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imagination to make up such a
story. I said, "Are you sure she comes every Friday?"
"Yep. You go in that room, you can smell the gardenias."
"I thought you weren't supposed to go in there, that she keeps it
locked."
Amy looked mildly abashed. "The locks on these doors, there's a
little tool you can use to open them from the outside."
"And you've used it."
"Only because I wonder what she does in there—at first I thought
maybe she'd set up a shrine or something."
"And had she?"
"No, nothing like that. All she'd done was move a rocker that used
to be out here—I wondered at the time why she'd taken it away—in there
by the window. I guess she just sits there, waiting."
I compressed my lips and frowned, concerned for Laura Kostakos.
Amy said, "Yeah, that's how I feel. It's creepy, coming home on
Fridays and knowing she's been in there… just waiting. I mean, I never
know what to expect. What if she does something?"
"Like what?"
She flung a hand out wildly, almost knocking her wineglass over.
"How do I know what a crazy person will do? She might kill herself. I'd
come home, find her. Yuck. Or what if she turns violent? I'd walk in,
and it'd be all over."
In spite of her dramatics, I sensed Amy was genuinely afraid. "I
don't think she's violent or self-destructive," I said, "but maybe it
would be good to talk to someone about it. Have you thought of
contacting Tracy's father? After all, he's a psychology professor."
"Old George? Forget it."
"Why?"
"He's just… all psychologists are weird."
Maybe it was just as well she hadn't talked to him, I thought. If he
didn't already know about his wife's weekly vigils in Tracy's room, it
would be best if he heard it from someone more tactful and less prone
to histrionics than Amy. "Tell you what," I said, "I'll ask him about
it. If he thinks there's potential danger, you should probably move out
of here."
Amy sipped wine, her gaze skipping around the room, as if taking
note of all the possessions she would lose use of by such an action.
Then she sighed. "Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe it's time I
move in with my boyfriend. If he'll let me."
"Would you mind if I look at Tracy's room?"
"Why should I? The only one who might mind is Mrs. K, and she'll
never know. By the way, if you're not working for her, who is it? I
started to ask, and then I forgot."
"Bobby Foster's lawyer."
Her eyes widened and she became very still. After a moment she said,
"Bobby. God, it's so awful!"
"You know him?"
"Not well, but to even have an acquaintance on death row… I've had
bad dreams about that."
She was beginning to wear on me. I stood and moved toward the
hallway to the bedrooms. "So has Bobby."
Amy opened her mouth, shut it, and gave me a reproachful look. Then
she followed me, wineglass in hand.
Two of the doors off the hallway were open: to a bathroom midway
down and a small bedroom to the left at the end. The door to the right
room was closed. I said, "Where's the tool for unlocking this?"
"Here in the linen closet." Amy rummaged around and handed me a
slender metal probe.
I fitted it into the slot in the doorknob, pushed, and the lock
snapped open. As it did, I realized there was something wrong with
Amy's story about Laura Kostakos. "How does Mrs. Kostakos get into this
room if it's kept locked?" I asked.
Amy hesitated, frowning. "I never thought about that. The door locks
if you set the button before you close it, but there's no key other
than…" She looked at the probe in my hand.
"She must use this, then. Is it always kept in the same
place?"
"Yes, sort of. But… oh shit!"
"What?"
"Sometimes when I've gone in there, I've put it back on a different
shelf. If she realizes I've been using it to check out Trace's room,
she'll throw my ass out of here!"
"She's probably known all along and doesn't care. She may even be
aware you know of her visits." I turned back to the door, opened it,
and felt for a light switch. Behind me, Amy was silent.
When I
story. I said, "Are you sure she comes every Friday?"
"Yep. You go in that room, you can smell the gardenias."
"I thought you weren't supposed to go in there, that she keeps it
locked."
Amy looked mildly abashed. "The locks on these doors, there's a
little tool you can use to open them from the outside."
"And you've used it."
"Only because I wonder what she does in there—at first I thought
maybe she'd set up a shrine or something."
"And had she?"
"No, nothing like that. All she'd done was move a rocker that used
to be out here—I wondered at the time why she'd taken it away—in there
by the window. I guess she just sits there, waiting."
I compressed my lips and frowned, concerned for Laura Kostakos.
Amy said, "Yeah, that's how I feel. It's creepy, coming home on
Fridays and knowing she's been in there… just waiting. I mean, I never
know what to expect. What if she does something?"
"Like what?"
She flung a hand out wildly, almost knocking her wineglass over.
"How do I know what a crazy person will do? She might kill herself. I'd
come home, find her. Yuck. Or what if she turns violent? I'd walk in,
and it'd be all over."
In spite of her dramatics, I sensed Amy was genuinely afraid. "I
don't think she's violent or self-destructive," I said, "but maybe it
would be good to talk to someone about it. Have you thought of
contacting Tracy's father? After all, he's a psychology professor."
"Old George? Forget it."
"Why?"
"He's just… all psychologists are weird."
Maybe it was just as well she hadn't talked to him, I thought. If he
didn't already know about his wife's weekly vigils in Tracy's room, it
would be best if he heard it from someone more tactful and less prone
to histrionics than Amy. "Tell you what," I said, "I'll ask him about
it. If he thinks there's potential danger, you should probably move out
of here."
Amy sipped wine, her gaze skipping around the room, as if taking
note of all the possessions she would lose use of by such an action.
Then she sighed. "Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe it's time I
move in with my boyfriend. If he'll let me."
"Would you mind if I look at Tracy's room?"
"Why should I? The only one who might mind is Mrs. K, and she'll
never know. By the way, if you're not working for her, who is it? I
started to ask, and then I forgot."
"Bobby Foster's lawyer."
Her eyes widened and she became very still. After a moment she said,
"Bobby. God, it's so awful!"
"You know him?"
"Not well, but to even have an acquaintance on death row… I've had
bad dreams about that."
She was beginning to wear on me. I stood and moved toward the
hallway to the bedrooms. "So has Bobby."
Amy opened her mouth, shut it, and gave me a reproachful look. Then
she followed me, wineglass in hand.
Two of the doors off the hallway were open: to a bathroom midway
down and a small bedroom to the left at the end. The door to the right
room was closed. I said, "Where's the tool for unlocking this?"
"Here in the linen closet." Amy rummaged around and handed me a
slender metal probe.
I fitted it into the slot in the doorknob, pushed, and the lock
snapped open. As it did, I realized there was something wrong with
Amy's story about Laura Kostakos. "How does Mrs. Kostakos get into this
room if it's kept locked?" I asked.
Amy hesitated, frowning. "I never thought about that. The door locks
if you set the button before you close it, but there's no key other
than…" She looked at the probe in my hand.
"She must use this, then. Is it always kept in the same
place?"
"Yes, sort of. But… oh shit!"
"What?"
"Sometimes when I've gone in there, I've put it back on a different
shelf. If she realizes I've been using it to check out Trace's room,
she'll throw my ass out of here!"
"She's probably known all along and doesn't care. She may even be
aware you know of her visits." I turned back to the door, opened it,
and felt for a light switch. Behind me, Amy was silent.
When I
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