I want to do more…but actually contacting Susan Kendicott fills me with panic. I wrack my brain for an alternative.
“What about Dina? She was working on this stuff when I last spoke to her. Said she was going to blow it all wide open. She had a theory similar to yours.” I grasp at the straw of hope the thought gives.
“Dina? Liz’s friend?” He looks totally bewildered.
“Yes. She’s the one who convinced me to write you the note on the DNA registry in the first place. She’s in touch with Susan’s lawyer and everything. He gave her a bunch of papers from Susan’s file.”
He frowns, his surprise deepening.
“Her lawyer’s never mentioned her to me. But, why would he, I guess?” He’s talking to himself more than to me.
Then, he shrugs and shakes his head, as if to clear it before his eyes focus again. “Dina was at the wedding, but I haven’t seen her since. Not that I do much besides work and this.”
His frown deepens, his brows draw even closer together and I recognize that austere expression on his face. I’ve seen it staring back at me from the mirror.
It’s a crazy feeling. But, I like it. When I was a kid, I envied my siblings for their resemblance to each other. And now… I have Phil.
“What reasons did she give for thinking Susan Kendicott was the fall guy?” he asks.
It takes me a second to backtrack my thoughts to the conversation we’re having. While he waits, he drums his fingers impatiently. Just like I do.
“It was when she realized who I was that the other child – you – was still alive too.
She started doubting all of the other things she knew about Susan.
“Why do you look disappointed? It’s a sound theory,” I add when he runs a frustrated hand through his hair and rolls his eyes.
“It’s not enough. Just because she didn’t kill her children doesn’t mean she didn’t kill her husband. If, in fact, he did hit her, it wouldn’t be hard to believe that she lashed out in self-defense and killed him accidentally. She’s not, as far the picture my knowledge of her allows me to paint, a credible person. She was sleeping with another man and got pregnant. What we need is evidence of… something that implicates someone else. I haven’t been able to find the original police reports or statements taken from witnesses at the time.”
I sit up, a memory cutting through the fog.
“Oh, man, yes. Of course. How could I have forgotten?” I say in self-reproach.
“Forgotten what?” Phil perks up and hope fills his wide blue eyes. I smile, relieved that, finally, I had something to contribute.
“Dina gave me a file folder full of documents from the initial investigation. I didn’t look at it back then because by that point, I was ready to wash my hands of the whole business. But she said it had original police reports and shit in it.”
“Where is it?” His gaze sharpens and he leans across the table.
The knot in my chest loosens.
“In my bedroom. In one of the suitcases I never unpacked, it has all my documents and a brick of cash I keep in case of the Zombie Apocalypse … I can make copies and send it to you.”
“That’s great. I’ll take the copies. But can you look through it now? I want to see if there’s anything in there. I’ve been waiting for something like this.”
I glance inside my new apartment, taking round the elegant room plushly appointed in a palette of beiges, browns, and grey with mid-century modern sleekness that saves it from being drab. My mother found it and convinced me that life on the Upper East Side might not be so bad. She was right. It’s perfect for me.
Now… Giselle’s in there, uninvited, troubled, and waiting for me to come back in and solve all of her problems.
I don’t even want to know what really brought her here. I just want her gone.
“Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” Phil snaps when I don’t respond.
“I’ll send it to you. I’ve got…company.”
Understanding lights his eyes and he rolls his eyes, but grins. “Ah, I see…okay. Fine. But call me as soon as she’s gone, “
He’s got the wrong idea, but I let him think whatever he wants. I don’t know how to explain Giselle anyway.
“Yeah, I will. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”
I disconnect and sit there trying to figure out the best way to deal with Giselle. I don’t understand how she keeps popping up. And I regret the stupidity on my part that made it possible for to invade my life the way she did again, tonight.
When I got back got back to my room after meeting with Jack in Los Angeles, she was still there.
Turns out, she was having the worst day of her life.
She’d been fired after a customer complained about her runny nose and red eyes. The day before, her roommate brought a cat home that she was allergic to. But she had nowhere else to stay. She had no family to speak of and she was burned out on LA and sick of rejection after rejection for the dance auditions she’d moved out there for.
So, I let her stay in my hotel room. That night, she climbed into the shower with me and was on her knees with my dick in her mouth before I could register was going on. I stopped her and she said, “I’m on my period, so I can’t fuck you. This is all I can give you for letting me stay.”
I pulled her up, told her she didn’t have to give me anything. I don’t know what happened to her, but I could tell something was off. She wasn’t the talkative type. And that was fine, because I wasn’t really in the mood to take on anyone else’s problem. Instead, we slept - her in my bed. Me, on the couch.
And that’s what we did for my last month in LA. But it’s not like we became friends. I hardly saw her and I didn’t even know her last name.
The day I left, she said she’d look me up if she was ever in NYC. I’d said, “fine” was out of politeness than anything else. I never expected to see her again. She didn’t have money for bus fare, let alone a redeye from LA to LaGuardia.
I did a double take when I found her waiting in the lobby of my building when I got in from the airport.
She said she was in town for an audition and needed a place to stay. Just for a few days, she said. I sit outside for a few more minutes and gather the will to go back inside and deal with her.
“Hey, I’m done,” I call as I walk back in.
It’s as quiet as a tomb. She’s not where I left her in my living room.
I walk to my bedroom and call her name.
A quick look in my bathroom confirms what the silence implied, she’s gone. Relieved, I lock my front door. Then, I call down to the front desk to tell them that she’s never allowed back up unless accompanied by me.
My mood is on an upswing and I head to my room to look from the files I promised Phil. I open my closet and find it completely wrecked. All the drawers of the built-ins are open and overflowing with clothes that have been roughly yanked out.
I step over the things she didn’t bother to put back and stare at the empty space where my suitcase, the one where I kept all of my important documents and my cash, used to sit.
It’s gone.
Anger flares. That little bitch stole from me.
My knees buckle when I remember what else was in that suitcase.