first-date material. Or any date, for that matter.
So. Not a date.
I nodded firmly to myself, grabbed my handbag, and trotted down stairs to the street.
I’d been going to the gym in the afternoons, and I could already feel a difference as I headed for Arthur Avenue and the restaurant we’d agreed on—I felt stronger, more confident, more able to take care of myself.
The four pointy chopsticks I was carrying in various places—taped to the small of my back under my shirt, slipped into the top of my boot, held by my bra in the cleavage between my breasts, in the back pocket of my purse—didn’t hurt either.
I’d suggested that we meet at Giovanni’s on Arthur. They have the second-best Italian food in the neighborhood, which is saying a lot. The best Italian food is at Roberto’s, but I’d rejected that as too date-like; the tables were small and intimate and the whole place was lit by candles. Giovanni’s back room was big and airy, with plants in the window and red-checkered tablecloths. More “family friendly” than “first date.”
Malcolm was already seated at a table in the back when I got there. He stood up and helped me into my chair. Not a date , I reminded myself.
We both ordered and chatted about inconsequential things as we ate. Everything seemed perfectly friendly, but I was nervous. I knew I wanted to ask him for his help, but I couldn’t figure out how to even begin to bring the conversation around to vampire attacks. I think that perhaps that’s a difficult conversational gambit under any circumstances, and I didn’t want to break the pleasant mood. But I was also beginning to fear that Malcolm did see this as a first date, so I needed to figure out some way to bring it up.
Then, as we drank our after-lunch coffee and shared a piece of cheesecake, Malcolm reached into the backpack he’d carried into the restaurant and brought out an object wrapped in a plastic grocery sack. He placed it on the table between us.
“The other night after the security guards left to take you home, I walked back across campus,” he said, nodding toward the plastic bag. “I found this on the ground over by the fence.”
Watching him warily, I unrolled the bag and looked inside. At the bottom of the sack lay my letter opener, covered in dark brown streaks. Well , I thought, at least the forensic guys don’t have it . I looked back up at Malcolm without responding.
“You want to know what I think?” he asked. I still didn’t respond. Instead, I rolled the bag back up and put it back on the table. “I think,” he continued, “that you were carrying that thing the night you got attacked. I think that you stabbed the guy with it. And I think that’s why didn’t want me to call 911.”
I sat completely still, not answering him, but not denying what he said, either.
“And what I’m wondering is this: if you stabbed the guy who attacked you, why didn’t you tell the police that? Why didn’t you tell them that this thing existed? They could have gotten a blood sample from it, maybe used the DNA or something to track him down.”
I frantically tried to think of something to say, but Malcolm didn’t give me a chance.
“So what I’m thinking is that you know more about that attack than you’re telling anyone. I think that attack wasn’t random. I think you know who that guy was. And I think that you believe carrying around things like this can help you.” And with that, he reached over and plucked out the chopstick I’d so carefully hidden in the front of my shirt—apparently, it had worked its way up sometime during lunch and part of it was sticking out above the top button.
Conflicting emotions flitted through me: embarrassment that my fabulous wooden-chopstick-turned-stake-hiding technique hadn’t worked out so well, fear that Malcolm might decide to turn the bloody letter opener over to the police, elation that he’d figured part of it out by himself and maybe I wouldn’t have to
So. Not a date.
I nodded firmly to myself, grabbed my handbag, and trotted down stairs to the street.
I’d been going to the gym in the afternoons, and I could already feel a difference as I headed for Arthur Avenue and the restaurant we’d agreed on—I felt stronger, more confident, more able to take care of myself.
The four pointy chopsticks I was carrying in various places—taped to the small of my back under my shirt, slipped into the top of my boot, held by my bra in the cleavage between my breasts, in the back pocket of my purse—didn’t hurt either.
I’d suggested that we meet at Giovanni’s on Arthur. They have the second-best Italian food in the neighborhood, which is saying a lot. The best Italian food is at Roberto’s, but I’d rejected that as too date-like; the tables were small and intimate and the whole place was lit by candles. Giovanni’s back room was big and airy, with plants in the window and red-checkered tablecloths. More “family friendly” than “first date.”
Malcolm was already seated at a table in the back when I got there. He stood up and helped me into my chair. Not a date , I reminded myself.
We both ordered and chatted about inconsequential things as we ate. Everything seemed perfectly friendly, but I was nervous. I knew I wanted to ask him for his help, but I couldn’t figure out how to even begin to bring the conversation around to vampire attacks. I think that perhaps that’s a difficult conversational gambit under any circumstances, and I didn’t want to break the pleasant mood. But I was also beginning to fear that Malcolm did see this as a first date, so I needed to figure out some way to bring it up.
Then, as we drank our after-lunch coffee and shared a piece of cheesecake, Malcolm reached into the backpack he’d carried into the restaurant and brought out an object wrapped in a plastic grocery sack. He placed it on the table between us.
“The other night after the security guards left to take you home, I walked back across campus,” he said, nodding toward the plastic bag. “I found this on the ground over by the fence.”
Watching him warily, I unrolled the bag and looked inside. At the bottom of the sack lay my letter opener, covered in dark brown streaks. Well , I thought, at least the forensic guys don’t have it . I looked back up at Malcolm without responding.
“You want to know what I think?” he asked. I still didn’t respond. Instead, I rolled the bag back up and put it back on the table. “I think,” he continued, “that you were carrying that thing the night you got attacked. I think that you stabbed the guy with it. And I think that’s why didn’t want me to call 911.”
I sat completely still, not answering him, but not denying what he said, either.
“And what I’m wondering is this: if you stabbed the guy who attacked you, why didn’t you tell the police that? Why didn’t you tell them that this thing existed? They could have gotten a blood sample from it, maybe used the DNA or something to track him down.”
I frantically tried to think of something to say, but Malcolm didn’t give me a chance.
“So what I’m thinking is that you know more about that attack than you’re telling anyone. I think that attack wasn’t random. I think you know who that guy was. And I think that you believe carrying around things like this can help you.” And with that, he reached over and plucked out the chopstick I’d so carefully hidden in the front of my shirt—apparently, it had worked its way up sometime during lunch and part of it was sticking out above the top button.
Conflicting emotions flitted through me: embarrassment that my fabulous wooden-chopstick-turned-stake-hiding technique hadn’t worked out so well, fear that Malcolm might decide to turn the bloody letter opener over to the police, elation that he’d figured part of it out by himself and maybe I wouldn’t have to
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