So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 15

It had been three months since I’d seen Chris in person, and in that time things had exploded for him—in the sweetest of ways. Morgue, the show he was costarring in, had premiered in late September and been a major hit in the ratings, turning him into the kind of guy who was designated as a hunk of the month in magazines like Cosmo. There had been several red-carpet shots of Chris in Buzz recently, and Leo had showed me a spread of him in Details, wearing a three-thousand-dollar Gucci leather jacket.

We’d met almost two years ago, when he was bartending at a wedding I’d attended, something he’d done back then to supplement his income as a model and struggling actor. We had a flirtation over a number of months, and then finally fell into bed together this past September when he was shooting his show in New York. Our attraction had been intensified then because we’d shared a passion—finding the person who had killed his friend Tom Fain. But when Beau arrived back from Turkey, I’d been forced to make a torturous choice. In the end I’d picked Beau over Chris—not only because of my fierce attraction to Beau but also because of the inherent drawbacks of a relationship with Chris. For starters, he was ten years younger than me. And he was the new “It” boy, the kind of guy women everywhere would be trying to poach—right out from under my nose. I didn’t feel up to dealing with that on a daily basis.

I wondered if Chris would return my call if I left a message for him now—he had been pretty miffed when I’d told him about Beau. I wondered, in fact, if he even had the same cell phone number. The way his career was going, he’d probably already had to change it two or three times to keep the riffraff at bay.

So I was kind of shocked when, after I punched in the number I had for him, his voice announced, “It’s Chris, leave a message.”

“Hi, this is Bailey,” I said. “You’re probably less than thrilled to hear from me, but there’s something you could help me with, and I’m hoping you’ll return my call. Thanks.”

I left my number, too, just in case he’d angrily purged it from his phone.

Another shocker: he called back just fifteen minutes later, while I was brewing a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“You’re probably the last person I was expecting to hear from today,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Thanks for calling back. I wasn’t sure if you would—you know, considering everything that happened.”

“Come on, Bailey. I can’t begin to repay you for what you did after Tom died. I wasn’t happy when I last saw you—but I still owe you.”

“I love your show, by the way. And you’re really terrific in it.”

“The hours are generally brutal, but needless to say, we’re stoked it’s a hit. So what exactly do you need my help on?”

He was being perfectly pleasant, but he was also making it clear he wasn’t interested in chitchatting with me.

“I’m working on the Devon Barr story—I’m sure you heard about her death. I desperately need information about the modeling business. I wouldn’t have bothered you but I’m in some serious hot water at work, and it could get worse.”

“If you don’t get the story, you mean?” he said. There was a trace of cynicism in his tone. Chris had never loved the fact that I worked for Buzz.

“I wish. But that’s not it at all. Devon Barr’s mother has accused me of trying to extort money from her. I’m trying to figure out why she’s saying that.”

There was a pause. Was he weighing my words? I wondered.

“I’m in the middle of something this afternoon, but I have to be uptown later for dinner with a producer,” he said. “It’s about a movie I could end up doing during our hiatus. I’ll have about thirty minutes before then; I could meet you somewhere. Are you at your office?”

“No, I’m at home. I’m persona non grata at Buzz for the moment. Can you meet me at the coffee shop in my building?” It didn’t seem smart to ask him to come to my apartment. He might take it the wrong way.

“Sure,” he said. He promised to be there at seven fifteen. That would give me time to reach Beau’s place by eight.

I felt even more keyed up when I disconnected. On top of everything else that was going on, the idea of seeing Chris again tightened the big fat knot in my tummy. He was funny and caring and absolutely gorgeous, and despite how crazy I was about Beau, I still felt a weird connection to Chris. When I watched his show, particularly the episode in which he’d kissed a murder victim’s grieving sister, it had been hard not to reminisce. I’d thought about his amazing body. And what it had been like to have that body next to me in bed.

Deep down, I wondered, did I have some ulterior motive for wanting to see him? I immediately chased that thought away. Chris was more familiar with the modeling business than anyone I knew.

At around five, as the sky was darkening, I phoned Nash, figuring it would be a good time to find him in his office. His assistant Lee, probably the oldest person at Buzz by about fifteen years, answered and asked me to hold. Though she was polite when I announced myself, I detected a trace of pity in her voice. There was no pity in Nash’s voice, however, when he finally came on.

“What’s up?” he asked, almost curtly. Not a good sign.

“I was just checking in, seeing if you’d learned anything.”

“About?”

“About why Devon’s mother made up that story about me.”

“It’s still being investigated,” he said.

“But how? Wouldn’t you want to see my cell phone records to prove I never called her? I can provide them.”

“I can’t go into specifics, Bailey. You must know that.”

As I hung up, I realized the cold, hard truth. He didn’t have faith in me. I’d busted my butt for him for over six months, breaking stories, generating buzz about Buzz, but he didn’t feel he really knew me or was sure he could trust me. My whole body suddenly felt like a big tub of Jell-O.

I tried to distract myself by jotting down a few questions to ask Chris. While I scribbled, trying to fight off a new groundswell of anxiety, Scott finally returned my call.

He started with the same curt “What’s up?” that Nash had snapped at me. Obviously a call from me these days was about as welcome as a rat sandwich.

“I’d love to grab a few minutes of your time,” I said. “Some details have emerged regarding the weekend that I think you ought to know about.”

“Such as?”

“Can we do it in person?” I said. “I could swing by and see you tomorrow?”

“Oh, I guess you Buzz reporters have to be concerned that your phones might be hacked by other tabloids,” he said sarcastically. Then a sigh. “All right. But I don’t want to meet at my office.” He suggested a place called Café Euro on Fifty-seventh and Seventh at eight the next morning.

I still had an hour to kill before Chris arrived, so I poured a glass of wine and took a steaming hot bath. Rather than helping, the mix of heat and alcohol only made me lightheaded and kick-started a headache that had been threatening all day. It also churned my thoughts up even more. What a big fat ugly awful mess I was in, I realized as I lay with my head back, staring at the flickering flame of the candle I’d lit. I began to wonder if Landon was right, that for the professional part of my problems, I needed a lawyer. But hiring a high-priced Manhattan attorney would seriously leach my savings.

No, I was going to have to clear my name with detective work, and that meant heading out to Pine Grove on Saturday. Certainly I wasn’t going to learn anything by confronting Sherrie Barr. She’d clam up fast, and if Nash found out I’d approached her, my ass would really be grass. Instead I’d have to play the spy and hopefully discover who Sherrie seemed closest to.

Of course, even when I proved I wasn’t guilty—and I would prove it—the revelation wouldn’t erase the fact that Nash had failed to trust me or lend me his support.

Though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t make any special effort for Chris’s visit, once I’d heaved myself out of the bath, it only made sense to change for the night—I’d be heading over to Beau’s place after Chris left, anyway. I threw on clean jeans, a navy blue V-neck cashmere sweater, and my riding boots. Nothing special, nothing that suggested I was harboring impure thoughts. Though I felt a twinge of guilt as I headed down to the coffee shop on the ground floor of my building.

Chris arrived right on time, and after a moment’s hesitation, I stood up halfway and we kissed each other on the cheek. His appearance caught me by surprise. On one level he looked the same: green eyes, thick brown hair, that beguiling cleft in his chin, great body. But there was a difference. He exuded a whole new level of confidence than when I’d last seen him. Not that Chris had ever been tentative, but he held the space around him now as if there was nothing that could undermine his self-assurance. So this is what happens to you, I thought, when you become an overnight sensation playing an investigator with the New York City medical examiner’s office, and every girl you meet wants to jump your bones.

“Do you want anything to eat?” I asked.

“No, I’d better just do coffee,” he said. “I really need to be out of here by about seven forty-five.” He shrugged off his brown leather jacket—not unlike the one he’d worn in Details—and laid it next to him.

After we ordered, I cut to the chase. I quickly described the weekend at Scott’s, my theory about Devon’s death, and how my career was now in jeopardy.

“It kills me to think of you in such a jam, Bailey, but what could I possibly do to help?”

“One of the guests last weekend was Devon’s booker, and it’s possible Devon was upset about something he was doing,” I said. “From what you know, is there anything a model booker could do that might tick off one of his clients?”

He leaned back into his chair, thinking. Because of the worried look on his face, I couldn’t help but flash back on the night in mid-September when he’d stood in my living room, experiencing the full impact of the news about the death of his close friend Tom. We’d hugged each other in consolation, and moments later we were tearing each other’s clothes off.

“Well, the thing that makes you angriest with a booker is when he—or she—doesn’t seem to be working hard enough for you,” he said finally. “Bookers always concentrate the most on their major stars, and it’s easy to get short shrift if you’re not in that league. Of course, bookers would like to make money off everybody, but they only have so much time and energy, so they tend to focus on the models with the clearest potential. Devon was a superstar and a real priority for the agency. But she wasn’t getting any younger, and her booker’s attention may have been slipping a little as he concentrated on upcoming girls—the ones who would make big money tomorrow.”

“I wondered about that. Anything else? Anything not aboveboard?”

“Most of the bookers I worked with—and remember, I was never some supermodel—were great to deal with. But I do remember there was one guy in my agency who was there one minute and gone the next. The rumor was that he’d gotten caught skimming money from the agency somehow, and he was booted out on his ass.”

“Any idea how he was doing it?”

“No. I actually probed a little because I was curious, but no one knew anything. Most of the guys I worked with weren’t exactly rocket scientists.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Jason something. I’d call the agency for you, but they’d probably clam up and deny the whole thing to me.”

We spent the next minutes catching up—Chris answering my questions about Morgue, me answering his questions about my book. Finally he checked the time on his iPhone.

“I probably should split now,” Chris said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I think the bottom line is that there must be opportunity for some hanky-panky, because at least one booker tried it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve given me something to think about.”

There was an awkward moment as I wrestled with my coat. One of the sleeves was partially inside out, and as I tried to punch my arm through it, I realized I looked like someone writhing in a straitjacket. Not a sight, I realized, Chris would ever be treated to on dates with hot young starlets styled flawlessly by Rachel Zoe. Because by now, those were surely the girls he was dating.

As we made our way to the front of the coffee shop, a female customer, clearly recognizing Chris, went bug-eyed at the sight of him.

“I guess you get that a lot now,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “People sometimes insist we met at a party when they don’t realize they actually know me from the tube. It’s not a pain yet or too intrusive. But all it would take is one date with someone like Blake Lively or Jessica Biel—and my life as I know it would be over.”

“Or one of the Kardashians,” I said, smiling.

“Excuse me for not inquiring about your love life,” he said after a few moments, “but I’ll spare myself the torture.” We were outside now, on the sidewalk in front of my building.

“Chris, you could have anyone in the world you wanted.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But you’re the one who knocked my socks off, Bailey.” He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek again, but more tenderly this time, placing one hand on my shoulder as he did.

“If I think of anything, I’ll call you, okay?” he said.

With that he sprinted toward Broadway. I watched as he flagged down a cab and slid in effortlessly.

And then I heard my name called. Startled, I spun around. To my utter shock, Beau was standing behind me.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” I stammered. He was wearing a long camel-colored overcoat and a brown scarf wrapped around his neck.

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” he said with frustration. “We agreed to meet now.”

“But I thought I was coming to your place,” I told him. I realized suddenly that we had never really nailed down the details.

“Whatever,” he said dismissively. He seemed pissed, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. “That guy there. Isn’t that the actor you were seeing?”

“Um—yeah, it was,” I said, faltering a little. “I needed his help—with my story on Devon. And finding out who’s been trying to sabotage me.”

“His help? Let me guess—did he and Devon know each other as members of the Big Hair, Small Brains Association of America?”

I almost laughed—at the absurdity of the comment and Beau’s obvious distaste for Chris—but I didn’t, which was a good thing. That would not have helped matters. And I could see that help was what I needed.

“Well, you’re partially right,” I said, trying to sound cooperative. “Chris used to work as a model, and I need information about modeling agencies.”

“And you had to have him up to your apartment to discuss it?”

“No, we were in the coffee shop. And he just dropped by for a minute, Beau—on his way someplace else. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal. Is that right?”

“That’s really funny,” I said, starting to feel a swell of anger. “I’m not supposed to mind when a girl you used to screw in Turkey calls and suggests you meet up, and yet you seem irritated by the fact that I spent thirty minutes with someone who could help save my job and my reputation.”

I had a head of steam going now, like I was Joan of Arc trying to make my case on horseback to a legion of French soldiers. To my embarrassment, I sensed that Bob, the evening doorman of my building, was watching us out of the corner of his eye.

“Isn’t it really just more payback, Bailey?” Beau demanded. I’d never seen him look so annoyed. “Like your taking off for the weekend just because I had to be out of town.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.”

With that he turned on his heels and strode off angrily, the back panels of his coat flapping in the cold night air. I just stood there, not knowing what the hell to do. For a brief moment I felt a temptation to take off after him, but I then overrode the urge. I didn’t like how Beau had managed to turn the tables so that our spat tonight had been about some totally innocent activity on my part—excluding my flashback to the night I ripped Chris’s clothes off—rather than his fling with Abigail, the dig-site slut.

As I slunk into the lobby of my building, Bob offered a rueful smile. I wondered if he sometimes went home and yammered to his wife about me over a cold Bud. “There’s this girl in the building who seems nice enough, but no sooner does she get into a relationship with some guy than she’s picking a fight with him on the curb.”

In desperation I thought of pounding on Landon’s door, but it wasn’t fair, considering his head cold, to subject him to more pathos about my love life. I thawed a chicken cutlet in my microwave and cooked it halfheartedly to within an inch of its life. A few times I felt an overwhelming urge to call Beau, but I fought it off. Why should I be the one trying to make things right?

At eleven I considered hitting the sack, but I knew it would be pointless. I could already envision the horrible bout of insomnia that lay ahead of me tonight. A thought suddenly snagged my brain. This might be a good time to reach Tommy. He hadn’t answered or returned my calls, but at this hour I might catch him off guard. From what I remembered from the weekend, he was nice and loose as midnight rolled around.

I was right. He answered hello with the deafening sounds of live music and bar yell behind him. And, surprisingly, he didn’t seem to mind hearing from me now; that was a nice change of pace.

“I’ve been wondering how you were doing,” I half shouted.

“Well, ain’t that sweet of you to be concerned,” he shouted back.

“I’d love to get together and talk—I have some information I’d like to share with you.”

“Is that right?” The music had subsided and been replaced by the sound of a car zooming by. Wherever he was, he’d managed to step out onto the street, away from the epicenter of noise.

“It’s about Devon. I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve learned.”

“No time like the present.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said there’s no time like the present. I’m at the Living Room. A dude I know is performing here. Why don’t you mosey that cute little butt of yours down here?”

I knew the Living Room. It was a bar on the Lower East Side, known for showcasing emerging bands in the back room. I’d been there a few times over the years, but not lately. The Lower East Side, once a ghetto for European immigrants in the 1800s, was now a hip area filled with wine bars, boutiques, and trendy restaurants, and it tended to attract mostly twenty-somethings. At my age I now felt like I needed to obtain special clearance to go down there. But that didn’t matter tonight. I was anxious to see Tommy and promised to be there within thirty minutes.

I left on the jeans and V-neck sweater but added a black leather jacket. I also swiped on black eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss, hoping it would assist in the extraction of info.

I figured it would take a while to find Tommy in the dense crowd of the bar, but when my cab pulled up, he was standing out in front with the smokers, dressed in just a T-shirt and black jeans, sucking on the last of a cigarette. From the look on his face, he appeared to have a nice buzz going.

“That was fast,” he said. “You must be just dying to see me.” He flicked his butt into the street. “Why don’t we go inside, and you can buy me a drink?”

“You’ve got it,” I said. I loved the idea that the drinks would be on my tab. Maybe Tory was right—the last album had really tanked.

The place was packed and smelled of beer, sweat, and dampish wool coats. Somehow we managed to find a space to stand at the end of the bar. The band was obviously on a break, though I could see lots of people milling around in the back room.

Tommy asked for a Maker’s on the rocks, and I ordered a beer for myself. He gripped his drink with long, slim fingers that must have served him well on the guitar. Though we’d had a couple of brief conversations at Scott’s, this was the closest I’d ever been to him. He was way too bony and inked for my liking, but his gray eyes were compelling. Maybe that’s what had hooked Devon and Tory.

I flashed him a friendly smile but tried not to seem too flirty, knowing that if I gave off the wrong vibe, he’d start talking about turning me into a human hot fudge sundae.

“How do you know the band?” I asked over the din.

“What?” he asked.

“The band. How do you know them?”

“The drummer is the brother of a buddy of mine. They fuckin’ stink—but I promised to show tonight.”

“That’s nice. I mean, it must still be pretty hard for you right now—with Devon’s death and all. As you told me, Devon was your lady for a while.”

“Yeah, I’m a big hero, aren’t I?”

“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said. “That it was definitely Devon’s eating disorder that led to her death.”

“That’s what they tell me. But like I said to you last weekend, she never pulled any of that stuff on my watch.”

“The night she died, she was obviously suffering the side effects of losing vital nutrients—like potassium. It’s that loss of nutrients that leads to a heart failure.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m not an M.D.” I almost laughed out loud. That had to be the understatement of the year.

“When you lose potassium, it also affects your muscles,” I explained. “That was probably why she seemed dizzy before she went back to her room. And by one o’clock she would have been feeling pretty awful.”

He drew his upper body back, as if I’d just spattered something on the bar.

“I can tell you’ve got a point to make,” he said, the friendliness dissipating. “Why don’t you just come right out and make it.”

“Okay. Devon was flirting with you last weekend, and she may have even invited you and Tory up there just so she could try to win you back. I think you went to her room Saturday night.”

He smirked and shook his head.

“Who told you that—Tory?”

“Tory said you were missing in action for over an hour.”

“Yeah, I was missing in action. I was sick of her bony-ass whining.”

“So you went to Devon’s room. Why didn’t you notice how ill she was? Surely you must have seen it.”

“Because I didn’t go to Devon’s room. I hooked up with that little redhead waitress who helped at dinner. She was giving me the eye the whole night.”

“Laura?” I exclaimed, not able to contain my surprise.

“Was that the chick’s name? I didn’t ask. Anyway, I’d overheard her say something to that other woman—the one with the tooth you could carve up a cow with—about staying in the garage apartment rather than driving home. I decided to pay her a little visit.”

“Was it around one fifteen?”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t keep a log on my sex life.”

My mind raced, reviewing the details Laura had shared with me that night as well as the guilty aura she’d displayed. I’d assumed at the time that she’d felt troubled about having fallen back to sleep after Devon called, but that’s not what was nudging her conscience. She’d promised to bring water to Devon, but when the visiting Rock Star had showed up—probably moments later—she decided to attend to his randy needs instead.

“Did you call Laura’s room later—after you got back to yours?” I still had no clue who had made that second call.

“Call her?” he said, snickering. “You mean, like, Hey, that was special, let’s do it again sometime? I don’t think so. Why all the fascination with some townie? I’ve got better stories to share than that one if you want a little fun.”

“Why my fascination? I’m just a little surprised—I could have sworn things were starting to heat up with you and Devon again,” I said, refocusing. “I heard she’d been pretty upset when you two broke up, and it looked like she was hatching a plan to get back together again.”

“I guess she was bummed. But I wasn’t interested in having a ball and chain wrapped around my dick.”

“You met last February?”

“That’s when we hooked up. But we’d actually met a few months before at some party.” He shrugged. “She told me later that it was like being hit by a thunderbolt when she met me. We got into a serious make-out session, but she was a little coy about going any farther. Then she secretly hatched this big plan to meet again, like, two and a half months later—she got friends to bring her backstage after a concert.”

“Do you think she wanted to restart things last weekend?”

“Like I told you before, Devon was a real mind fucker. Who knows what she was thinking?”

“Did that make you mad?”

“Mad? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, she was kind of toying with you. That couldn’t have been much fun.”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with you. I had plenty of action last weekend.”

“By the way, did you know Devon had a miscarriage around the end of last year?”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

“Well it wasn’t mine. Like I said, we didn’t get down and dirty until February. Besides, I don’t do kids. Can’t stand the little bastards. . . . Look, I thought you wanted to have a nice friendly conversation. You’re starting to sound like a cop or something.”

Suddenly there was the discordant sound of electric guitars being tuned in the back. Tommy craned his neck in that direction.

“I’m sorry if I’m tossing lots of questions at you,” I said, attempting not to lose his interest. “But there’s a reason for it. I think someone might have caused Devon’s death—by aggravating the symptoms of her anorexia.”

That had his attention. He spun back in my direction.

“Is that what the cops are saying?”

“No. It’s just a theory I have. Any ideas?”

“Read my lips,” he said. “I don’t know anything about eating disorders or any shit like that. As far as I’m concerned, I’m never hooking up with another model. I want a chick with some meat on her bones. That redhead didn’t have a clue what to do in the sack, but at least there was something to hold on to.”

“Okay, so you don’t know anything about eating disorders, but Tory might. Do you think she wanted Devon dead? Because Devon was after you again?”

He started to do the shoulder shrug again, but I saw the idea snag in his brain. He took a long swallow of his drink, staring into the glass.

“You’re gonna have to ask Tory that,” he said. “But keep it short so she can understand what you’re saying.”

“I—”

“I gotta get back there. I’d ask you to stay, but you don’t seem like the type who can just chill and listen to music.”

“One more thing,” I said, as he slid off his stool. “Do you know Sherrie Barr?”

“Devon’s old lady? Yeah, I had the unfortunate experience of meeting her once—and I’m really not looking forward to watching her slur her words on Saturday. Look, I really need to get back there.”

He started off and then unexpectedly turned back to me, his gray eyes boring into me. “Be careful getting home,” he said. “It gets a little sketchy down here late at night.”

Oh, thanks, I thought. Mr. Chivalry. I snaked my way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cold night air.

Though the bar had been mobbed, the street outside was deserted and most of the lights in the converted tenement buildings were off now. With no traffic at the moment and none of the usual hip crowd spilling out into the street, it wasn’t hard to imagine the pushcarts and carriages that had once rumbled along here.

What I needed at the moment, though, was a cab, not a pushcart, and I could sense right away that it was going to be tricky to find one. I gave it a minute, though, hoping there might be some canvassing the area even at this hour, but no such luck. Stupidly, thinking I’d be out for only a short time, I hadn’t even bothered to wear gloves, and my fingers would soon be freezing.

Just as I was about to bag the location for another, a gypsy cab pulled up, the kind that patrolled late at night when there was a scarcity of regular taxis. Gypsy cabs were unlicensed car services, but because they fulfilled a need, there was a live-and-let-live attitude toward them. I’d taken them on several occasions when I was desperate, but I didn’t feel that desperate at the moment. The driver made eye contact and raised his chin, as if asking if I needed a ride. I shook my head, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and started to walk, headed north.

The first intersection I passed was Rivington, and there was no sign of a cab there. I walked another block north to Stanton. It was a relief to see a few more people in the area, but they seemed to be looking for cabs too. I had no choice but to head another block north to East Houston. I already had that sinking sense you get when a little voice in your head tells you that at least as far as tonight goes, there’s no way in hell you will find a taxi.

There was a ton of traffic on Houston, but it was all just regular cars barreling along. Ten minutes passed with my hand in the air and me flicking my head left and right, searching futilely with my eyes.

I stuck my hand back in my pockets just to warm my fingers. I could hoof it home, I realized. It would take about a half hour. But I’d be freezing cold by the time I arrived. And I didn’t feel comfortable being alone at this hour on the deserted downtown streets. I also didn’t feel like hopping on the subway this late.

Suddenly I heard a car come up slowly behind me on Ludlow, and instinctively I spun around. It was another gypsy cab. Or, rather, the same gypsy cab I’d seen outside the Living Room. The driver was obviously having the same amount of luck as I was. He made eye contact again and cocked his head. I nodded my head in response. This time I felt desperate enough to hop in.

“Ninth and Broadway,” I told the driver once I was in the back seat. The car, to my disgust, reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Twelve dollars,” he told me, not bothering to turn around. Gypsy cabs didn’t have meters.

“How about ten?” I said. Twelve seemed outrageous.

He nodded, again without looking back, and put the car in drive. I leaned my head back, exhausted. I’d barely slept last night, and my insomnia was catching up with me now. I closed my eyes, just resting them. I heard Beau’s words from earlier echo in my head suddenly: “Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.” Was he going to end our relationship? I wondered.

I opened my eyes again, feeling miserable. I was too churned up right now, and I couldn’t think any more about it. When I gazed out in the darkened Manhattan street, I realized something wasn’t right. We were back on Houston Street, headed east, not north. The driver was going the wrong way.