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I quickly flip through them. “Where’s the rest? This is only the first third.”
“Has to be here,” she mutters as I join her in going through each piece of paper one by one. “Oh my God.” She sits back in her chair. “Carrie, I’m sorry. This guy got in my face yesterday. Grabbed a bunch of flyers and ran. The rest of your play must have been mixed up with them—”
I stop breathing. I have one of those terrible premonitions that my life is about to fall apart.
“You must have another copy,” Samantha says soothingly.
“My professor has one.”
“Well, then,” Miranda chirps, as if everything’s all right.
I grab my bag. “I’ve got to go,” I squeak, just before my mouth goes completely dry.
Damn. Crap! And every other expletive I can think of.
If I don’t have my play, I don’t have anything. No reading, no life.
But surely Viktor has a copy. I specifically remember the day I gave it to him. And what kind of teacher throws out their students’ work?
I run through the Village, barging through traffic and nearly knocking over several passersby on my route to The New School. I arrive heaving, take the stairs two at a time, and throw myself on Viktor’s door.
It’s locked.
I wheel around in a frenzy, trip down the stairs, and run all the way back to Samantha’s place.
She’s lying in bed with a pile of magazines. “Carrie? Can you believe what Miranda said to me? About Charlie? I thought it was very uncalled for—”
“Yeah,” I say as I search the kitchen for the white pages.
“Did you find your play?”
“No!” I scream, flipping through the phone book.
I pat my heart, trying to get a grip. There it is: Viktor Greene. With an address in the Mews.
“Carrie?” Samantha asks, on my way back out. “Could you pick me up something to eat? Maybe Chinese? Or pizza. With pepperoni. And not too much cheese. Be sure to tell them no extra cheese—”
Argh!!!!!!
I haul myself back to the Mews, every muscle in my body screaming with pain from the exertion. I walk up and down the cobblestoned street twice before I find Viktor’s place, tucked behind a portcullis and hidden by ivy. I bang on the door several times, and when I can’t rouse him, plop down on the stoop.
Where the hell is he? Viktor’s always around. He has no life, apart from the school and his occasional affair with one of his students. The bastard. I get up and kick the door, and when there’s still no answer, I peek in the window.
The tiny carriage house is dark. I sniff the air, convinced I can catch a whiff of decay.
It’s not surprising. Viktor is a pig.
Then I notice three days’ worth of newspapers strewn next to the door. What if he’s gone away? But where would he go? I snuffle around the window again, wondering if the smell is an indication that he’s dead. Maybe he had a heart attack and, since he doesn’t have any friends, no one’s thought to look for him.
I bang on the window, which is totally useless. I look around for something to break it with, loosening a brick from the edge of the cobblestones. I raise it above my head, ready to attack.
“Looking for Viktor?” comes a voice from behind me.
I lower the brick and turn around.
The speaker is an elderly lady with a cat on a leash. She walks cautiously forward and bends down painstakingly to scoop up the papers. “Viktor’s gone,” she informs me. “I told him I’d save his newspapers. Lots of crooks around here.”
I surreptitiously drop the brick. “When is he coming back?”
