Read Online Fatal Flaw by William Lashner - Free Book Online Page A

heart and my career on the altar of Veronica Ashland, a sad drug-addled woman whose betrayal was as inevitable as the thunderstorm at the end of a brutally sweltering day. Or why I find myself obsessively attracted to the sadness in Hailey Prouix. Is it that I see in her sadness a chance to ease my soul, to do for her what I could never do for my parents as they tore their lives apart? Or is it just that she is with my dear friend Guy and so hot my blood is boiling at the wanting?
     
    IT IS usually me who calls, who tells the receptionist it is Victor Carl to talk about the Sylvester matter. That is our code case, theSylvester matter, in honor of her silver-screen hero. It is usually me who calls, so I am surprised when I return from a court appearance to see a message in my box pertaining to the Sylvester matter. When I phone, she speaks to me in a whisper.
    “Are you free for lunch?”
    “Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
    “When can you shake loose?”
    “Now. Where do you want to meet? What are you hungry for?”
    “Oh, pick a place, Victor. Any place, any place at all.”
    She is waiting for me at the sandwich joint. There are little tables crowded into a long, narrow room, and the tables are filled with men and women talking loudly and stuffing corned beef specials into their mouths, strands of coleslaw hanging from their teeth. She is leaning back in her chair, arms crossed.
    “What looks good?” I say as I sit.
    “Everything,” she says.
    “The corned beef seems to be it.”
    “Nothing for me, thank you.”
    “Are you okay? What happened?”
    “The most wonderful thing,” but her voice is anything but gladdened. “What are we going to do, Victor, you and I?”
    “Have lunch?”
    “Is that all? Because lately that seems like all.”
    “I’ve been following your lead.”
    “Well, I’m a lousy dancer.”
    “Did something happen between you and Guy?”
    “Yes. Something happened.”
    Just then the waitress comes to our table, her pad out. “Are you ready?”
    “Victor, are you ready?” asks Hailey.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Can you give us a minute,” says Hailey. The waitress rolls her eyes before rushing off to grab an order in the kitchen.
    “I’m not hungry,” she says. “Are you hungry?”
    “Not anymore.”
    “Then let’s go for a walk.”
    “Where to?”
    “Anywhere you want.”
    Outside, it is damp and chill and the temperature brings a rouge to her cheeks. She wears a gray overcoat atop her lawyer’s garb, her hands tucked into the pockets.
    “Do you want a drink? You look like you could use a drink. I have some beers in my apartment.”
    “Yes,” she says. “Let’s do that.”
    “Is it about work?” I ask. “Is it about Guy?”
    “Yes.”
    “Which?”
    “Aren’t you sick of talking? Aren’t you sick to death of talking? The more I talk, the less I know. The words are so fuzzy they turn everything into a lie, and then the lie becomes the new truth and I don’t know anything for certain anymore.”
    I begin to say something, some comforting inanity, but the hungry look of tragedy in her eyes stops me midword, and so we walk in quiet through the noontime crowds toward my apartment.
    It is a mess, like it is always a mess. I leave her standing in the living room as I gather up the clothes on the coach, the towel on the door, gather them up and dump them all into the hamper in my bathroom. She stands motionless as I work, still in her coat, hands still in her pockets. When it is almost presentable, I stop and look at her standing still in her coat, and the sadness that is always there is pouring out of her. I can see it, a dark blue pouring out of her. She looks at me, and her eyes beneath her glasses are moist, and the blue is pouring out of her, and I am helpless to stop myself from going to her and wrapping my arms about her and squeezing, as if I could squeeze out the sadness.
    She feels thin beneath my arms, bones and nothing more. She smells of jasmine and