlottesvil e just before one P.M. and she got off, feeling groggy, headachy, and hungry. She hesitated, then turned on her phone. She had six missed cal s from Laura and three text messages. Hannah ignored the cal s and the messages and instead used her maps app for directions. The place she’d rented was less than a mile from the station. She grimaced as she thought about cal ing an Uber. She couldn’t face smal talk, and maybe some fresh air would make her feel better. Besides, a walk would give her a chance to check out a little bit of Charlottesvil e. She set off, and was just beginning to regret her decision when she reached the apartment building. Hannah checked out the three-story building and let out a sigh of relief. She’d expected a dump. When you book the very last rental available the week before classes start, that’s almost what you deserve. But so far, so good. According to her maps app, the building was only a five-minute walk from the law school, as promised. The paint was clean and bright. There was even a little yard out front, pretty and wel -maintained. Hannah made for the entrance and pressed the buzzer for apartment 5B. A few moments later a slightly distorted voice came through the speaker.

“Yes?”

“Yes, hi. I’m Hannah Rokeby. I’m looking for David Lee?”

There was a moment’s silence. “Uh . . . yeah? This is David.”

“I’m subletting Prisha Laghari’s place this semester. She said you’d have the keys.”

“Oh yeah, right. Sorry. I’l be right down. Just two minutes.”

It was closer to seven minutes before David appeared. He was a good-looking guy, sloppily dressed in jeans and an oversize T-shirt.

He pul ed the front door open and gestured for Hannah to come inside. He had the smudged remains of eyeliner around his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “It took me a minute to find them.” He held up a key ring, a stainless-steel dolphin with two keys and a swipe card attached. “Prisha’s place is on the third floor. I’l show you.” He led the way toward the elevator. Hannah fol owed. She had her backpack on her back, her shoulder bag dangling from her right hand.

“You travel light,” David said. “You should have seen me yesterday. My parents took my Mom’s minivan, and I drove my car and we could barely fit in al my stuff. But I play keyboard, you know, and guitar. With my amps too it takes up a lot of space.”

“Right,” Hannah said.

“I’m in a band.” He looked at Hannah with an air of expectation. It was clear that he wanted her to ask him about his music, his gigs; maybe even ask him for coffee to talk about it. Hannah stared back at him blankly. She wasn’t there to make friends. They rode up in the elevator in an awkward silence, arrived on the fifth floor, and he led the way down the corridor. Inside, the building was bright and modern, the carpet very clean and the paintwork fresh.

David stopped outside apartment 5B and held out the keys.

“This is you,” he said. “See you around.”

“Thanks.”

He left, and Hannah turned and unlocked the door to 5B. She walked inside, dropped her bag on the ground, and shut the door behind her. The apartment was . . . great. It was a studio. It had high ceilings and two large windows that let in a lot of light. There were bookshelves, stil half-ful , and a kitchenette built against the wal to the left. There was a double bed against one wal , its mattress bare.

Suddenly everything felt strikingly unreal. Like she’d just taken a step into someone else’s life. Hannah crossed the room and sat on the bed, then sank back, pul ed a pil ow toward her and pressed it to her face. What was she doing? Was this crazy?