Page 75 of Stay Awake
I push open the glass office doors and walk past the reception desk, turning my head to smile at the dimple-cheeked receptionist. “Good morning, Natalie.”
She mouths a greeting before answering a call.
It’s late morning when Marco’s number flashes on my screen. It’s unusual for him to call me at work and I’m afraid he’s calling to cancel our dinner. He canceled our bike ride, and now this. My body tenses as I wonder whether he’s planning on breaking up with me tonight.Maybe that’s why he’s taking me to such a smart restaurant: it guarantees him a cordial breakup without any histrionics. I could always tell when Mom’s relationships were about to explode. Canceled dates. A sudden coldness. I can’t believe it’s happening to me, too. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he’s going to break up with me tonight.
Marco’s call eventually goes to voicemail. I quickly turn off my cell phone so he can’t get through. It’s childish and counterproductive. All it does is make me anxious to find out why Marco was calling me in the first place. I’m about to ring him back when Frank calls me into his office.
“Where’s the draft of your story on the Q preview show?”
“It was horrible. Gratuitous violence and pop philosophy. It was the performance art equivalent of a snuff film. I don’t thinkCulturashould deign that sort of thing a write-up.”
“That’s my job to decide, and it’s your job to write,” he tells me. “I want your copy on my desk tomorrow. Once I get it, then we can talk it through.” Before I can respond, we’re both called into a meeting on the January issue of the magazine.
When the meeting finally breaks up, I return to my desk and start working on my write-up of the Q exhibition. I do preliminary stuff first, transcribing my notes and going over Q’s quotes from the phone interview before I get started on writing the actual article.
Outside, it’s a perfect summer day. The sky is a canvas of unblemished blue. I bask in the sunshine streaking across my desk, typing rapidly on my laptop. I’m startled by my desk phone ringing abruptly.
“This is Liv,” I say into the receiver.
“Liv?” It’s Amy. There’s a strange inflection in her tone that sends a shiver down my spine. “Liv, can you come home?” I can tell she’s been crying.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Shawna?”
“Yeah.” Her voice wobbles. It sounds as if she’s swallowing back tears. “Please come quickly. There’s been a… I’m… sorry. Just come. Please. As soon as you can.…” The phone line clicks. She’s hung up.
I grab my purse and rush out of the office, muttering something about an emergency to Natalie as I race past the reception desk. I try to call Amy again on my way home in the back of a cab. She’s not answering the phone. I stare out the window, sick with worry, as the cab navigates through midday traffic. When the driver finally drops me off on my street, I don’t bother to wait for my change. Instead, I stride to the building and race up the stairs to my apartment.
“Amy?” I call out once I’m inside. “Amy?”
There’s no response. Her bedroom door is slightly open.
“Amy, is everything all right?”
I push open her door and step into her dimly lit bedroom.
Amy and Marco are in her bed. Naked, with the sheet down to their waists, their heads propped up against the headboard.
“What’s going on? The two of you…”
I’m so shocked at their betrayal that I don’t immediately notice the terrible details. Their eyes are unblinking and there are holes in their chests. Blood trails down to their navels, pooling on the sheets like crimson inkblots.
“They’ve been sleeping together behind your back for weeks.”
I’m about to turn toward the chilling voice behind me when powerful arms restrain me, pulling me into a macabre bear hug. His arms are like steel clamps around my body. I open my mouth to scream, but only a terrified whisper comes out.
“What have you done?” I ask.
“Not me. What haveyoudone, Liv?” His breath hits the nape of my neck as he whispers in my ear. “The police will conclude that you were so devastated to find your best friend and your boyfriend in bed that, in the heat of the moment, you went to the kitchen and took out achef’s knife. A nice touch, I might add, given that you’re a food writer. You took the knife and came in here, killing them and then yourself,” he says. “A double murder and suicide. Tragic but neat, at least from my perspective.”
Before I can speak, he takes my hand and forces me to grip the smooth metal handle of a kitchen knife. I look down and see his shoes, which are the color of blood with a unique dotted pattern by the toes.
As I try to squirm out of his arms, he lifts up my hand and forces me to thrust the blade deep into my torso. The pain is excruciating. I crumple onto my knees and collapse on my side. He turns and walks out of the room as I lie on the carpet and stare at Amy’s pink kimono rocking on the hook behind her door.
I slide toward Amy’s desk and desperately tug the cord of her landline phone until it tumbles onto the carpet next to me. I grab the receiver and dial clumsily. My hands are slippery with blood as I try to apply pressure on my own wound. I’m vaguely aware of the front door closing.
