Page 20 of Taking Turns

“Where would you hide a clue?” I ask the empty apartment. I check all the drawers. Nothing. I check the coat closet. Nothing. I walk into the bedroom and repeat the process. The bedside tables. Under the bed. Our closet. And then her closet.

Her closet is huge, almost twice the size of ours, and ours is big enough to hold suits, and ties, and shoes, and everything else three men need two days a week.

She took nothing, from what I can tell. I check every purse. I take them out of those soft bags she keeps them in and check each one. And each one is empty. I check every pocket. Every shirt, every jacket, every coat. Nothing.

I check all her books, taking each one off the shelf, flipping through the pages, hoping for a note. Or a clue. Nothing.

I check the jewelry cabinet last. I think a little part of me was hoping she’d take all those gifts with her. Even if it was just to sell.

But she didn’t. The ring I gave her last year at Christmas is in there, even though she wore it—never took it off—since the moment I put it on. All the earrings, all the necklaces, all the bracelets… still here. There has to be a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry in this cabinet.

And she took nothing.

What kind of a mindset was she in? When she made the decision to leave it all behind?

Does she hate me so much that even a small piece of precious metal is too much to keep close?

I let out a long, sad sigh as I walk over to the bedroom window. Stare out at the snow. The capitol building. The busy streets downtown. The cars, and cabs, and pedestrians. Everyone going about their day like usual.

My phone buzzes in my front pocket. I reach for it out of habit, check the caller ID—work—and tab accept. “Hello,” I say.

“Mr. Foster.” It’s Jayne, my assistant at the office.

“Yes,” I say, still looking out at the snow. The deadness of everything, even though it’s so alive.

“You have four meetings this afternoon and it’s almost lunchtime. I just wanted to see if you’d like me to cancel them?”

“No,” I say. “I’ll be in soon.” I end the call and put my phone back in my pocket.

Turn around and take it all in. Say goodbye to it.

No more fun in that bed. The last fuck I had under that amazing canopy draped with velvet curtains was with a stranger.

“Thanks for that, you bitch,” I say.

For a second I’m not sure if I’m talking to the interloper, or to Rochelle.

But when I walk out of the apartment, take the elevator downstairs, exit Turning Point Club, and get into my waiting car—I know who I’m talking to.

I know exactly who I’m talking to. Because I walked out of that apartment with nothing.

I left it all behind.

And now it’s time to leave her behind too.

I’m talking to you, Rochelle.

I’m talking to you.

Chapter Six - Chella

Matisse is late. Two. Hours. Late. Oh, all his packages arrive at ten AM, right on time. The whole truck full of art valued at more than fifty million dollars is in the back docking bay. Idle.

Because we are not allowed to unload until he gets here.

I try to remain calm, but I’m picturing just how late we’ll have to stay to get it all out and into the basement where we pre-stage it before transporting it upstairs on the freight elevator.

Usually we do this in one day. But I can’t see it happening.