I finished the mug of vodka and poured myself another.
When I called Kimball back he didn’t want to discuss whatever “this” was over the phone, and I didn’t want to discuss it in Midland, so I gave him our address. Kimball said he could be at the house in thirty minutes, but Kimball showed up fifteen minutes after we hung up, a discrepancy which forced me to realize vaguely, uneasily, that this was probably more important than I’d first thought. I was hoping for a welcome distraction from fretting about Aimee. But what Kimball presented me with was not the respite I was hoping for. I was drunk when he arrived. I was sober by the time he left.
There was nothing much to notice about Donald Kimball—my age, vaguely handsome (I’d do him, I thought drunkenly, and then: Do . . . what?), dressed casually in jeans and a Nike sweatshirt, cropped blond hair, Wayfarer sunglasses he whipped off as soon as I opened the front door—and except for the nondescript sedan parked behind him at the curb he could have passed for any one of the handsome, affluent suburban dads who resided in the neighborhood. What singled him out was that he held a copy of American Psycho. It was frayed and yellowed and ominously dotted with Post-its. We shook hands and I ushered him into the house and after offering him a drink (which he declined) led him to my office while I kept glancing at the copy of the book. When I asked if he wanted it signed, Kimball paused grimly, thanked me and said that he did not.
I sat in my swivel chair and took little sips from the coffee mug. Kimball sat across from me on a sleek, modern Italian couch that should have been on the other side of the room but now had been moved beneath the movie poster for Less Than Zero. My office had been rearranged yet again. While Kimball began talking I drank the vodka and tried to understand why I was at a standstill about the room and the placement of the furniture within it.
“If you’d like to check in with the sheriff’s department, please feel free to do so,” Kimball was saying.
I started paying attention. “About . . . what?”
Kimball paused. “About my being here, Mr. Ellis.”
“Well, I’m assuming my publishing house made sure everything was in order, no?” I asked. “I mean, my editor didn’t seem to think anything was unusual.” I stopped. “I mean, if you are who you’re saying then I’m prone to believe you.” I stopped again. “I’m a very trusting person.” Another pause. “Unless, um, you’re a deranged fan and you’re after my wife.” Pause. “You aren’t . . . are you?”
Kimball smiled tightly. “No, no, nothing like that. We knew your wife lived in town but we weren’t sure if you were here or in New York, and your publishing house simply gave us your business number and so, well, here we are.” His expression became one of casual concern. “Do you get a lot of that—crazy fans and stalkers and all that?”