The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [59]
When Pavel closed his arm, the tattoo of the ship disappeared, almost as if it had caught a gust of wind and sailed away. “Enough of my mysterious philosophy, Charlotte,” he said. “Why have you not asked about my tattoo?”
“I didn’t want to pry,” she answered.
“The ship is a symbol of my love of freedom,” Pavel said, quietly. “And my regret at its loss. Simple, no?” he added with a smile.
“Not so simple at all, Pavel.” Charlotte replied, afraid to look into his eyes. “But I don’t want to think about any of this right now. Help me forget.” And Pavel did.
36
Like the steel rivets on a ship’s waterproof door that pop, one by one, as the pressure builds, Charlotte felt her head begin to pound as her stomach muscles cramped. It was six on Wednesday morning and she was in her bath. The small television in the armoire where she kept her towels was on with the sound muted. Lulled by the heat, she’d caught only the tail end of the banner running across the bottom of the screen. Witness to the murder of Amy Webb …
As she grabbed a towel and climbed out of the tub, she nearly lost her balance. Reaching for the remote control, she turned up the volume and paced, as restless as a cat, waiting for the commercials to end. The anchorwoman on Channel 1 fiddled with her earpiece and gazed into the camera.
“Last night, police report they received a call at 1-800-577-TIPS from a woman who claims to have seen someone leaving the East Side residence of Amy Webb on the Friday afternoon she was murdered. Apparently, the woman, a housekeeper from Croatia, did not come forward until now as she was frightened of being deported. She spoke to authorities through an interpreter. We’ll have more news on this story as it develops.”
Willing herself to remain calm, Charlotte retraced her movements on that afternoon. It had been pouring rain. She distinctly remembered that. And it was nearly dark. Her head was hidden in the hood of her parka. What could the woman have possibly seen that would endanger her? Hearing a hesitant knock on the bathroom door, Charlotte picked up her bottle of Caleche, paused, and placed a few dabs on her pulse points. Looking hard in the mirror, she practiced her most radiant smile, and put on a bathrobe. At times like this, façade was all she had to hold onto. “I’m coming, Pavel,” she shouted. “I’m coming.”
As he leaned down to give her a kiss on the mouth, she felt just the tiniest prickle of regret. She’d opened herself up to this man and—related or not—now her life was unraveling. Her carefully constructed world was falling apart. And Pavel already seemed to have one foot out the door. Chatting away in Russian on his cell phone while picking up his coat, he did little more than exchange pleasantries before promising to call and set up a week for her visit to Moscow.
After his cursory kiss good-bye, Charlotte sat slumped in a chair at her kitchen table, sipping her coffee. She thought of Max and his depth charge metaphor; of how she’d lived for so many years without ever thinking of her childhood, as if it had simply ceased to exist once it was over. Suddenly, she was besieged by memories that were almost cinematic in their detail.
She remembered her twelfth birthday party. For once, her mother had seemed almost eager to share in the planning. She had suggested a costume theme. After the class trip to the Egyptian wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Charlotte came up with the idea of ancient Egypt. She would go as Cleopatra. The day of the party, Charlotte went off to school, ecstatic and anxious.
When Charlotte got home, she’d walked through the door with her eyes closed. She’d imagined the hall transformed into a pharaoh’s tomb with golden caskets and hieroglyphics on the walls. But there was nothing. The hallway was empty.