I will bring it back. It’s insurance more than anything else; something to show and run.
As I said before, I always thought the story of my life would be a coming-of-age story and I suppose, in a way, it is, even if I got the genre wrong. But the thing that never occurred to me, until now, is that I might not even be the main character.
I carefully store the Sig into the snug inside pocket of my bag, close Nick’s drawer, straighten the sheets, and head back out to the terrace.
32
The Truth
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 16
I arrive at the 101 Coffee Shop past midnight, half hoping she’s already gone, and park in the darkest spot farthest from the warm glow of the entrance.
I shrug on a sweater then pluck the Sig from its pouch. I release the mag, checking once more that it is safe, and then reflexively check the chamber too. My breath catches; I forgot to check it at Nick’s house. A single gleaming bullet stares back at me from the ejection port. Nick must have left one in the chamber. I pop it out. I don’t know how I missed this, nerves maybe, but it changes everything.
I pause for a second staring down at the shiny bullet in my lap. I could load it. But if it’s purely a deterrent, then why do that? I’d just be asking for something to go wrong. But then what if the deterrent doesn’t deter? If push comes to shove, couldn’t a warning shot be more useful?
I think of Chekhov’s gun. The theatrical trope that tells actors and playwrights: Never place a loaded gun on the stage if it isn’t going to go off. Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.
I peer down at my now loaded gun. Apparently, Hemingway hated Chekhov’s “loaded gun” advice. If every loaded gun in every story ever written had to go off then there would be no new stories.
A bell tinkles as I enter the 101 but nobody looks up, the diner music muffling my entrance. I scan the customers. Mainly men, various shapes and sizes, sit up at the counter.
The whites of a chef in the back, only his chest visible through the kitchen serving hatch. Two waitresses, one wiping the countertops, another refilling coffee. A middle-aged woman at a window booth tucking into a basket of sweet potato fries while quietly working on a crossword, reading glasses low.
Farther into the restaurant, I see the back of her head. Her long glossy chestnut hair twisted up into a bun, the back of her ivory neck visible through fallen strands. Marla. My stomach flips. The woman I’ve been looking for since she disappeared six days ago. The woman I thought was Emily Bryant. Emily’s best friend.
I make my way over and slide wordlessly into the booth opposite her. Then I catch sight of her face and recoil before I can stop myself. She’s definitely the girl I met at the audition six days ago, but the right side of her face from eyebrow to cheekbone is a smudge of deep-purple bruising. The delicate skin around her eye socket is swollen and puffy. She’s tried to cover the worst of it with concealer but the livid colors beneath are impossible to hide. A deep cut punctuates her right eyebrow, the wound beginning to scab over.
She darts a reassuring hand across the table as I pull back, her cold fingers circling my wrist gently but firmly. “Relax,” she coos. “It’s fine. It looks worse than it feels.” She smiles but the motion makes her wince.
I let my shoulders relax and place my bag down carefully beside me as I take in the damage to her face. She studies me with interest now too, the woman who has been doggedly tracking her for almost a week.
“Who did it?” I ask.
She knows I mean her face. “Who do you think?”
I think Ben Cohan. Probably not Ben himself, someone Ben knows.
“He sent someone, didn’t he?” I ask, and she nods almost imperceptibly. “Was it Ben or Mike who arranged for that to happen to you?”