Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [50]
She’s inched closer to me—now only a half a foot away. She curls a strand of hair behind her right ear. A silver chain hangs around her neck, holding a pendant that rests just above her cleavage.
“Polly,” she says.
“Pardon?”
“You have got to start calling me Polly. The only people who call me Pauline are my mother and the Internal Revenue Service.”
“Polly,” I say, “Who is in your locket?”
She fingers the silver jewelry.
“I’ll make you a trade: You tell me about the thumb drive and I’ll tell you about the locket.”
I clear my throat, trying not to sound defensive. “What’s so interesting to you about the drive?”
“Easy. I won’t Bogart your scoop. I’m just curious.”
“Just curious.”
“It’s a habit of mine.”
I shake my head. My energy to discuss the topic feels sapped; and I’m feeling a remote sense of suspicion about her curiosity—without any basis that I can name.
“Dead end.”
“You’re blinking a lot—quickly. Whenever I see that in negotiations, it means someone is holding something back.”
“Are we negotiating?”
She laughs. “You win.”
I haven’t even told her all I’ve learned today. Chuck’s visit, the drive-by shooting, the emptied dental office, Adrianna.
She runs a manicured finger along the locket’s outer edge, then slips it open. Inside, a headshot of a handsome man with an angular face and closely cropped hair.
“My brother. Philip.”
“The one . . .”
“The addict who likes to steal from his sister.”
“Steal? Like what?”
“Stuff I leave out,” she says. “When he shows up out of the blue, I leave out cash or jewelry he can easily take and sell. Then I convince myself he’s using it for food and shelter.”
The room has fallen so quiet that I can hear Grandma muttering to herself in the other room. I raise my near empty glass.
“People change on their own terms,” Pauline says.
“To recovery,” I say.
We touch martini glasses and I slug the remains of mine. She pours lemon-flavored seltzer water into a glass, brings it to her lips and sips.
“You’re getting me drunk,” I say.
She bites the inside of her lip.
“You’re flushed. Are you sick?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“What’s stressing you, Polly? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Bad patch at work.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nathaniel, I’m not who you think I am.”
I shiver.
“This place isn’t me,” she says.
“This house?”
“This role. My life. It’s just an iteration of me. I grew up in Albuquerque, on rice and beans. We got our health care at a free clinic. My brother served in the National Guard to pay for college.”
“That’s your confession?”
“I love to get invested in the world. I do it more easily than most, through various professional pursuits. I’ve made money to take care of myself and other people. But if all this stuff went away, if I lost this all, I’d be no different.”
She pauses.
“Polly?”
“Does my success intimidate you?”
“C’mon.” I’m surprised to feel a hint of defensiveness I hope I don’t betray.
“Nathaniel, I know you can’t buy real emotional connection at an auction.”
I can’t tell if we’re having a relationship conversation or something else.
“You’re an adult and I’m treating you that way. I just want you to know all this stuff about me before you decide,” she says.
“Decide what?”
She looks at me at length, shakes her head. She stands and sashays away. She walks to a wooden cabinet sitting beside the enormous TV. She kneels, causing her skirt to inch above her thigh. She clicks buttons on the stereo, and Jamaican music fills the room. Sultry seaside drums.
She saunters back. She takes the napkin that is wrapping the base of her glass and dabs spilled liquid from the couch. Then she moves the napkin to my knee, where a droplet has begun to sink into my jeans. My neurons jerk awake, delivering me a sensation of craving.
Without withdrawing her hand, she looks up at me.
“My brother and I had the same genetics. He took one path and I another.”
Before I can ask what she means, she says: “We all have the power to choose.”
Cryptic, I think, or maybe I’m too drunk to follow. She leans forward—into me. I feel her breath getting closer. I open my