Polly was in my periphery then. Now I bring her into full focus.
She was flustered when we all clustered around the note, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Agitated … or perhaps a little thrilled?
It’s common for perpetrators to visit the scene of the crime, to crave involvement as their misdeeds play out.
Marissa, Matthew, and I assume we know who wrote the message, which could be interpreted as longing, determined—or slightly sinister.
But maybe we all got it wrong.
What if Polly wrote the message?
I run through possible scenarios in my mind. Polly is secretly in love with Matthew, and trying to cause trouble in the Bishops’ marriage. Or, she could be obsessed with Marissa.
I set aside my questions about Polly and spend a couple of hours attending to other work, glancing up when a man takes a seat at the table directly next to mine, even though a number of empty tables are scattered around the coffee shop. I straighten my back and brace myself in case he’s from Acelia, but he simply pulls out his phone and begins playing an online game of Scrabble.
My week is busy: Sandra, my client who recently learned her older sister got pregnant with her at the age of fifteen and their parents pretended Sandra was their baby, is coming to see me tomorrow morning for her second session, Disruption. She’s a smart, articulate legislative assistant for a Democratic congresswoman. She is a challenging client, the kind I like best. I’m also meeting with a few prospective new clients, and I need to write the speech I’m giving at Georgetown University next week.
But nothing is pulling at my attention as much as meek, awkward Polly and the complicated lives of Matthew and Marissa Bishop. I’m acutely aware of time ticking by as I order another espresso, decaf this time, and a packaged cheese-and-fruit tray to nibble on. At 5:45 sharp, I pack up my laptop. Coco closes at 6:00 P.M., and I want to make sure I’m nearby when Polly leaves.
* * *
A little later, I’m several cars behind Polly’s white VW Rabbit, heading toward Dupont Circle. The gentle rain that began earlier this afternoon has picked up in intensity; my wheels splash through a pothole, spraying up an arc of water.
I know from Polly’s résumé that she lives near American University in D.C., close to the Maryland line. We’re heading in the opposite direction, deeper into the city.
Could she have also fabricated her address? I wonder.
My tank is full of gas, I fed and walked Romeo before I left the house, and I’m riding a caffeine wave. I can track Polly as long as I want. I’ve followed plenty of people since I embarked upon the new phase of my career, and I’m certain she’ll be simpler than most.
Polly swings around the circle and continues down Massachusetts Avenue. We’re moving against the flow of rush-hour traffic, so we make good time. When Polly turns the corner of Fourteenth and H Streets, I momentarily lose sight of her. Then I see the tail end of her car disappearing into an underground parking garage.
This area is filled with office buildings, restaurants, and a few bars. Ford’s Theatre is within walking distance, and so is Chinatown. She could be going anywhere.
I follow Polly into the garage—it’s fairly empty, since most commuters have headed home by now—and find a parking spot close, but not too close, to the one she selects. I wait until she gets into the elevator, then I leap out of my car and sprint up the stairs to street level.
The sidewalks aren’t crowded, and even under an umbrella, Polly, who’s wearing a turquoise jacket, is easy to spot.
She walks about a block, then takes her phone out of her bag and stares down at it. I can’t tell if she’s checking her messages or writing one. She tucks it away, then takes a few more steps and enters a small bistro with a red awning emblazoned with the name Giovanni’s. I walk to the cover of the awning and hesitate, trying to decide whether I should go in, too.
There’s no good reason for her to drive all the way downtown, passing dozens of restaurants, simply to have a meal. She must be meeting someone here.
When I asked Polly if someone she knew could have written her that note, she claimed she hasn’t dated anyone recently, so it isn’t a boyfriend. Maybe a friend then, or a Tinder date. I glance around; every square inch of real estate is claimed, with tall office buildings pressed together like commuters on a crowded subway. The one directly across from me is more elegant looking than its neighbors, with large glass windows dominating its facade. My attention is caught by a middle-aged, dark-haired woman who exits the building and stumbles when one of her heels snags in a sidewalk crack.