Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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“Not O-KAY. KAY!”

“No.”

“You’re not making much effort to deny it.”

“If I don’t sound fully engaged, it’s because I was just about to call you with some news. I GOT MY LAPTOP BACK! Someone dropped it off at my building with a note that said, ‘Sorry for the delay. Been busy.’” She laughs.

“I’m so happy for you. That makes up a little for Gabriel’s letter.”

Her tone sobers up. “Oh, yeah. What a disturbing letter. He’s even weirder in death than in life.”

I decide I want to read the letter to the others in person when I see them tomorrow, in case their expressions reveal which one of them is KAY.

Peter Marrick

Sunday, 15 October

I had the intern return the laptop. That’s one thing off my plate.

I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to think of ways to meet Barb and her friends, other than the obvious way. I haven’t been able to come up with any ideas due to my damned lack of imagination—ironic and rather tragic in view of how much I crave to be creative. Which is one of many reasons why I need to meet these people.

I got a complaint at work that I look distracted.

I can’t obsess about this anymore. I will meet them the obvious way.

Chapter Six

On Sunday, I invite my friends over and read Gabriel’s letter out loud to them. They act surprised in appropriate ways (except for Georgia, who’s heard it already), and I can’t decipher which of them might be KAY.

While we work, Lily continues trying to beautify Jack through her piano playing, but without success. Upset and frustrated, she leaves abruptly.

Georgia says she doesn’t like her novel anymore, that it’s not as great as she thought it was when she believed it was lost forever. She says the memory of it took on monumental proportions, and now the reality of it is just a bit of a letdown. She attributes this to absence making the heart grow fonder, and it makes her sick.

Penelope says Georgia is probably simply suffering from some sort of post-traumatic reverse syndrome of taking something for granted as soon as she gets it back.

And I remind Georgia that she’s always told me this was her best novel yet, so it probably is.

LILY DOES NOT call that night even though I asked her to when she stormed out of my apartment earlier. I’m concerned about her. I know she’s upset that she hasn’t been able to beautify Jack through her music. I restrain myself from calling her, not wanting to be overly protective.

What dramatically increases my concern is that, at two o’clock in the afternoon the next day, movers show up at my apartment to take away Lily’s piano. They tell me those are her instructions. They show me a form she filled out requesting its removal. While they carry out the upright piano, I’m anxiously trying to reach Lily by phone. She’s not picking up. I curse myself for not calling her last night.

As I run out of my building to look for Lily, I pass Adam the doorman who says to me, “One day you’ll find yourself, and wish you hadn’t.”

I’m a bit unsettled by that comment as I jog the few blocks to Lily’s apartment, trying to refrain from holding my bouncing fake fat.

I ring Lily’s downstairs buzzer. There’s no answer. A tenant on his way out lets me in. I knock on Lily’s apartment door. No answer. I can’t stop my worry from mounting, though I know it may be irrational. I call Jack, Georgia, and Penelope. Within minutes, they have joined me. Jack gets the super to open her door. Lily’s not in her apartment.

We go to my place. We keep calling her.

At five p.m. we’re sitting on my couch, trying to reassure ourselves that she’s okay, but not doing a very good job of it. I mention to my friends that three days ago she seemed delusional, claiming her hands had turned to mirrors and that it felt like death was trying to take hold of her, but that she fought it and it went away.

“Yeah, she told me that too. Not reassuring.” Georgia pauses and takes a deep breath before adding, “But let’s be optimistic. I’m sure she is fine, and will be fine, and in fact will probably make all her dreams come true. I’ve noticed that in life there are three ingredients that, when present simultaneously, create a potent combination: talent, love, and lack of beauty. One’s love for someone, unrequited due to one’s insufficient beauty, can motivate one to do great things to win that love, if one has the talent. Just look at what Lily’s achieved so far. And I bet it’s not stopping.”

Twenty minutes later, the doorman buzzes me. We brighten, gripped by hope.

But when I answer my doorman intercom, I hear Adam’s voice say softly in my ear, “Hi, piece of shit. There are some deliverymen here for you.”

My heart sinks. I was so hoping for Lily.

“What do they want?” I ask him.

“To deliver something, moron.”

“Deliver what?”

“I’ve only got one nerve left, and you’re getting on it.”

Ignoring him, I repeat, “Deliver what?”

“A piano.”

A piano is not as good as Lily herself, but it’s the next best thing. “Thanks, Adam. Send them up.”

We’re surprised that the upright piano the deliverymen carry into my apartment is made of mirror. We admire it, while they place it in the spot I indicate by the window.

Forty-five minutes later, Lily strolls into my apartment.

When she sees her new instrument, she says, “Ah. Good. It’s here.”

“We were worried to death!” I scream at her.

“I’m sorry. I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Same project. But I’ll be practicing on myself now instead of on Jack.” She sits at the piano and starts hitting single keys, listening to the sound quality. “I bought this piano thinking it might inspire me. My project is so insanely difficult. Impossible, probably. But I’ll work on it until I croak, if that’s what it takes.”

“Why don’t you just give up?” Penelope says.

“Because then life might not seem worth living.”

“See, that’s the project you should be working on—making life worth living for reasons other than Strad,” Jack says.

“I can’t. I need love.” Lily starts playing scales very rapidly, testing the piano. She stops, says, “Sounds good.”

We’re all standing around the musical instrument, our scowling expressions reflected back at us.

BEFORE BED, I call Lily at home to get a better sense of how she’s doing and ask if she’s had any more trouble with things like her hands becoming reflective.

“Yes. Yesterday I was in the pits of depression and then the hand thing happened again a couple of times while I was playing the piano. I stopped it each time from spreading, but I was so tempted not to.”

“It spreads?”

“Yes. Up my wrists and arms.”

“How do you stop it?”

“I will it to stop. I refuse to let it overtake me—out of fear, I guess. Even though it feels good. I mean, it feels good because it feels like nothing, which is good compared to how I feel, which is terrible. Death is the ultimate painkiller. When I will it to stop, it recedes, and the pain comes flooding back.”

“I’m glad,” I say quietly. “That you make it stop. And since yesterday, it hasn’t happened again?”

“No. So far it’s only happened when I hit bottom. But today I’m okay. Buying the mirrored piano cheered me up a bit.”

On Friday is the meeting of the Excess Weight Disorders Support Group, which I promised my mother I’d attend and have been dreading.

When I arrive I see there are about twenty people in the group, all overweight or obese, mostly women. And there is a leader, fitting the same description.

The meeting begins. A woman shares her story. A few people make comments. Another woman shares. More comments. I wait for an opening to tell them the truth about myself. I’m nervous.

For a long time, I see no opportunity until finally a woman says, “Ever since my first child was born I’ve been struggling with my weight. I gained a lot and then lost some and then gained back more than I lost, and then lost some again, but whenever I lose any weight, I gain back all of it and more.”

Another woman jumps in with: “I’m a total yo-yo dieter, too! I take the weight off in the summer and fill my closet with skinny clothes, and then I put all the weight back on in the winter.”

Heart pounding, I say, “Same here. I take the weight off at night and hang it in my closet and put it back on in the morning.”

No one seems to hear me.

Someone else says, “I guess I have a really slow metabolism. I gain weight so easily. And it gets worse as I get older. Anything I eat goes directly from my lips to my hips.”

“I totally know what you mean,” I say. “For me it’s even more direct. It bypasses the lips altogether.”

A couple of chuckles and puzzled looks, but the group doesn’t pause, keeps on talking. I’m not sure my mom would be satisfied with my efforts.

I finally see my opportunity when a woman says, “I mean, I know I’m thin on the inside.”

“Me too! See?” I spring up and flash the assembly. Everyone stares inside my fat jacket, gaping at my thin torso and shoulders.

“What are you doing? Why did you come here?” the leader asks, not looking happy.

“My therapist says I have a serious weight issue, like the rest of you, and that just because my way of getting fat is unusual doesn’t mean the source of the problem isn’t very typical.”

“You don’t belong here,” another woman says.

“But I’m fat.”

“Yours is removable.”

“So is yours. It just takes longer.”

“You’re a thin person.”

“So are you, on the inside. Like me.”

“I assume you don’t even have an eating disorder, right?”

“No, but I’ve got a weight disorder,” I insist. “I engage in unhealthy, compulsive behavior like everyone here. When you guys go to the store to buy your fatty things, I go to a store and buy a different kind of fatty thing. And then I go home, and instead of eating mine, I put it on my body. My brain and emotions have the same need as yours to be fat, but my body is unable to manufacture that fat for reasons of taste. I hate the taste of fattening foods. I hate overeating. And I hate being inactive. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a very serious weight problem. I can’t stop putting on the weight. When I take it off, I can’t keep it off. Either your way or my way, the fat ends up visible to everyone, and the result is the same in the eyes of the world.”

“Okay,” says the group leader. “Let’s move on . . . Sally? Would you like to share?”

I sit in silence for forty more minutes until the meeting finally ends.

GEORGIA TELLS US her agent wants to know if our whole group would be willing to appear on TV, on News with Peter Marrick, to be interviewed about our Nights of Creation and our creativity in general.

“They want us on Wednesday night at six,” Georgia explains. “They’re doing a segment on creativity. They read about our Nights of Creation in that Observer article last year.”

We agree to do it. We’re particularly excited that the great Peter Marrick himself, America’s favorite local news anchor, will be conducting the interview. Even if he weren’t so charismatic and charming on camera, the incident a few years ago when he ran into a burning building and saved three children would make him America’s sweetheart. His cameraman captured the spectacle of Peter running out of the burning house, his hair on fire, carrying a baby in one arm and dragging two small children in his other hand. The only injury he sustained was to his hair follicles. His decision to continue anchoring the news with singed hair and then with a shaved head drew even more viewers. And when his hair grew back nicer and more unusual than before, that didn’t hurt the ratings either. He looked angelic—almost ethereal with his hair floating around his head, light and airy, like a halo.

“You should all go on the show without me,” Georgia says. “I’ve got nothing to say about creativity anymore. When you lose your faith in your work, what have you got left as an artist? Nothing much.”

“Haven’t you done any writing in the last week since you got your laptop back?” Jack asks.

“I tried.”

“And?”

“I’ve become an expert at backing up my laptop. I’ve set up three different backup systems. The first is manual. The second is automatic, hourly, wireless, in the apartment. And the third is automatic, daily, in the cloud, which means that all of America could blow up and I could still retrieve a backup from the Internet in Europe, assuming I wasn’t in America when it blew up.”

Chapter Seven

I discover a new letter from Gabriel waiting for me in my mailbox.

That letter shocks me so deeply that I’m not able to call my friends right away to tell them about it. I do research online for about an hour. Then I think. I spend the entire night thinking. I don’t even try to sleep.

IN THE MORNING, I call my friends. I tell them to come to my apartment at three. This way, I’ll still have a few hours to think more about the letter.

MY FRIENDS ARRIVE promptly. We settle ourselves on the couch.

Not beating around the bush, I unfold the letter.

I take a deep breath and begin reading—

Dear Barb, Georgia, Lily, Penelope, and Jack,

This is my final letter to you before October 27^th. I didn’t want to upset you sooner than necessary, but now I must tell you the terrible thing one of you did, and I must issue an urgent warning that I hope is no longer necessary, but if it is, you must heed it.

On Lily’s birthday, we were all out at a bar. It was a great evening. We were in high spirits, having a wonderful time, laughing a lot. Lily was turning twenty-three, and we were teasing her about her youth, which we secretly envied but also cherished. She seemed to find it very amusing. Then she and Barb went to the restroom, and just when they had rejoined our table, we heard a guy a few feet away make a despicable and ludicrous comment about them to his buddy. We never talked about it, but we all heard it.

If you do not remember what the man said, I’ve written it down in the small envelope I’ve enclosed in this letter.

I stop reading and hold up, for my friends to see, a tiny, pale blue envelope on which are scribbled the words “Offensive Comment.” (I opened it last night, not because I didn’t remember the comment, but to check if Gabriel’s recollection matched mine. It did.)

My friends look uncomfortable, staring at the blue envelope. I’m waiting to see if any of them want to read it.

Blushing painfully, Lily says, “Okay, first of all, guys, this walking on eggshells is not necessary. The man’s comment was something like, ‘Look at that hideous chick and her gorgeous friend. Isn’t it amazing how her ugliness brings out the other’s beauty, and vice versa? It would ruin my evening, having to look at a dog like that, not to mention if I had to be seen with one.’”

Lily waits for our reaction to her recollection. After a moment of stunned silence, we mutter our grim indignation at the man’s comment.

I don’t read the next two sentences of the letter. I recite them, my gaze locked on my friends’ faces so as not to miss the slightest quivering of an eyelash: “The man who made the comment was murdered that night, in his apartment, by one of you.”

I note a few sharp intakes of breath and a couple of frowns. Penelope’s hand flies to her mouth.

I continue: “The killer among you (K.A.Y.) confessed it to me two weeks later. Please take a moment now to look at the article I’ve enclosed about the man’s murder.”

My friends look at each other and at me in shock. Lily looks particularly distressed, which I can well understand. Even if she’s not the killer, she might nevertheless feel indirectly responsible for the man’s death.

I hand them the New York Times article.

They crowd around it, looking at the man’s photo under the headline “Murder Strikes Home In Tribeca Neighborhood.” They try to read bits of the article over one another’s shoulders, while appearing uneasy about possibly huddling too close to a murderer.

“Read it out loud,” Jack finally instructs Georgia, who’s holding it.

She reads:

Tribeca residents were stunned yesterday to learn that a local resident, 33-year-old Lawrence Finn, has been found murdered in the kitchen of his Vestry Street home. Mr. Finn was discovered yesterday morning in his apartment on the third floor of his elevator building by his housekeeper who alerted authorities. It is believed that Mr. Finn was killed by a single knife wound to the throat, but police are not releasing specific details of the crime. It is not known if a weapon has been recovered.

“This was a senseless and bloody act,” said Detective Vince Monticelli of the First Precinct. “We are appealing to anyone who may have seen anything suspicious in the Vestry Street area between the hours of midnight and 3 a.m. to come forward. The motive for this crime does not appear to have been robbery. It is possible Mr. Finn knew his attacker and allowed him or her entry into the apartment.”

Mr. Finn was an employee of Morrison & Partners, a New York-based hedge fund company. “Larry was a nice guy,” said Anthony Morrison, chief executive officer of Morrison & Partners. “I know of no one who wished him any harm.”

Police are investigating the recent trading activity in which Mr. Finn was engaged for clues to a possible motive. The often secretive trading practices of the unregulated hedge fund industry frequently result in large gains and losses for investors. Companies targeted by hedge fund traders are also known to resent the impact such trading has on their market valuations.

A friend of Mr. Finn’s, Mark Stanley, was the last known person to see him alive. Mr. Stanley and Mr. Finn were together on Tuesday evening at the Saratoga Lounge on East 16^th Street. According to Mr. Stanley, he left Mr. Finn at the bar at approximately 11:45 p.m. “I can’t believe this,” said a stunned Mr. Stanley. “Larry always liked to party hard. We were having a great time.” Mr. Stanley was interviewed by the police but is not considered a suspect.

Detectives have questioned employees at the Saratoga Lounge and are trying to ascertain at what time Mr. Finn left the bar, and if he was alone at that time. They are asking anybody who was in the Saratoga Lounge on Tuesday evening after 8 p.m. to come forward with any information they may have.

When Georgia finishes reading the article, she gazes at Lily. We all do.

Slowly and quietly, Lily says, “I’m horrified by what you’ve just read. How do we know this letter is really from Gabriel or if it is, that Gabriel is telling the truth?”

Georgia turns to me. “Barb, have you looked into the case?”

I inform them that I researched it online last night and that the murder has never been solved. The police believe it was an isolated, spontaneous act. It didn’t appear to be related to any other crimes that had taken place in the city.

“As for the authenticity of the letter,” I add, “I can’t imagine what motive anyone could have for forging Gabriel’s handwriting and making all this up. I think our safest bet is to assume the letter’s real and that Gabriel is telling the truth. It would be risky not to take it seriously.”

Jack nods. “Still, I’d like to get the opinion of a forensic handwriting expert to make sure this letter really is from Gabriel.”

“Good idea,” Georgia says.

“But what if Jack is the killer and has a motive for creating a false report?” Penelope says. “You would trust his ‘expert’?”

“We can get a second opinion, if you want,” Georgia tells her. “Why don’t you find us a second expert and ask him or her as well?”

“Okay, I will,” Penelope says.

“I doubt the letter’s forged,” Georgia says. “I think what’s more important is figuring out who KAY is.”

I continue reading the letter from where I left off: “A few weeks after confessing this crime to me, KAY said, ‘I don’t want you to think this will be a recurring thing I do, but there’s someone else I’ve decided to put an end to. I’m going to kill Strad.’”

“Wha—?” Lily gasps. I carefully observe her reaction.

I continue reading:

KAY said to me, “I’ve made up my mind that in two years’ time, if Lily still loves him and he still doesn’t love her, I will try to kill him. But I will leave it partly in the hands of fate. What I mean by that is that in two years, on the evening of October 27th, sometime between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight, I will kill him if I get a chance. I may even plan it in advance. I will put a fairly serious amount of effort into it. But if I don’t succeed during those four hours—like let’s say there are constant obstacles—I will take it as a sign from fate that Strad should not be killed, and I will not continue trying. See, I’m easygoing and flexible.”

I did my best to dissuade KAY from this plan, but nothing worked. I even threatened KAY, said I would call the police and tell them about the first murder. KAY said that was my right, and that I should do it if I wanted to.

My dear friends, I’m sorry to be keeping KAY’s identity from you, but I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll turn KAY in to the police. You may judge me harshly, but I care too deeply for KAY to send him/her to prison.

I need to take a break from my reading because Lily is crying.

“Are you okay?” I give her a sympathetic look and hand her tissues.

“Please finish the letter,” she says, wiping her nose.

I continue reading:

I’m sorry to be leaving you with this burden, but your job now is to protect Strad on October 27th (next Friday), between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight. If you succeed in keeping him alive during that time, KAY will never again try to harm Strad or anyone else. KAY promised. And I believe KAY.

Just because Georgia may be the likeliest candidate, don’t assume it’s her. Or that it’s not. Just because Lily may be the least likely one, don’t assume it’s not her. Or that it is. Any of you might be the killer, except you, Barb. I’m exempting Barb because all of you will have an easier time protecting Strad if at least one of you has been cleared of suspicion.

You should know that KAY loves you all and would never harm any of you. In addition, KAY promised never again to kill anyone, other than Strad. This was a solemn promise. You may wonder why I choose to believe a homicidal maniac. I don’t have an easy answer. I’m sure you know, though, that I would not leave you in the hands of anyone I thought would ever harm you.

“Oh my God, he’s insane,” Georgia says. “How can he trust a psycho? I think we’re in grave danger.”

Jack looks at her and nods grimly.

I continue reading the letter:

If, on the day you read this letter, Lily is no longer in love with Strad, or if she is and he loves her back, then you can disregard this letter.

There are some rules you need to be aware of:

1) KAY will not hesitate to kill Strad in front of any of you. If the attempt is successful, KAY will leave it up to you to decide if you want to help KAY hide/dispose of the body or turn KAY in to the police. KAY trusts that you will make the right decision.

“Oh, how horrible,” Georgia groans. “How could you put us in that position, whoever you are?” she says, looking at Jack, Penelope, and Lily.

After duly noting her reaction, I resume reading the letter:

2) KAY will not go so far as to kill Strad in front of anyone other than you guys because KAY would then without question get turned in.

3) KAY has agreed not to set up a lethal situation that would kill Strad outside of those four hours. For example, KAY can’t give Strad a package between the hours of 8 p.m. and midnight that will explode after midnight.

I don’t want to explain to you in great depth KAY’s motives for wanting to kill Strad, mostly for fear of inadvertently revealing KAY’s identity. So I will limit myself to saying that KAY feels that Strad’s existence is ruining Lily’s life. I assume you will try to present arguments to change KAY’s mind, and perhaps you’ll have better luck than I did, but don’t count on it.

I told KAY that I would warn you of KAY’s murderous plan before it’s meant to happen. So don’t think that my letters to you are much of a surprise to KAY. I told KAY I would instruct you all to do everything in your power to protect Strad during the four dangerous hours. KAY accepted this, said your success or lack of it would be part of what KAY will interpret as destiny’s will.

In case you’re wondering why I revealed to KAY that I would alert you, I had no choice. I was afraid that if KAY felt betrayed by my letters, KAY would decide to change the rules and would make an attempt on Strad’s life at another time, on another day, when Strad wasn’t protected.

If you ever find out who KAY is, I hope you will be compassionate and able to forgive her/him.

I wish I could say “My thoughts will be with you,” but I will have no thoughts. And that’s what I’m looking forward to. Please be happy for me and love one another as I love each of you.

You will never hear from me again. Barb, this is my final letter.

Much love,

Gabriel

I fold the letter, my eyes moist despite my anger at Gabriel.

Lily is the first to speak. “If one of you kills Strad and if the cops don’t get you, I will hunt you down myself and kill you and then kill myself.” She pauses. “Is that clear?”

“What a charming day,” Jack says.

Georgia says, “I think we have to settle one question: Do we want one of us, a friend, to go to prison? I mean, Gabriel was afraid we would, which is why he didn’t want to tell us who it is. But is he right?”

We all look at one another.

“Maybe it depends on who it is,” Georgia adds.

“Oh?” says Jack. “And which of us would you feel good about sending to prison?”

“No one. I’m just throwing the question out there. Maybe some of you would feel okay about sending someone like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . me, for instance, to jail, and not someone like, um . . . Lily. Or Penelope.”

A little impatiently, I say, “Please, Georgia, we don’t have time for your insecurities and paranoia right now. Of course we don’t want to see you go to prison, what’s wrong with you? Especially if you’re not the killer. Now, let’s focus! The 27th is only five days from now.”

The truth is, I would sooner die than see Georgia go to prison.

But I can tell she’s offended by my tone. I brace myself for her favorite retaliation technique: gently demonstrating to everyone that her intelligence is superior to the offender’s (we all know she can dwarf us intellectually without effort, and it baffles me that she still feels the need to prove it).

On this occasion, she goes about it in the following insidious fashion. Adopting an innocuous tone, she says: “It was smart of you, Barb, not to read us the letter as soon as you got it. Did you use that valuable time to try and test us to figure out who the killer is?”

“No,” I reply, truthfully.

And the reason I didn’t is because even though I spent most of my time since yesterday afternoon trying to come up with ideas of how to test my friends, I failed to come up with any good ones (except for one little test I intend to try later, but which I doubt will work).

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says. “The best time to figure out which of us is the killer would have been between the time you received the letter and the time you read it to us—when only you knew the situation. It’s a shame not to have made some use of that precious window of opportunity.”

“No, it’s not a shame, because there’s really nothing I could have done,” I say, with some confidence considering the nearly twelve hours I spent thinking about it. I feel pretty sure that even Georgia, with her superior intelligence, could not have thought of how to uncover the killer’s identity.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” she says. “I’ve no doubt there’s something one might have thought of.”

“Like what?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

“Why don’t you. And let me know how you make out.”

“Okay.” A split second later she says, “Oh, I just thought of one.”

“What is it?”

“Not worth mentioning now. The opportunity’s gone.” She shoos the idea away with her hand.

“But please do. I would be very interested.”

“It’s really nothing special. I’m sure you would have thought of it yourself if you had spent even just twenty minutes trying to come up with something. And plus, as you so rightly pointed out, don’t we have more important things to talk about?”

I have an impulse to slug her. “Just tell me what you thought of.”

“All right. Here it is. You could have sent a letter to each of us, pretending to be Gabriel.”

I look at her sternly, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. I cave in: “Elaborate.”

“Each letter would have to appear to be a single, unique, confidential letter. The letters could say something like, ‘As you may or may not already know, I have sent a letter to Barb announcing your plan to kill Strad. In it, I do not reveal that you are the killer. I’m protecting your identity. But let me entreat you now, one last time, not to kill Strad.’ Blah, blah. End of letter. It’s obvious what would happen next. The three of us who are not the killer would be utterly baffled and freaked out by the letter. We’d be calling you up, shrieking: ‘Oh my God, Barb, I just received this crazy letter from Gabriel saying I have a plan to kill Strad, but I don’t!’ The killer would be the only one who wouldn’t call. Simple.”

I could indeed have done that, I realize sadly. It would have been brilliant. I’m deeply demoralized by this huge missed opportunity. I feel as though I’ve let Lily down (assuming she’s not the killer). Georgia is a worthier friend than I am (also assuming she’s not the killer). She’s a smarter friend.

“Barb, you can’t compare yourself to the queen of convoluted thinking. None of us can,” Jack says, as though he’s read my mind.

Georgia, too, has sensed my distress. She backpedals, her entire tone softening: “Jack’s right. And anyway, I wouldn’t wish this ability on anyone. It makes my life wretched, feeds my paranoia, makes me overly complicated, irritating to others, including to myself, but on some rare occasions, such as this one, it comes in handy.”

I gaze at my friends. “There’s something I’d like to say to whichever one of you is the killer.” My tone is chilling. I have their full attention. “If you, KAY, were so close to Gabriel and were his confidant to the degree that he even told you of his suicidal thoughts, why didn’t you prevent his death?” I start shouting at them, shooting them furious glances. “You could have sought out help! You should have told us. At least you should have told me of his love for me. I would have done something, acted differently, been more attuned to the situation. But most of all, you could have stopped him from killing himself. How could you let him die? Are you so incompetent, so lame, so selfish, what? Didn’t you care enough about him to save his life? You certainly are a murderer.”