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“Anyway,” French Braid says. “Those e-mails,whew!Who do we thinksheis?”
“No clue,” Pink Glasses says.
“My money’s on her being the killer,” opines French Braid. “Not Kit.”
Tall One looks surprised. “You think?”
“Yep. Lolita gets obsessed in the e-mails. She was obviously unhinged. I bet she found him at home the night of the benefit. She wanted to get back together, but he didn’t. They argued, and she stabbed him. I saw anSVUabout this very same thing last week.”
A man stands and blocks my view of them, though maybe that’s a good thing, as I’m bubbling with outrage. So now we’re usingLaw and Orderepisodes in lieu of real evidence?
“But what about how Kit and Greg got together?” I think it’s French Braid talking. “I was more wondering ifthatplays into this, somehow.”
“What do you mean?” That’s Tall One’s voice.
“You don’t know?” I can barely hear her over the bar chatter. “That first husband of Kit’s? Strasser was his surgeon, and the guy died on his operating table. Some say those twoplanned it—they’d been dating long before he died. They wanted the first husband out of the way.”
I duck my head and try to blend into the surroundings. I feeljarred by what I’ve just heard. I knew Greg worked in the cardiology department when Kit’s first husband, Martin, underwent the heart surgery that he didn’t survive. But I wasn’t aware Greg was Martin’ssurgeon. Was I supposed to justknow? Why didn’t Kit tell me?
I want to know more, yet when I turn back to the women, they’re packing up their things. Should I follow them? Ask more questions?
“Excuse me?”
Behind me, a tall man about my age holds a tumbler of brown liquid. He has a mess of chestnut curls, piercing blue eyes, a prominent Adam’s apple. He’s also blinking at me with a big, expectant smile on his face.
“It’s Paul,” he says. “Paul Woodson? From high school?”
For a beat, I can’t remember Paul Woodson—I’ve locked high school memories away so tightly, it’s a wonder I even remember my school’s mascot. But then I recall a cramped room where we held the lit magazine meetings. And Paul Woodson’s beat-up Vans sneakers tapping as he flipped through poem submissions. And Paul wrinkling his cute nose at most of the abysmal entries. He used to quote Velvet Underground lyrics, which had inspired me to buy the band’s whole catalog at Tower Records and listen to it on repeat.
“Oh,” I blurt. “Jesus.Paul.Oh my God.” I sound like a nervous eighth grader. “I just mean... shit, my brain is scrambled today. It’s good to see you!”
He smiles sadly. His two front teeth still overlap, something I’d found unbearably hot at sixteen. “It’s weird. I was just thinking about you the other day.”
Paul Woodson was thinking aboutme? This seems highly improbable. Then I remember: Of course he was thinking about me. My sister’s husband wasmurdered.
“When’s the last time we saw each other?” Paul asks.
“Um, I think it was that dinner,” I say, because I know for certain. “For lit mag.”
“Yes, that dinner!” Paul cries. “At the Indian place!”
I nod as though I hadn’t obsessed over that dinner for weeks,months,after it happened. “It’s been a long time.”
“And what are you up to now?”
“I live in California.” I want to sip from my drink, but I’m disappointed to find it empty. “I have for years. I’m an investigative journalist.”
“Oh yeah? Freelance, or for a paper, or...?”
“This online news site called ‘The Source.’ You probably haven’t—”
“Youwork at ‘The Source’?” Paul looks thrilled. “It’s the first e-mail update I click every day! I’m a journalist, too, actually. Well, a rock reporter—I cover the local band scene. But I’dloveto get into more investigative stuff. You’re my idol.”
Is this happening? Paul was the king of the alternative kids, all army surplus gear and half-shaved head and Henry Rollins intellectual sarcasm. I spent lit-mag meetings slumped in the back, feeling sporty and preppy and nothing like the spidery, edgy girls who flocked around Paul like groupies. I haven’t thought of Paul in years, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, I can’tbelieveI haven’t thought of him in years.
Paul’s expression shifts. “Shit. Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about your job. I am so,sosorry about your brother-in-law. It’s shocking.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
