The October List

and sat back. Finally: ‘We’ve got a problem.’

CHAPTER
32
     

3:15 p.m., Sunday
15 minutes earlier
     

 

 
     
    ‘What happened back there, with that man,’ Gabriela whispered, wiping tears. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’
    Daniel fell back into his waiting state: observing, not speaking. His eyes swept the overcast, afternoon streets of Midtown, east. ‘Looks clear. Come on.’
    They walked another block.
    ‘There. That’s the place, Mac. Let’s get inside.’ Daniel was pointing out a narrow dun-colored apartment building down a cul-de-sac on East 51st. It crested at four stories high and many windows were hooded as suspicious eyes.
    ‘We’ll be safe there.’
    She gave a brutal laugh. Safe. Yeah, right.
    Daniel squeezed her hand in response.
    As they approached the structure, Gabriela looked around, scrutinizing shadows and windows and doorways. She saw no police. Or other threats. Daniel let them into the lobby, which was painted in several shades of blue and lit by brushed silver sconces. The decor was tasteful, though hardly elegant. A painting – by a Picasso wannabe, it seemed – of a ballerina, possibly, hung from the wall near the mailboxes. They took the stairs to the second floor, where there were doors to two apartments.
    Daniel directed her to the left, which faced the front courtyard.
    The key clicked, the hinge creaked. It made a funny sound, musical. The first two notes of ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’
    O-oh, say can you see …
    After they’d entered the dark rooms, Daniel closed and double-locked the door, flicked on the overhead lights.
    Gabriela dropped the new backpack, which contained her gym bag, on a battered coffee table in the living room. Daniel set his belongings beside it and sat heavily in a solid chair at the dining room table. He went online via his iPad and she walked to the window, looked out over the courtyard and cul-de-sac.
    Gabriela found the smell of the rooms troubling. The aroma reminded her of a funeral parlor. Old, stale chemicals, though here they would just be cleansers, not preservatives for dead flesh. She recalled just such a smell from six years and two months ago. Her stomach twisted, hurt grew, anger grew. An image of the Professor arose.
    Then she thought of her mantra.
    Sarah.
    Your goal. Focus on your goal.
    Sarah.
    It’s just a random smell, she told herself, that’s triggering hard memories. Still, she couldn’t quite flick it away. She stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which was mostly bare – a container of coffee, butter, a shriveled lemon, hard as horn. And in the crisper an onion. It too was past prime but not rotten. Green shoots were growing from the end, eerie. She thought of Joseph’s unruly hair, slick, greasy. She found a knife, dull but sharp enough to slice the vegetable if she sawed with pressure. When she’d produced a small pile of rings, she found oil in the cupboard, which she poured into a dusty frying pan, without bothering to wipe it clean. She turned up the heat and cooked the rings and shoots, stirring them absently in a figure-eight motion with a wooden spoon.
    The sweet scents rose and soon they’d mitigated the smells that had bothered her. The thoughts of past death faded.
    Daniel Reardon walked to the doorway of the kitchen. She sensed him watching her closely. She glanced at his handsome face, felt that ping of attraction. Thought of Friday night, two days ago. A year, forever.
    ‘Hungry?’
    ‘Probably. But I don’t want anything to eat. I’m just air freshening.’
    ‘With onions?’ A laugh. He had a wonderful laugh – just like the actor he so closely resembled.
    Her voice shivered as she said, ‘Every night when she’s with me, Sarah and I cook. Well, not every night. But most. She likes to stir things. She’s a great stirrer. We sometimes joke, we …’ And she abruptly fell silent, inhaled deeply, looking away from him.
    She touched her chest, wincing, and Daniel stepped close, taking a tissue and slowly wiping the blood from the corner of her mouth. Then he embraced her. His hand trailed down her spine, bumping over the strap of her bra beneath the thick sweatshirt and settling into her lower back. He pulled her close. She tensed and groaned slightly. He tilted her head back and, despite the residue of blood, kissed her hard on the lips. She groaned, frowning, and he released her.
    ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.
    ‘Don’t be.’
    He pressed his face against