ELIZA
I PUSH THE door open to the bar. Andrew is on his regular stool, thank God. He jack-in-the-boxes up as he sees me. His eyes gleam hungrily, traveling up my legs, around my waist. My heart hammers in my chest, and though this goes against every instinct I have, I slither toward him and smile.
“I have a proposition for you,” I say, sliding into the stool next to him.
“Don’t you always,” he answers with a smarmy smile.
I tell him I know who he is. I explain what happened to me, what I want. Andrew seems surprised. “You’re the girl who fell in the pool?” he says. “My dad said you were pretty fucked up.”
I choose to ignore this. “I’m looking to talk to the bartender who was at the Shipstead that night. It’s important. I want to know who I was talking to at the bar.”
Andrew stares at the popcorn machine in the corner. He sits back on the stool and takes a long sip of his drink. The Rolling Stones rock through us, the bass jacked so high my teeth ache. He drums on the side of his leg, then taps the air as though he’s hitting an imaginary high-hat. He looks at me for approval, and I obligatorily laugh. I hate that I have to laugh. I hate that I need him, and I hate that I have stooped to asking this of him.
Finally, after letting me twist in the wind long enough, he says, “I can probably get that sort of information. If you’re willing to . . .” He juts his chin toward the bathroom.
“Make the call first,” I demand. “Then we’ll discuss.”
Andrew leans back a little, suddenly wary. But I don’t care if he’s afraid of me. Maybe it’s a good thing.
Sighing, Andrew pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and dials a number. “Chris?” he says after a pause. “Hey! Andy.” (Andy? I’m struck, too, by how smooth his voice sounds. Assured and assertive.) “Yeah, man. I’m good. Listen, can you give me the Shipstead schedule for . . .” He looks at me. “Four weeks ago?”
I nod.
“Four. Well, four and a few days. It was on a Saturday. Shipstead. Yep—I’m looking to see who was on Saturday night.”
“It was Richie,” I say out loud. I knew that.
Andrew pauses, listening. He hangs up and looks at me. “Richie. Look at you.”
“Yes, but I want to talk to him.”
Andrew groans, but he dials another number. I listen to him talking to someone else this time and explaining who he’s trying to reach. After a minute, Andrew asks me my phone number, the first time he ever has. He repeats it into his phone, then hangs up. “Richie will call you in an hour.”
“An hour?”
“That’s the best I can do. His boss tried to reach him, but he didn’t pick up. But he’s working tonight, so he’ll be at the bar in an hour. Then he’ll call you.”
“Can I at least get Richie’s number in case he forgets to call me?”
Andrew’s smile is the same smarmy one I saw on the Tranquility website. “Sorry. I didn’t happen to get it.”
“Can you call back?”
“Liza, he said he’d call. Don’t be such a freak.”
Then he reaches for my waist, wanting what I’ve offered in exchange. I recoil, curling my fingers into a fist.
“No fucking way.”
I slide off the stool fast. I hope it’s the last time I ever see Andrew.
The bar is more crowded than when I came in; people stare at the baseball game on TV. Brian the bartender hands out shots; his gaze meets mine as I snake toward the door. He yells my name, saying something I can’t make out.
“What?” I ask, inching closer to him.
“Someone’s here for you,” he says, jutting a finger toward the front.
My head swivels to the window. The Batmobile is outside. My heart jumps into my throat. Then I see Desmond sitting at a bistro table next to the Lotto machine. I stop and try to think of something to say, but my mind has gone terrifyingly blank.
“Hi” is all I can muster.
“Eliza.” He laces his fingers together. “I thought you weren’t going to chase this today.”
I run my hands over my hair. “I know. I’m sorry. I just knew I could check quickly, so . . .” I shrug. Offer an apologetic smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Brian the bartender glowering at me, probably ready to call me a cunt under his breath.
“Well, did you find anything out?” Desmond asks.
“Nope. So let’s get out of here, okay? You were right. I should be thinking about the show. And the limo’s going to show up soon.”
Desmond frowns at someone behind me. When I turn, Andrew is there. He’s not standing particularly close, but his skin smells like my perfume. There’s also a huge hickey on his neck—not from me, but it could look like it was from me, it’s so red and fresh.
I notice Desmond’s gaze on the hickey, too. My cheeks blaze. Go away, I will Andrew silently. Instead, he leans even closer, cupping his hands to my ear so I can hear him over the noise. “Found this on the floor, Liza.”
He presses something into my palm. I open it up and stare. It’s a gold earring. I touch my ears. One earring hangs jauntily, but the other earlobe is bare. To my horror, Andrew touches my cheek and adds, “Richie will call you in an hour.”
And then he disappears into the crowd. Nauseated, trembling, I turn back to Desmond. I try and smile innocently, but all at once I can tell what Desmond’s worked out. His face has gone pale. He blinks his eyes rapidly. He hops off the stool and backs away from me, all the way out the door to the Batmobile at the curb.
“Desmond.” I follow him and touch his sleeve. He wrenches it away. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Desmond spits, his gaze momentarily meeting mine. His eyes are black. I’ve never seen them so narrowed. Shaking his head, he walks to the opened driver’s side, falls into the seat, and pulls the door down. I try the passenger side, but he’s locked it.
“Desmond!” I cry, pulling at the handle. “Come on! Open up! It’s not what it looks like.”
Desmond stares at me through the glass. I press my hand to the window. The glass is so cold, like it’s been sitting in a refrigerator. Which doesn’t make sense, given the late-day heat. I can think about only this, because everything else is too difficult and too terrible to ponder.
Desmond starts the engine. Then he rolls down the window. “Desmond,” I say desperately, feeling a whoosh of air-conditioning sweep my cheeks. “Desmond, please. I’m sorry. There’s something wrong with me. Something huge. My MRI scans were negative. I might not have even been in the hospital. So I need to talk to you. We need to figure this out. You said you’d help me, remember?”
A few beats go by. Desmond’s eyes are still so dark. Finally, he ducks his head. “No, Eliza. I can’t help you. From now on, you’re on your own.”