the thing.”
“Shut up about the thing!” Lace said. She looked at me, rolled her eyes again. “It never made any sense. I spent all last winter sleeping on my sister’s couch in Brooklyn, trying to find a place to stay closer to school. But everything in Manhattan was too expensive, and I was way over roommates.”
“Hey, thanks a lot,” Roger said.
Lace ignored him. “But then my sister’s super says he’s got a line on this building they’re trying to fill up fast. A whole floor of people totally skipped out on their rent, and they want new tenants right away. So it’s cheap. Way cheap.” Her voice trailed off.
“You sound unhappy,” I said. “Why’s that?”
“We only signed up to finish the previous tenants’ leases,” she said. “There’s only a couple of months left. Everyone on seven’s talking about how they’re going to raise the rent, push us out one by one.”
I shrugged. “So how can I help you?”
“You know more than you’re saying, dude,” she said flatly.
The certainty in her eyes silenced me—I didn’t deny it, and Lace nodded slowly, positive now I wasn’t some long-lost cousin.
“Something happened here,” Lace said. “Something the landlords wanted to cover up. I need to know what it was.”
“Why?”
“Because I need leverage.” She leaned forward on the couch, fingers gripping the cushions with white-knuckled strength. “I’m not going back to my sister’s couch!”
Like I said: hell hath no fury.
I held up my hands in surrender. To get anything more out of her, I was going to have to give her some of the truth, but I needed time to get my story straight.
“Okay. I’ll tell you what I know,” I said. “But first . . . show me the thing.”
She smiled. “I was going to anyway.”
“The thing is so cool,” Roger said.
They’d done this before.
Without being told, the other two women turned off the lamps at either end of the couch. Roger flicked off the kitchen light and came through, sitting cross-legged in front of the white expanse of wall, almost like it was a TV screen.
It was dark now, the room glowing with dim orange from distant Jersey streetlights, accented by a bluish strip of night-light from under the bathroom door.
The other guy got out of his chair, scraping it out of our way, turning around to get his own view of the blank white wall.
“Is this a slide show?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Roger said, giggling and hugging his knees. “Fire up the projector, Lace.”
She grunted, rooting around under the coffee table and pulling out a fat candle and a pack of matches. She crossed the room carefully in the darkness and knelt beside the blank wall, setting the candle against the baseboard.
“Farther away,” Roger said.
“Shut up ,” Lace countered. “I’ve done this more than you have.”
The match flared in her hand, and she put it to the candle’s wick. Just before the scent of sandalwood overpowered my nostrils, I detected the human smell of nervous anticipation.
The wall flickered like an empty movie screen, little peaks of stucco casting elongated shadows, like miniature mountains at sunset. The mottled texture of the wall became exaggerated, and my peep vision sharpened in the gloom, recording every imperfection. I could see the hurried, uneven paths that the rollers had followed up and down when the wall had been painted.
“What am I looking at?” I asked. “A bad paint job?”
“I told you,” Roger said. “Move it out a little.”
Lace growled but slid the candle farther from the wall.
The words appeared. . . .
They glowed faintly through the shadows, their edges indistinct. A slightly darker layer of paint showed through the top coat, as often happens when landlords don’t bother with primer.
Like when they’re in a big rush.
The wall said:
so pRetty i hAd to Eat hiM
I crossed to the wall. The darker layer was less noticeable up close. I ran my fingertips across the letters. The cheap
“Shut up about the thing!” Lace said. She looked at me, rolled her eyes again. “It never made any sense. I spent all last winter sleeping on my sister’s couch in Brooklyn, trying to find a place to stay closer to school. But everything in Manhattan was too expensive, and I was way over roommates.”
“Hey, thanks a lot,” Roger said.
Lace ignored him. “But then my sister’s super says he’s got a line on this building they’re trying to fill up fast. A whole floor of people totally skipped out on their rent, and they want new tenants right away. So it’s cheap. Way cheap.” Her voice trailed off.
“You sound unhappy,” I said. “Why’s that?”
“We only signed up to finish the previous tenants’ leases,” she said. “There’s only a couple of months left. Everyone on seven’s talking about how they’re going to raise the rent, push us out one by one.”
I shrugged. “So how can I help you?”
“You know more than you’re saying, dude,” she said flatly.
The certainty in her eyes silenced me—I didn’t deny it, and Lace nodded slowly, positive now I wasn’t some long-lost cousin.
“Something happened here,” Lace said. “Something the landlords wanted to cover up. I need to know what it was.”
“Why?”
“Because I need leverage.” She leaned forward on the couch, fingers gripping the cushions with white-knuckled strength. “I’m not going back to my sister’s couch!”
Like I said: hell hath no fury.
I held up my hands in surrender. To get anything more out of her, I was going to have to give her some of the truth, but I needed time to get my story straight.
“Okay. I’ll tell you what I know,” I said. “But first . . . show me the thing.”
She smiled. “I was going to anyway.”
“The thing is so cool,” Roger said.
They’d done this before.
Without being told, the other two women turned off the lamps at either end of the couch. Roger flicked off the kitchen light and came through, sitting cross-legged in front of the white expanse of wall, almost like it was a TV screen.
It was dark now, the room glowing with dim orange from distant Jersey streetlights, accented by a bluish strip of night-light from under the bathroom door.
The other guy got out of his chair, scraping it out of our way, turning around to get his own view of the blank white wall.
“Is this a slide show?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Roger said, giggling and hugging his knees. “Fire up the projector, Lace.”
She grunted, rooting around under the coffee table and pulling out a fat candle and a pack of matches. She crossed the room carefully in the darkness and knelt beside the blank wall, setting the candle against the baseboard.
“Farther away,” Roger said.
“Shut up ,” Lace countered. “I’ve done this more than you have.”
The match flared in her hand, and she put it to the candle’s wick. Just before the scent of sandalwood overpowered my nostrils, I detected the human smell of nervous anticipation.
The wall flickered like an empty movie screen, little peaks of stucco casting elongated shadows, like miniature mountains at sunset. The mottled texture of the wall became exaggerated, and my peep vision sharpened in the gloom, recording every imperfection. I could see the hurried, uneven paths that the rollers had followed up and down when the wall had been painted.
“What am I looking at?” I asked. “A bad paint job?”
“I told you,” Roger said. “Move it out a little.”
Lace growled but slid the candle farther from the wall.
The words appeared. . . .
They glowed faintly through the shadows, their edges indistinct. A slightly darker layer of paint showed through the top coat, as often happens when landlords don’t bother with primer.
Like when they’re in a big rush.
The wall said:
so pRetty i hAd to Eat hiM
I crossed to the wall. The darker layer was less noticeable up close. I ran my fingertips across the letters. The cheap
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