burned in a tub of gray water. Eyes wide in a look of mild surprise.
The moths rose up in her stomach—even as the world fell away from her feet, and Adrienne, sinking, felt a flash of pain at the side of her head. And then it was dark again.
* * *
When she awoke, a policeman was sitting in a chair at her side, talking quietly into a cell phone. The lights were on. Her head was pounding. And she was lying on a couch, with a pillow under her feet.
“Hey,” she said, complaining and entreating, all at once. Leaning on an elbow, she sat up. Slowly.
“You hit your head when you fainted,” the cop explained.
Fainted? What ‘fainted’? She’d been standing in—the bathroom. Suddenly, she remembered the long, peeling jazz horn, and the image of her sister’s eyes flashed before her own. A sob rose in her throat.
“There was nothing anyone could do,” the cop told her. “It must have been instantaneous.”
She made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Her head dropped into her hands, and the tears rolled.
“The doorman called 911. My partner and I were just up the street.”
For the first time, she noticed a second policeman standing near the doorway, talking quietly with Ramon.
“The M.E.’s on the way,” the cop added. “And an ambulance. Though …”
The M.E.
, Adrienne thought, turning the initials over in her mind.
The Medical Examiner.
Once again, the image of her sister flashed before her eyes. She was lying in the tub, up to her neck in the ice-cold water. With an appliance—a radio or something—in the water between her legs.
She had to get her out of there.
The blood drained from her head as she got to her feet and stood, suddenly dizzy, swaying on her feet, head pounding like the bass drum in a high school band. She felt the policeman’s hand on her arm. “We have to get her out of there,” she said, and took a step toward the bathroom.
“No.” Ever so gently, he sat her down on the couch.
“She’s cold!” Adrienne sobbed.
“No, she’s not cold. She’s—” The policeman looked wildlyaround, as if to find someone who could help him explain. But there was no one else. “She’s okay now,” he said. “Whatever it was, she isn’t hurting anymore.”
Adrienne awoke in her own apartment, a little after dawn. To her surprise, she was still dressed and lying on top of the covers on her bed. Just before her eyes opened, she remembered …
Getting to her feet, she went into the kitchen and made a cup of strong coffee with the plastic cone and paper filters that she used. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she thought,
That’s it. There isn’t anyone else. Now, I’m really an orphan.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back, almost angrily.
Who are you sorry for?
she wondered.
Yourself or Nikki?
Then she sipped her coffee and looked at the clock. 6:02. The first gray light of morning.
Her head hurt from where she’d fallen, banging it against her sister’s sink. She supposed she was still in shock, and wondered what she was supposed to do.
Make a list
, she told herself. She was big at making lists and, anyway, that’s what lawyers always did in a crisis: they made lists. Removing a pen from a Hoya’s mug beside the telephone, she found a pad of Post-its, and began to write:
1. Funeral Home
The medical examiner had said there would be an autopsy—probably in the morning. He’d given her his business card, and told her to call that afternoon. Unless something unforeseen arose, they’d release “the remains” later that day. So she’d need to find one.
2. Call the M.E.
3. She hesitated. What was 3.? Then it occurred to her that 3. was the shrink who’d killed her sister.
Duran
—that was his name.
Jeffrey Duran.
But, no. She’d deal with
that
son of a bitch later. There were more immediate priorities than revenge. So 3. wassomething else. Like, a memorial service. She sipped her coffee, and wondered what Nikki would
The moths rose up in her stomach—even as the world fell away from her feet, and Adrienne, sinking, felt a flash of pain at the side of her head. And then it was dark again.
* * *
When she awoke, a policeman was sitting in a chair at her side, talking quietly into a cell phone. The lights were on. Her head was pounding. And she was lying on a couch, with a pillow under her feet.
“Hey,” she said, complaining and entreating, all at once. Leaning on an elbow, she sat up. Slowly.
“You hit your head when you fainted,” the cop explained.
Fainted? What ‘fainted’? She’d been standing in—the bathroom. Suddenly, she remembered the long, peeling jazz horn, and the image of her sister’s eyes flashed before her own. A sob rose in her throat.
“There was nothing anyone could do,” the cop told her. “It must have been instantaneous.”
She made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Her head dropped into her hands, and the tears rolled.
“The doorman called 911. My partner and I were just up the street.”
For the first time, she noticed a second policeman standing near the doorway, talking quietly with Ramon.
“The M.E.’s on the way,” the cop added. “And an ambulance. Though …”
The M.E.
, Adrienne thought, turning the initials over in her mind.
The Medical Examiner.
Once again, the image of her sister flashed before her eyes. She was lying in the tub, up to her neck in the ice-cold water. With an appliance—a radio or something—in the water between her legs.
She had to get her out of there.
The blood drained from her head as she got to her feet and stood, suddenly dizzy, swaying on her feet, head pounding like the bass drum in a high school band. She felt the policeman’s hand on her arm. “We have to get her out of there,” she said, and took a step toward the bathroom.
“No.” Ever so gently, he sat her down on the couch.
“She’s cold!” Adrienne sobbed.
“No, she’s not cold. She’s—” The policeman looked wildlyaround, as if to find someone who could help him explain. But there was no one else. “She’s okay now,” he said. “Whatever it was, she isn’t hurting anymore.”
Adrienne awoke in her own apartment, a little after dawn. To her surprise, she was still dressed and lying on top of the covers on her bed. Just before her eyes opened, she remembered …
Getting to her feet, she went into the kitchen and made a cup of strong coffee with the plastic cone and paper filters that she used. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she thought,
That’s it. There isn’t anyone else. Now, I’m really an orphan.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back, almost angrily.
Who are you sorry for?
she wondered.
Yourself or Nikki?
Then she sipped her coffee and looked at the clock. 6:02. The first gray light of morning.
Her head hurt from where she’d fallen, banging it against her sister’s sink. She supposed she was still in shock, and wondered what she was supposed to do.
Make a list
, she told herself. She was big at making lists and, anyway, that’s what lawyers always did in a crisis: they made lists. Removing a pen from a Hoya’s mug beside the telephone, she found a pad of Post-its, and began to write:
1. Funeral Home
The medical examiner had said there would be an autopsy—probably in the morning. He’d given her his business card, and told her to call that afternoon. Unless something unforeseen arose, they’d release “the remains” later that day. So she’d need to find one.
2. Call the M.E.
3. She hesitated. What was 3.? Then it occurred to her that 3. was the shrink who’d killed her sister.
Duran
—that was his name.
Jeffrey Duran.
But, no. She’d deal with
that
son of a bitch later. There were more immediate priorities than revenge. So 3. wassomething else. Like, a memorial service. She sipped her coffee, and wondered what Nikki would
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