Marissa craves the caffeine—she was too rushed to gulp more than a few sips this morning, and her head still feels a little foggy—but she craves a break from Polly even more desperately.
As soon as Polly exits the store, Marissa begins riffling through the files in her desk trying to find the paperwork for the alarm system she had installed years ago. She’d completely forgotten about the system until Polly had brought it up.
As with most discussions involving technology, Marissa zoned out while the nice man conducting the installation explained the system to her in mind-numbing detail. She’s never once looked at Coco’s video footage, and she can’t even recall the name of the alarm company. After sifting through files containing her company’s taxes, vendor bills, and inspirational tear sheets, she finally finds the Visionex manual in a thick folder labeled Miscellaneous, which serves as a catchall for all the papers Marissa suspects she will never look at again, but feels as if she should save.
The red-and-black logo seems familiar, and Marissa thinks she recalls seeing the app on her phone, sandwiched between Bennett’s Angry Birds and Minecraft game apps. Sure enough, it’s there, and she easily logs on using their family’s catchall password, the four numbers on a phone’s keypad that correspond to the name of Bennett’s gecko, Sam B (B for “Bishop”). The app is surprisingly user-friendly. All she has to do is select the date and scroll through the footage. She starts with Monday at 6:00 P.M.—closing time for the shop—and leans back in her chair as she stares at the image of Coco’s front door.
At 6:02, Polly appeared, her image softened through the glass, and locked the door from the inside. Marissa figures out how to speed up the footage—it’s similar to fast-forwarding a television show—pausing it only when she glimpses movement.
People passed by frequently during that first hour, but as the night wore on, fewer pedestrians crossed the sidewalk in front of Coco.
Then, around 10:00 P.M., after a lone jogger with a headlamp moved in and out of the frame, the foot traffic ceased.
At 11:28 P.M., someone approached the store.
Marissa leans forward in her chair, holding her breath. It was a man—a big guy in a bulky coat with a hat pulled down low.
He walked slowly, holding a folded piece of paper, the white rectangle standing out starkly against the backdrop of his dark jacket.
As the man came closer to the boutique, he glanced up and down the block. Even though Marissa is certain of the visitor’s identity, her body grows warm and perspiration prickles her skin.
The man took a final step toward Coco and bent down to slip the note under the door. It turns out Marissa hadn’t lied to Polly after all; it really was too dark to make out his features.
Marissa exhales the breath she didn’t know she was holding and is about to exit the app when she sees that the figure slowly lifted his head. He stared directly up at the camera, as if he realized he was being watched. For a moment, it appears as if he sees Marissa. She gasps and her phone slips from her damp hands.
She does recognize the person in the video; she walks by him a couple of times a week. The face staring up at her, creased with wrinkles and partially covered by a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard, belongs to Ray, a homeless man who often sits on a bench along Connecticut Avenue, with his rotation of funny cardboard signs: BET YOU A DOLLAR YOU’LL READ THIS; MY EX-WIFE HAD A BETTER LAWYER; and TOO OLD TO MODEL, TOO HONEST TO STEAL.
Ray left the disturbing note?
It makes no sense at all.
The most substantive conversation they’ve had is when Marissa has offered to pick him up a sandwich on her way to grab lunch. She knows he favors turkey-and-cheese subs and Orange Crush soda, and that he served in the Vietnam War.
Marissa passes the hours in a haze of distraction, managing to wait on customers and clear dozens of emails out of her in-box, but constantly checking the clock. Finally, at 3:15 P.M., she tells Polly she needs to pick up Bennett from school. But instead of heading to her car, she rushes down Connecticut Avenue, toward Ray’s favorite bench.
Sure enough, she spots him wearing the same oversize coat she saw in the video. This time the sign by his feet says, in perfect block letters, SAVING UP TO BUY A BABY GIFT FOR HARRY AND MEGHAN.
“Hey, Ray.” Marissa tries to control the waver in her voice.
“Hey, Coco lady.” He gives her a little salute.
“I like your sign.” She digs a $5 bill out of her wallet and places it in the cup by his side. The best way to do this, she decides, is to be direct.
“Ray, I saw some video footage of you by my store late at night.”
“Yeah.” He seems unsurprised.
“Who gave you that note to put under my door?”
“Some dude. Why? What did it say?”
“Nothing important. Do you remember anything else about him?”
“He was taller than me. I couldn’t really tell what he looked like—he had on a coat and hat, like everyone.”
Marissa wraps her arms around herself. “Did he tell you his name?”
“Nah. He just handed me twenty bucks and told me to slide the paper under your door. Didn’t know why he couldn’t just do it himself, but I wasn’t complaining. He waited until I got back and thanked me.”
Ray lifts his hand to cover his mouth as he coughs, and Marissa does a double take.
His blue leather gloves look expensive, and new—in stark contrast to the worn coat and old boots Ray is wearing.
She gapes. “Those gloves—”
“Oh, yeah.” Ray looks down at them. “Guess he knew I was cold. He took them off his hands and gave them to me. Nice, right? They’re probably from one of those fancy stores on Wisconsin Avenue—those places you can’t even go in if you don’t have a gold card.”
Marissa does know; the gloves were purchased from one of those very stores. The man who came to her house when Matthew was away was wearing them—they were, he told Marissa, his favorite pair, because she’d bought them for him for Christmas.
“I think they’re lined with cashmere.”
“They are,” Marissa whispers as she backs away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AVERY
I AWAKEN TO ROMEO’S SCRATCHY tongue licking my cheek. When I open my eyes, the morning light is shining through the slats of my blinds. I must have forgotten to set my alarm when I got home from Derrick’s late last night—or, technically, early this morning.
I roll over and let out a little groan as I recall how we left things.
I don’t want to give him up, but neither do I want to lead him on. He deserves more than I can offer right now.
As usual, it’s easier to help my clients solve their problems than tangle with my own.
I brush my teeth and dress quickly, and as I’m clipping on Romeo’s leash, my phone pings with an incoming text: I’m sorry to bother you, but with Matthew working late all week I’m finding it impossible to compliment him in person before our next session.
Come on, I think impatiently. How is Marissa going to fix her marriage if she can’t even manage to connect with her husband for a few minutes this week? It’s Wednesday, and I’m seeing the Bishops tomorrow night. If the two of them haven’t even been in a room together, it’ll be tougher to make progress in our session.