Judge & Jury - James Patterson [41]
Over time, she found herself reading the papers again, watching the news. Laughing at a joke on Letterman. One day, she even picked up a copy of Variety. A few weeks later, she called her agent.
Then, five months after it happened, Andie found herself standing in front of the doors to a casting studio on West 57th Street. The call was for some Cialis commercial. All it took was looking fortyish and a little sexy—pretty much herself. Her agent said, Go. See how it feels.
Standing in front of the studio, Andie had never felt so terrified in her life. It was like the first time she ever went on a casting call. It was too new. It wasn’t right. Way too soon.
A pretty blond woman stepped out of the elevator behind her. “You goin’ in?”
“No, you go ahead.” Andie shook her head. A wave of panic swept over her. A tightness pounded in her chest. She needed air.
She didn’t even wait for the elevator, just hurried down the back staircase and onto 57th Street. Her legs felt weak and wobbly. She sucked a deep, grateful breath into her lungs.
This isn’t going to go away, Andie. It’s always going to be with you. Survivors pull it together. You have to do that, too. A few people passing by on the street glanced at her. She realized how foolish she felt, and probably looked.
Andie pressed herself against the cold concrete of the building and took another breath. She reached into her purse and felt for the little piece from Jarrod’s uniform. You’re always going to be with me.
Andie went back into the building, taking the elevator this time, back up to the third floor. She stood outside the studio again. Clutching her portfolio, she sucked in a breath. This was hard. This was so damn hard.
A woman stepped out just as she entered, and the woman had that look of disappointment Andie knew so well. Andie pushed through the doors and walked up to the receptionist.
“Andie DeGrasse. I’m here to read for the part.”
Chapter 48
FROM A STAIRCASE across 183rd Street, I bit my lower lip as I watched her coming back home. I don’t think she ever saw me, and I wanted to keep it that way. The alternative was too crazy to spend time thinking about.
Andie DeGrasse looked good. She was dressed up and clutching a large black portfolio. On the outside it looked as if she had it all back together. But I thought I knew what must be going on inside her.
I came up this way from time to time, and I wasn’t even really sure why.
Maybe I just felt good that someone had come out of this thing alive. A couple of times I even went up and knocked on her door. I’d say hi, or bring something—a little news about the investigation. Basically, stand around a few moments, as though it was an official visit and I had something to say that I couldn’t quite put into words. It felt good being connected to somebody. I didn’t reach out to people much since the trial.
Maybe I was just kidding myself again. Maybe it was simply Andie DeGrasse. How she was pulling her life back together after what had happened. I envied that. That she never once accused me, though she had every right to—that she never looked at me with blame in her eyes.
Maybe it was simply the knowledge that we shared something—neither of our lives would ever be whole again. That’s what I believed, anyway.
So I watched her as she climbed the stairs to her building and unlocked the inside door. She checked her mail and tucked a few envelopes and magazines under her arm, then disappeared from sight. A short while later, the lights went on in her apartment. What am I, a stalker? But I knew that wasn’t it.
I finally walked across the street. Another tenant stepped out, and I fumbled in my pockets for a second, as if I’d lost my keys, catching the door before it closed.
Her apartment was 2B, on the second floor, facing the street. I climbed the stairs. I remembered the night we took the jury in. For a few seconds, I just stood in front of her door. What was I here to say? I had started to knock when it hit me, the feeling of total foolishness, stupidity.
I backed away quickly,