old woman had died. He hadn’t wanted to learn the details, but he’d already bought the paper to accompany his croissant and coffee, and his alternatives were to stare at his fellow diners in the small café or stare at his large hands. He’d read the paper.
She’d been in the park yesterday afternoon. He might even have seen her when he’d been talking to … He might even have seen her, he amended to himself as he gained the fourth-floor landing, panting slightly. He might have seen her killer.
The next flight of stairs almost proved his undoing. He’d drunk more wine than he’d realized, the unaccustomed quality of the stuff blinding him to the quantity. He slipped, banging his shins against the iron railing, and sprawled full-length on the stairs.
He considered staying where he was. No one else lived on the top floor—unless he had unexpected visitors he wouldn’t be in anybody’s way. And if someone did have the temerity to visit him unannounced they could damn well help him up to his apartment.
Except that the stairs were a lot less comfortable than his bed with the sagging mattress. And even lying stretched out on the stairs he couldn’t avoid what was bothering him. Not the thought of another old lady being brutally murdered, depressing though that was. It was the memory of Claire.
He’d been cursing himself all night long that he hadn’t found out more about her. He knew all sorts of things—where she grew up, what she ate for breakfast, what writers she read, and what she used to do for a living. He knew she couldn’t understand a word of French and was miserable and embarrassed about her inability to do so. He knew she had a soft, vulnerable mouth, humorous eyes, and the most glorious red gold hair.
But he didn’t know her last name, or where she lived. Or whom she lived with, he added bitterly, pulling himself to his knees.
He’d stayed up late last night. The novel needed something new, a sympathetic female character. He’d worked feverishly, and if the woman with the red gold hair had sounded vaguely familiar, it only added to his inspiration.
He’d called her Elizabeth, a name that suited her. The Elizabeth in his novel had been perfect; warm, glowing, sexually insatiable, and exquisitely beautiful. She’d haunted the book, haunted his dreams, so that he raced over to thepark as soon as he’d finished his coffee and the gruesome details of the latest murder, and stayed there, shivering in the cruel wind, waiting for her to show up.
He never doubted that she would. That pull he’d felt had been too strong to be one-way. She’d come back, looking for him, and he’d be there, waiting.
When he first spotted her, standing alone, too lightly dressed for such a cold day, his first reaction was disappointment. She wasn’t the vision he’d remembered. Her face was narrow, pinched with cold, her mouth thin and unhappy, her slender body graceless as she wrapped her arms around herself. The hair was still glorious, but the fantasy had faded.
He hadn’t moved for a long moment, watching her, trying to reconcile reality with the dream goddess of the night before, when he saw the man. Very handsome, very French, very much her lover, he came up to the woman and put his hands on her.
Tom had waited to see her face light up. It hadn’t happened. She’d smiled at the man, but it wasn’t the same, open smile she’d given Tom just the day before. She kissed the man, her arms around him, seemingly lost in the public embrace. But Tom didn’t believe it.
She saw him just before they left. She looked directly at him, her face blank. In less than twenty-four hours she’d forgotten him. And Tom headed out to get drunk.
He staggered the rest of the way to the top floor, slammed it shut behind him, and headed for the typewriter. Much as it went against the grain to revise before he was finished, this time it was too important. The saintly Elizabeth had to go.
Malgreave was walking, shoulders
She’d been in the park yesterday afternoon. He might even have seen her when he’d been talking to … He might even have seen her, he amended to himself as he gained the fourth-floor landing, panting slightly. He might have seen her killer.
The next flight of stairs almost proved his undoing. He’d drunk more wine than he’d realized, the unaccustomed quality of the stuff blinding him to the quantity. He slipped, banging his shins against the iron railing, and sprawled full-length on the stairs.
He considered staying where he was. No one else lived on the top floor—unless he had unexpected visitors he wouldn’t be in anybody’s way. And if someone did have the temerity to visit him unannounced they could damn well help him up to his apartment.
Except that the stairs were a lot less comfortable than his bed with the sagging mattress. And even lying stretched out on the stairs he couldn’t avoid what was bothering him. Not the thought of another old lady being brutally murdered, depressing though that was. It was the memory of Claire.
He’d been cursing himself all night long that he hadn’t found out more about her. He knew all sorts of things—where she grew up, what she ate for breakfast, what writers she read, and what she used to do for a living. He knew she couldn’t understand a word of French and was miserable and embarrassed about her inability to do so. He knew she had a soft, vulnerable mouth, humorous eyes, and the most glorious red gold hair.
But he didn’t know her last name, or where she lived. Or whom she lived with, he added bitterly, pulling himself to his knees.
He’d stayed up late last night. The novel needed something new, a sympathetic female character. He’d worked feverishly, and if the woman with the red gold hair had sounded vaguely familiar, it only added to his inspiration.
He’d called her Elizabeth, a name that suited her. The Elizabeth in his novel had been perfect; warm, glowing, sexually insatiable, and exquisitely beautiful. She’d haunted the book, haunted his dreams, so that he raced over to thepark as soon as he’d finished his coffee and the gruesome details of the latest murder, and stayed there, shivering in the cruel wind, waiting for her to show up.
He never doubted that she would. That pull he’d felt had been too strong to be one-way. She’d come back, looking for him, and he’d be there, waiting.
When he first spotted her, standing alone, too lightly dressed for such a cold day, his first reaction was disappointment. She wasn’t the vision he’d remembered. Her face was narrow, pinched with cold, her mouth thin and unhappy, her slender body graceless as she wrapped her arms around herself. The hair was still glorious, but the fantasy had faded.
He hadn’t moved for a long moment, watching her, trying to reconcile reality with the dream goddess of the night before, when he saw the man. Very handsome, very French, very much her lover, he came up to the woman and put his hands on her.
Tom had waited to see her face light up. It hadn’t happened. She’d smiled at the man, but it wasn’t the same, open smile she’d given Tom just the day before. She kissed the man, her arms around him, seemingly lost in the public embrace. But Tom didn’t believe it.
She saw him just before they left. She looked directly at him, her face blank. In less than twenty-four hours she’d forgotten him. And Tom headed out to get drunk.
He staggered the rest of the way to the top floor, slammed it shut behind him, and headed for the typewriter. Much as it went against the grain to revise before he was finished, this time it was too important. The saintly Elizabeth had to go.
Malgreave was walking, shoulders
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