And She Was by Alison Gaylin

assistant always seemed to be around. It was the cologne. His leather chair, with all those beads and lacy garters draped across the back, tended to trap the scent and hold it, so that even on those rare occasions he took a few vacation days in a row, Brenna couldn’t walk by his desk without feeling a migraine coming on. She didn’t mind it so much now though. Pathetic as it sounded, the cologne smell felt sort of like company.
    She noticed a new babe, pictured at the center of Trent’s bulletin board—a platinum blonde with huge pillowy lips and the type of body that would stand out anywhere, except for maybe an inflatable doll factory. She had to be a porn star, or perhaps a really high-end bachelor party stripper—some kind of professional at any rate, because in the picture a shirtless Trent (nipple rings gleaming) was clutching her chin and licking the side of her face as if it were a giant Creamsicle. Yet the blonde was smiling, her eyes half closed . . . almost seeming to enjoy it. Brenna shook her head. That woman deserves an Academy Award .
    Okay, so maybe the cologne was getting to her a little. Brenna made for the linen closet in the hall. She kept a twenty-pack of Ivory Soap in there, and she grabbed one fast and unwrapped it. She held it up to her face, feeling as if she were on a foreign planet whose atmosphere was made of Trent’s cologne, and the soap was her only chance of survival.
    Oh, that’s much better . . . Brenna closed her eyes and inhaled, and without warning, she was back in her car in front of the Neff house, Nick Morasco leaning into her open window . . .
    “I’m telling you, because it helps to know what you’re up against.”
    He leans in and closes her door, his hand brushing hers, and for a half second, it registers that Nick Morasco smells of Ivory Soap, and that every man should smell of Ivory Soap. The skin warms at Brenna’s neck, down the length of her back. Her gaze flicks onto his shoulders, across the opening of the white cotton shirt, and she’s thinking, While we’re on the subject of up against . . .
    “Cut it out !” Brenna spat out the words, dissipating the memory though her skin still felt warmish from it . . . Unbelievable . That really had passed through her mind tonight, hadn’t it? Brenna’s memory wasn’t capable of playing tricks on her, and so there was no question.
    A tweed-wearing cop who thinks I’m something out of Oliver Sacks. How hard-up can I possibly be?
    Brenna headed over to her own desk and switched on her computer. She picked up the pearl-handled letter opener she kept on her desk—the only thing of her father’s she owned—and twirled it in her hands, waiting.
    Brenna wanted to believe she was at her computer by happenstance. That she had no idea what had brought her into this chair, but as long as she was here and awake, well, maybe she’d get some work done: Look into Carol Wentz, check out some of her interests, that search engine she’d visited, Google her again . . . But Brenna did know why she was on her computer. She’d known that she would be on it as soon as she’d woken up from the dream. Brenna knew the reason as well as she knew her own self, and Carol Wentz had nothing to do with it.
    She heard a group of drunken girls passing by her apartment, their laughter drifting up to her open window, one shouting, “Stop, I can’t breathe!” which reminded her of the dream again, of those bandages pressing against Clea’s face . . .
    Brenna hated her computer for taking so long to boot up, hated herself for being so impatient. She clutched the letter opener. Put it down. Picked it up again . . . But finally, she was able to get online, to go to her e-mail, and do what she’d wanted to do so badly, ever since she’d woken up.
    According to her instant messenger, Jim was online. Of course he was. Jim had always been a night owl. He used to stay up till two, three in the morning writing his articles for the Trumpet , and then