Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
A hissing sound made her jump. But it was just the radiator under the windows that faced the main road.
“What the hell are you doing, Eastwind,” she muttered as she went over to the dresser.
Of course all the drawers were empty. And the closet was free of even hangers, nothing but a solitary dowel stretching from one side to the other.
Just as she was pivoting around to check the other bedrooms, something caught her eye. An envelope. On the bed stand closest to the door. As she went over to it, the strangest feeling of déjà vu went through her.
The fact that her name was on the front was almost not a surprise, and her hand shook as she reached out. It was heavy and thicker than it appeared, and as she opened the flap with her forefinger, her heart started to beat hard.
Things beat harder as she eased out the letter that had been folded around—
“What the hell?”
The stack of twenties that feathered down to her feet made no sense, and she gathered them up and put them on the little table so that she could read the handwriting. There wasn’t much, but she could hear the words spoken in Eastwind’s deep voice:
I’ve stayed too long. But I was waiting for the next steward. Take care—and if the radiator in the living room stops working, just kick it a couple of times. It’ll come back on. Tom
Lydia reread the four sentences over again. And then tried them out for a third time, only stopping when she heard footsteps ascending the uncarpeted stairs.
“—have kids? No? Well, Walters is a great place to live. Everybody knows everybody. Hey, do you do spinning? No? Well, it’s great exercise—”
The realtor stopped short in the bedroom’s doorway and smiled. “Oh, hi! I was wondering where you’d gone. Great place, isn’t it?”
“How much is the rent,” Lydia asked hoarsely.
“Eight hundred and forty. That’s what the owner said he wanted.”
“Um… who owns it? This house, I mean.”
“I’m afraid he didn’t want to say. I mean, we all know him, he was the—sorry. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”
Lydia cleared her throat. “Did he explain—did he say why? I mean, is he going somewhere? Or did he just not like the… house. Or something.”
Man, she was a sucky liar.
The young woman looked back and forth between her and Daniel. Then leaned in like she was afraid the room was bugged. “He said he was relocating? Frankly, we all find it a little sus. He’s only ever been here. Why would he leave?”
“Where to,” Daniel said casually.
“He didn’t say. But I think there’s a story.” Abruptly, the young woman put up her hands in surrender and shook her head. “None of my business, though, and my dad’d kill me if I go blabbing my mouth. Here, let me show you the rest of the upstairs.”
* * *
This was going to go fine.
As Cathy stepped into her mansion’s main elevator, her heart was tap-dancing in her rib cage and she had a fine sheen of perspiration above her upper lip. There was a momentary pause while she was cleared for descent—because in days and nights like these, everybody got cleared, everybody—and then, when things got going, she entertained a brief fantasy about Gus St. Claire. She imagined that, having been reunited with his coworkers at the lab, he would be so struck with a longing to return to the place where he was needed most, wanted most… that he would rip up that employment contract with Rhobes and tell her he was staying for the rest of his life.
Okay, fine. The rest of hers.
When the bump announced her level had been reached, there was another pause, like the elevator was gathering the strength to open its doors. In that period of stasis, she closed her eyes and pictured the way Gus had always strode through the aisles of the workstations, everyone else in a white coat, him in a concert t-shirt featuring the Grateful Dead, or Pink Floyd, or maybe Peter, Paul and Mary, his Afro framing his face and shoulders, his body moving so confidently.
Bing!
At the sound, the doors parted, and as she caught a whiff of mechanicals, floor polish, and disinfectant, her gut rolled.
Stepping out, she tugged at her black suit jacket, and as her weight settled on her high heels, her balance wobbled a little. Her Achilles tendons had ached for the past few days while she had been in flat shoes, but now that her feet were artificially arched again, they were quiet, the position they’d grown used to reestablished. Cathy couldn’t say she felt the same as she walked down the screening hall with the double mirrors. Her clothes were not constricting in the slightest, as she hadn’t been eating well, but the makeup felt like she’d spray-painted her face, the outer corners of her eyes tickling because of the liner and the mascara. Oh, and her hair was frozen in place, the swoop like a sculptural effect instead of anything that grew out of her head.