pleasure, but tonight she chews on it dutifully. It might as well be broccoli. âCharlie, we need to talk,â she says. âAbout Ian Blaise.â
âHe calls in all the time,â I say. âHeâs doing fine. Seeing a shrink. Back to work part-time. Considering that itâs only been six months since his wife and daughters were killed in that car accident, his recovery is a miracle.â
Nova has lovely eyes. Theyâre as blue as a northern sky. When she laughs, the skin around them crinkles. It isnât crinkling now. âIan jumped from the roof of his apartment building Saturday,â she says. âHeâs dead.â
I feel as if Iâve been kicked in the stomach. âHe called me at home last week. We talked for over an hour.â
Nova frowns. âWeâve been over this a hundred times. You shouldnât give out your home number. Itâs dangerous.â
âNot as dangerous as being without a person you can call in the small hours,â I say tightly. âThatâs when the ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties can drive you over the edge. I remember the feeling well.â
âThe situation may be more sinister than that, Charlie,â Nova says. âThis morning someone sent us Ianâs obituary. This index card was clipped to it.â
Nova hands me the card. Itâs the kind school kids use when they have to make a speech in class. The message is neatly printed, and I read it aloud. ââIan Blaise wasnât worth your time, Charlie. None of them are. Theyâre cutting off your oxygen. Iâm going to save you.ââ I turn to Nova. âWhat the hell is this?â
âWell, for starters, itâs the third in a series. Last week someone sent us Marcie Zhangâs obituary.â
âThe girl in grade nine who was being bullied,â I say. âYou didnât tell me she was dead.â
âThereâs a lot I donât tell you,â Nova says. She sounds tired. âAnyway, there was a file card attached to the obituary. The message was the same as this oneâminus the part about saving you. Thatâs new.â
âI donât get it,â I say. âMarcie Zhang called in a couple of weeks ago. Remember? She was in great shape. Sheâd aced her exams. And she had an interview for a job as a junior counselor at a summer camp.â
âI remember. I also remember that the last time James Washington called in, he said that he was getting a lot of support from other gay athletes whoâd been outed, and he wished heâd gone public sooner.â
âJames is dead too?â
Nova raises an eyebrow. âLucky you never read the papers, huh? James died as a result of a hit-and-run a couple of weeks ago. We got the newspaper clipping with the index card attached. Same messageâ word for wordâas the one with Marcieâs obituary.â
âAnd you never told me?â
âI didnât connect the dots, Charlie. A fourteen-year-old girl who, until very recently has been deeply disturbed, commits suicide. A professional athlete is killed in a tragic accident. Do you have any idea how much mail we get? How many calls I handle a week? Maybe I wasnât as sharp as I should have been, because Iâm preoccupied with this baby. But this morning after I got Ianâs obituaryâwith the extended-play version of the noteâI called the police.â
I snap. âYou called the cops? Nova, you and I have always been on the same side of that particular issue. The police operate in a black-and-white world. Right/ wrong. Guilty/innocent. Sane/Not so much. Weâve always agreed that life is more complex for our listeners. They tell us things they canât tell anybody else. They have to trust us.â
Nova moves so close that her belly is touching mine. Her voice is low and grave. âCharlie, this isnât about a lonely guy who wants you
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