pouring out like I’ve unstoppered a drain. “People don’t feel the right things. That’s the problem. They get — you know, everyone feels all this, all this junk, just messy, squabbly emotions over the smallest things. Like if someone says a political word at dinner, or forgets someone’s name. Those are stupid fucking things to care about. No one cares about the bigger things. You can — people just, you know, they watch all this shit on TV every night, bombings, and drone attacks, and disease, and no one melts down over that. But that’s — at least that’s
real
.”
My voice fades.
Aidan doesn’t say anything for a while. He turns back to the sink and starts washing spoons.
“So you’re getting a PhD?”
It surprises me, the question. Like some art major is more interested in the higher echelons of my intellectual ability than in my sordid, dog-mutilating psychoses. People are usually more morbid. I nod. But his back is to me now. So I say, “Yes.”
“Dave said you were the smartest person he knows. He said you could’ve joined Mensa.”
I laugh.
Aidan looks up.
“I’m not that smart.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure something out. “Are you being modest?”
“No. I don’t do modest. I’m smart. I’m really smart. Just not, you know, Mensa-smart. I’m not a genius.”
“Dave said you were.”
Dave has always had an inflated sense of my capacities. I think it’s just part of his love of cheap melodrama. “Well then. I must be.”
He nods once and goes back to washing off the spoons.
“Seriously.” I put my hands in my jeans pockets and lean against the counter. “What’s your deal? Why the twenty questions? They’re not — you’re not like most people.”
For one, he didn’t run out shrieking and crying in the middle of dinner.
“I told you,” he says. “I remembered you. From the reading.”
“Bullshit.” I’ve had this happen a few times. People noticing how I look. Then they talk to me. That’s usually when the interest wanes, and it wanes like that Roadrunner cartoon where the Coyote runs off the edge of the cliff and then notices there is nothing but air beneath him. “You shouldn’t still be interested, not after Dave told you about me.”
Aidan shuts off the water and shakes his fingers over the sink. He comes over to the refrigerator to grab a hand towel. I step away from him. He looks at me, one eye straight and fierce, the other a dark aimless orb. “You want the truth?” he says. He’s standing so close I can feel his body heat, smell garlic and wine on his breath. I want to back up but I can’t. My ass is already pressed up against the counter. “I want you to solve a murder.”
My chest feels empty and then my heart starts to beat, each convulsion burning. My mouth goes dry.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “
Christ
.”
He looks a little surprised. His eyebrows rise and he takes a half step back.
“Not an open case.” He starts talking quickly. “It’s not illegal. It was a while ago, like a cold case. The cops already closed it. But — ”
I shake my head. “Wait. Stop.”
He stops talking.
“The cops know about it?”
For a second he looks even more confused. His forehead wrinkles slightly. “Sure. It was a long time ago. It — my mother. It was when I was a kid. My mother died. The cops say — well, it’s technically unsolved, they thought it might be homicide but they didn’t have evidence to — ”
“No.”
He backs up another step. “What?”
I push myself off the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no — there’s no dead woman.”
“What?”
We just stare at each other. I try to figure out what’s going on. Who he is, this frail, pale-skinned art student with a broken eye. And the incalculable odds that his fascination with me and his mysterious murder have nothing to do with the pink message slip, with 411 Allyn Street.
I take a breath. “You’re talking about
real
.”
My voice fades.
Aidan doesn’t say anything for a while. He turns back to the sink and starts washing spoons.
“So you’re getting a PhD?”
It surprises me, the question. Like some art major is more interested in the higher echelons of my intellectual ability than in my sordid, dog-mutilating psychoses. People are usually more morbid. I nod. But his back is to me now. So I say, “Yes.”
“Dave said you were the smartest person he knows. He said you could’ve joined Mensa.”
I laugh.
Aidan looks up.
“I’m not that smart.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure something out. “Are you being modest?”
“No. I don’t do modest. I’m smart. I’m really smart. Just not, you know, Mensa-smart. I’m not a genius.”
“Dave said you were.”
Dave has always had an inflated sense of my capacities. I think it’s just part of his love of cheap melodrama. “Well then. I must be.”
He nods once and goes back to washing off the spoons.
“Seriously.” I put my hands in my jeans pockets and lean against the counter. “What’s your deal? Why the twenty questions? They’re not — you’re not like most people.”
For one, he didn’t run out shrieking and crying in the middle of dinner.
“I told you,” he says. “I remembered you. From the reading.”
“Bullshit.” I’ve had this happen a few times. People noticing how I look. Then they talk to me. That’s usually when the interest wanes, and it wanes like that Roadrunner cartoon where the Coyote runs off the edge of the cliff and then notices there is nothing but air beneath him. “You shouldn’t still be interested, not after Dave told you about me.”
Aidan shuts off the water and shakes his fingers over the sink. He comes over to the refrigerator to grab a hand towel. I step away from him. He looks at me, one eye straight and fierce, the other a dark aimless orb. “You want the truth?” he says. He’s standing so close I can feel his body heat, smell garlic and wine on his breath. I want to back up but I can’t. My ass is already pressed up against the counter. “I want you to solve a murder.”
My chest feels empty and then my heart starts to beat, each convulsion burning. My mouth goes dry.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “
Christ
.”
He looks a little surprised. His eyebrows rise and he takes a half step back.
“Not an open case.” He starts talking quickly. “It’s not illegal. It was a while ago, like a cold case. The cops already closed it. But — ”
I shake my head. “Wait. Stop.”
He stops talking.
“The cops know about it?”
For a second he looks even more confused. His forehead wrinkles slightly. “Sure. It was a long time ago. It — my mother. It was when I was a kid. My mother died. The cops say — well, it’s technically unsolved, they thought it might be homicide but they didn’t have evidence to — ”
“No.”
He backs up another step. “What?”
I push myself off the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no — there’s no dead woman.”
“What?”
We just stare at each other. I try to figure out what’s going on. Who he is, this frail, pale-skinned art student with a broken eye. And the incalculable odds that his fascination with me and his mysterious murder have nothing to do with the pink message slip, with 411 Allyn Street.
I take a breath. “You’re talking about
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