Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 68870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
My feet ache from the nearly mile-long trek across the gleaming hard floors, and then I finally come to the special door. It’s the one that doesn’t look special at all. It’s hidden behind the staircase that leads to the second-floor gallery. I’ve never been up there, but I suspect it’s filled with plates of The Leader’s favorite foods, encased under glass and attended by constant surveillance.
No, the door I want is marked Sprinkler System Access and is always locked. I go inside the dark space and work my way past the wall of actual emergency sprinkler controls and keep going. Then on the far wall I see it. The painting of the Tahitian women.
I know from my reading that this work of art was once highly treasured and had traveled the globe. People stood in lines and paid money to see it. Now it’s here collecting dust in the bowels of this stone museum.
The Tahitian women are topless with curved shoulders soaking in the tropical sun. Their dark waves of hair cascade past their shoulders, and their bodies are curvaceous and strong. The clothes they wear are in bright reds and yellows, blending in with nothing in their surroundings. Their faces are pleased with themselves, but they aren’t exactly smiling. It’s clear they have their own things going on and don’t seem to greatly care about the artist’s obsession with them. The faces are not intricate, but the impression they make on me is that these women are masters of the Resting Bitch Face. I love it. They are free to live and breathe and move and be in the sun without any men in sight to disapprove of their nakedness. These women in the paintings do not give a fuck, and how I wish I could feel exactly as they do.
Suddenly, my breasts start to ring.
My handbag was stolen, and in this moment, I forgot that I’d stowed my phone inside my bra. I take it out and say hello, trying to keep my voice low.
“Naomi Parsons? My name is Ryan Sharp, I’m a reporter calling from The Dispatch. I’m working on a story about the death of Brad Chalmers, and I’ve come across some information that has led me to you. I understand you were the last person to see him on the day he disappeared.”
I’m confused by the statement. He disappeared? Brad Chalmers was murdered. “You mean the day he died?”
“Pardon me, yes. The day he died.” The reporter on the other end isn’t completely lacking in sympathy in his voice. But there’s still something I’m not getting.
Some women have simple bad luck in the dating world. My last date was with Brad and he’d been murdered while chasing some random woman who snatched my purse. If that’s not bad luck, I don’t know what is.
“I’m sorry, but I already told the police everything I know. I didn’t see what happened after my bag was snatched.” I’m caught off guard as I answer, and then a thought hits me. “Wait, are we on record?”
I want nothing to do with being put in the paper. I like staying as hidden as possible. I’m okay with being totally forgettable, too. Most people overlook me anyway, but with the way these creepy elites are, I’d rather be under their radar.
“Of course,” he says, his voice sure and strong.
I remember the name Ryan Sharp from his articles in the paper. I’ve even read a few of them. The newspaper comes to my office every day. I have to make note cards of each article then take microfiche photographs of all of it. I bind each issue and file them in the massive rooms of the library basement. It’s all part of my job, but I like to stop and read what I’m working on when I can, and I recall his writing.
I actually like his articles because they’re personality pieces or human interest. They’re not exactly investigative journalism, so his call is even stranger.
“Okay,” I hedge. “What do you want to know?” I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to, but now my interest is piqued.
“I was wondering if you had any more insight about Brad that day. Had he been acting strange at all?” Ryan’s deep voice makes me want to lean closer to the phone. It’s somehow sexy even though he isn’t trying to be. And he gives me the impression he’s tall, with a rough day-old shave.
I pull my head out of the fantasy clouds and clear my throat. Get it together, Naomi.
“Strange compared to what? I had only just met him that day and it was our first date.”
I’d felt bad about his death, because he’d been trying to help me. Some woman came by and snatched my purse, and he took off to go get it. It didn’t end well, and he was shot and killed. It’s awful, but I didn't know him at all. I’d been forced to go on the date to begin with and wanted it over as fast as it could be. Maybe I should’ve been careful about what I wished for.