The Fury(66)

Then, across the room, she saw the figure of a man—fast asleep, face down at the desk.

It’s Elliot, she thought.

She cautiously made her way through the wreckage. She stood above the desk. She watched me sleep for a moment.

Memories of last night came back to her—and she remembered, when she needed a friend the most, when she was desperate, out of her depth … Elliot Chase was there—supporting her, holding her up, keeping her head above water.

He is my rock, she thought. Without him I’d drown.

Despite herself, Lana smiled suddenly—remembering that crazy plan of revenge we had concocted together, at the height of her lunacy.

We got carried away. But we were carried away together—partners in crime. Partners.

As she stood there, looking at me, she felt such love in that moment. It felt as though, in Lana’s mind, I were emerging from a mist—stepping out of a fog. She felt she was seeing me clearly for the first time.

He looks just like a little kid.

She studied my face, affectionately. She knew the face so well, but had never looked closely at it before.

It was a pale face, weary looking. A sad face. Unloved.

No. That’s not true, she thought. He is loved. I love him.

And then, peering at me in the dim light, Lana experienced a life-changing moment of clarity. She understood that not only did she love me; but she had always loved me. Not with the mad passion that Jason inspired in her, perhaps; but with something quieter, more lasting—and deeper. A great love, a true love, born of mutual respect, and repeated acts of kindness.

Here, at last, was a man on whom she could depend. A man she could trust. A man who would never leave her, or cheat on her, or lie to her. He would only give her what she needed most. He would give her companionship, kindness—and love.

Lana felt a sudden urge to wake me up—to tell me how much she loved me.

I’ll leave Jason, she was about to say. And you and I can be together, my love—and we can be happy. Forever and ever and—

Lana reached out to touch my shoulder—but something made her stop.

My notebook was on the desk, under my right hand.

It was open, and its pages were covered with scribbled writing. It looked like a draft of a script, perhaps—or a scene from a play.

One word jumped out at her: Lana.

She peered at it more closely. Other words popped out at her—Kate … Jason … and gun.

It had to be that mad idea from last night. Silly man, she thought, he must have begun writing it down, before he passed out. I’ll make him destroy it when he wakes up. Lana assumed that, like her, I would wake up sober, and wiser.

She hesitated a moment—then curiosity got the better of her. Carefully, so as not to wake me up, she slid out the notebook from under my hand. She went and stood by the window. She held it up to the cracks of light and began to read.

As she read the notebook, Lana frowned, confused. She didn’t understand what she was reading. It didn’t make sense. So she turned back a few pages. Then a few more … then she went all the way back to the first page—and read it from the beginning.

As Lana stood there, she began to make sense of what she was looking at, and her fingers trembled. He teeth chattered. She felt out of control—she felt like screaming.

Get out, howled the voice inside her, get out, get out, get out, get out.…

She made a decision. She was about to stuff the notebook into her bag—but thought better of it. She replaced the open notebook on the desk, edging it under my fingers.

Just as I was beginning to stir, Lana crept out of my flat.

She left without making a sound.





2





It was early morning when Lana stumbled out of my building.

The daylight felt overwhelming to her, blinding her, and she shielded her eyes from it, keeping her head low as she walked. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing coming thick and fast. She felt like her legs might give way. But she managed to keep going.

She didn’t know where she was headed. All she knew was that she had to get as far away as possible from the words she had read, and the man who had written them.

As she walked, she tried to make sense of what she had seen in the notebook. It felt horrendous—and too much to take in. Looking at those pages was like peering into the fractured mind of a madman; a glimpse into hell.

At first, she’d had the disconcerting impression she had been reading her own diary: there was so much of her in it—it was full of her words, her ideas, her sayings, her observations about the world, even her dreams. All faithfully recorded—and written down in the first person, as if she herself were writing it. It felt like an acting exercise, almost—as if she were being studied, as if she were a character in a play, not a real person.

Even worse, and more painful to read, was the long catalog of meetings between Jason and Kate, which went on for several pages. Each entry was neatly dated, its location noted, with a summary of what had taken place.

There was a list titled Lana—with a column of possible clues to be planted in her house, to make her suspicious of Jason’s infidelity.

Another list, Jason, sketched out a variety of alternative methods by which he might be disposed of. But that list had been crossed out. Evidently none of the proposed methods had proved satisfactory.