“Oh, yeah, that’s it.…” I say, laughing.
He leans down, rests his hand on the bench beside my shoulder.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
The truth sits on my tongue. I want to tell him. But Roland warned me not to trust anyone; and though it sometimes feels like I’ve known Wes for months instead of days, I haven’t. Besides, even if I could tell Wesley parts but not the whole, partial truths are so much messier than whole lies.
“Of course,” I say, smiling.
“Of course,” he parrots, and pulls away. He collapses onto his own bench and tosses an arm over his eyes to block the sun.
I look back at the study doors and think of the directories. I’ve been so focused on the early years, I haven’t taken a close look at the current roster. I’ve been focused on the dead, but I can’t forget about the living.
“Who else lives here?” I ask.
“Hm?”
“Here in the Coronado,” I press. I might not be able to tell Wes what’s going on, but that doesn’t mean he can’t help. “I’ve only met you and Jill and Ms. Angelli. Who lives here?”
“Well, there’s this new girl who just moved in on floor three. Her family’s re-opening the café. I hear she likes to lie, and hit people.”
“Oh yeah? Well, there’s that strange goth guy, the one who’s always lurking around Five C.”
“Strangely hot in a mysterious way, though, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Who’s the oldest person here?”
“Ah, that distinction goes to Lucian Nix up on the seventh floor.”
“How old is he?”
Wes shrugs. “Ancient.”
Just then, the study door flies open and Jill appears on the threshold.
“I thought I heard you,” she says.
“How goes it, strawberry?” asks Wes.
“Your dad has been calling us nonstop for half an hour.”
“Oh?” he says. “I must have forgotten.” The way he says it suggests he knows exactly what time it is.
“That’s funny,” Jill says as Wes drags himself to his feet, “because your dad seems to think you snuck out.”
“Wow,” I chime in, “you weren’t kidding when you said you escaped Chez Ayers.”
“Yeah, well. Fix it.” Jill turns and closes the study door on both of us.
“She’s charming,” I say.
“She’s like my aunt Joan, but in miniature. It’s spooky. All she needs is a cane and a bottle of brandy.”
I follow him into the study, but stop, eyes drifting to the directories.
“Wish me luck,” he says.
“Good luck,” I say. And then, as he vanishes into the hall, “Hey, Wes?”
He reappears. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for your help.”
He smiles. “See? It’s getting easier to say.”
And with that he’s gone, and I’m left with a lead. Lucian Nix. How long has he lived in the building? I tug down the most recent directory, flipping through until I reach the seventh floor.
7E. Lucian Nix.
I pull down the next directory.
7E. Lucian Nix.
And the next.
7E. Lucian Nix.
All the way back, past the missing files, to the very first year of the first blue book. 1950.
He’s been here all along.
I press my ear against the door of 7E.
Nothing. I knock. Nothing. I knock again, and I’m about to tug my ring off and listen for the sounds of any living thing when, finally, someone knocks back. There is a kind of scuffle on the other side of the door, joined by muttered cursing, and moments later the door swings open and collides with the metal side of a wheelchair. More cursing, and then the chair retreats enough so that the door can fully open. The man in the chair is, as Wesley put it, ancient. His hair is shockingly white, his milky eyes resting somewhere to my left. A thin stream of smoke drifts up from his mouth, where a narrow cigarette hangs, mostly spent. A scarf coils around his neck, and his clawlike fingers pluck at the fringe on the end.
“What are you staring at?” he asks. The question catches me off guard, since he’s clearly blind. “You aren’t saying anything,” he adds, “so you must be staring.”
“Mr. Nix?” I ask. “My name is Mackenzie Bishop.”
“Are you a kiss-a-gram? Because I told Betty I didn’t need girls being paid to come see me. Rather have no girls at all than that—”
I’m not entirely sure what a kiss-a-gram is. “I’m not a kiss—”
“There was a time when all I had to do was smile.…” He smiles now, flashing a pair of fake teeth that don’t fit quite right.
“Sir, I’m not here to kiss you.”
He adjusts his direction at the sound of my voice, pivoting in his chair until he’s nearly facing me, and lifts his chin. “Then what are you knocking on my door for, little lady?”
“My family is renovating the coffee shop downstairs, and I wanted to introduce myself.”
He gestures to his wheelchair. “I can’t exactly go downstairs,” he says. “Have everything brought up.”
“There’s…an elevator.”
He has a sandpaper laugh. “I’ve survived this long. I’ve no plans to perish in one of those metal death traps.” I decide I like him. His hand drifts shakily up to his mouth, removes the stub of his cigarette. “Bishop. Bishop. Betty brought in a muffin that was sitting in the hall. Suppose you’re to blame for that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“More of a cookie person, myself. No offense to the other baked goods. I just like cookies. Well, suppose you want to come in.”
He slides the wheelchair back several feet into the room, and it catches the edge of the carpet. “Blasted device,” he growls.
“Would you like a hand?”
He throws both of his up. “I’ve got two of those. Need some new eyes, though. Betty’s my eyes, and she’s not here.”
I wonder when Betty will be back.
“Here,” I say, crossing the threshold. “Let me.”
I guide the chair through the apartment to a table. “Mr. Nix,” I say, sitting down beside him. I set the copy of the Inferno on the worn table.
“No Mr. Just Nix.”
“Okay…Nix, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m trying to find out more about a series of”—I try to think of how to put this politely, but can’t—“a series of deaths that happened here a very long time ago.”
“What would you want to know about that for?” he asks. But the question lacks Angelli’s defensiveness, and he doesn’t feign ignorance.
“Curiosity, mostly,” I say. “And the fact that no one seems to want to talk about it.”
“That’s because most people don’t know about it. Not these days. Strange things, those deaths.”
“How so?”
“Well, that many deaths so close together. No foul play, they said, but it makes you wonder. Weren’t even in the paper. It was news around here, of course. For a while it looked like the Coronado wouldn’t make it. No one would move in.” I remember the string of vacancy listings in the directories. “Everyone thought it was cursed.”