“Like that,” Lucy said out loud and took another swig of her vodka and tonic. Like with these pathetic songs she played over and over. A feeling. A rush of emotion. A high or a low, didn’t matter. But it wasn’t the same anymore. What had Elton John sung, via those Bernie Taupin lyrics, about vodka and tonic? Something about taking a couple of vodka and tonics to set you on your feet again.
That hadn’t worked for Lucy. But hey, why give up now?
The little voice in her head said, Stop drinking.
The much bigger voice told the little voice to shut up or get its ass kicked.
Lucy made a fist and put it in the air. “Go, Big Voice!”
She laughed, and that sound, the sound of her own laugh alone in this still room, frightened her. Rob Thomas came on her “Mellow” list, asking if he could just hold her while she falls apart, if he could just hold her while they both fall down. She nodded. Yes, he could. Rob reminded her that she was cold and scared and broken, and damn her, she wanted to listen to this song with Paul.
Paul.
He would want to know about these journals.
It had been twenty years since she’d seen him, but six years ago, Lucy had looked him up on the Internet. She had not wanted to. She knew that Paul was a door best left closed. But she had gotten drunk—big surprise—and while some people “drunk dialed,” Lucy had “drunk Googled.”
What she’d found was both sobering and unsurprising. Paul was married. He worked as an attorney. He had a young daughter. Lucy had even managed to find a picture of his gorgeous wife from a well-to-do family at some charity function. Jane—that was his wife’s name—was tall and lean and wore pearls. She looked good in pearls. She had that whole meant-for-pearls thing going on.
Another swig.
Things might have changed in six years, but back then Paul was living in Ridgewood, New Jersey, a scant twenty miles from where Lucy now was. She looked across the room at her computer.
Paul should be told, shouldn’t he?
And it would be no problem to do another quick Google search. Just get a phone number for him—home or, better, office. She could contact him. Warn him, really. Totally on the up-and-up. No agenda, no hidden meanings, nothing like that.
She put down the vodka and tonic. Rain fell outside the window. Her computer was already on. Her screen saver was, yep, the Windows default one. No family vacation picture. No slideshow of the kids or even that spinster staple: photograph of a pet. Just that Windows logo bopping around, like the monitor was sticking its tongue out at her.
Beyond pathetic.
She brought up her home page and was about to type when she heard the knock on the door. She stopped, waited.
Another knock. Lucy checked the small clock in the bottom right-hand corner of her computer.
Twelve-seventeen A.M.
Awfully late for a visitor.
“Who is it?”
No reply.
“Who—”
“It’s Sylvia Potter.”
There were tears in that voice. Lucy stood and stumbled to the kitchen. She dumped the rest of her drink into the sink and put the bottle back in its cabinet. Vodka didn’t smell, at least not much, so she was okay on that count. She took a quick look in the mirror. The image in it looked like hell, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now.
“Coming.”
She opened the door and Sylvia tumbled in as if she’d been leaning against it. The girl was soaked. The air-conditioning was set on high. Lucy almost made some comment about her catching her death, but it sounded like something a mother would say. She closed the door.
Sylvia said, “I’m sorry it’s so late.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was up.”
She stopped in the center of the room. “I’m sorry about before.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it’s just…” Sylvia looked around. She wrapped her arms around her body.
“Do you want a towel or something?”
“No.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m okay.”
Lucy gestured for Sylvia to have a seat. Sylvia collapsed on the Ikea couch. Lucy hated Ikea and their graphics-only instruction manuals, seemingly designed by NASA engineers. Lucy sat next to her and waited.
“How did you find out I wrote that journal?” Sylvia asked.
“It’s not important.”
“I sent it anonymously.”
“I know.”
“And you said they would be confidential.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
Sylvia wiped her nose and looked off. Her hair was still dripping.
“I even lied to you,” Sylvia said.
“How’s that?”
“About what I wrote. When I visited your office the other day. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what I said my paper was about?”
Lucy thought for a second. “Your first time.”
Sylvia smiled but there was nothing behind it. “I guess, in a sick way, that was true.”
Lucy thought about that too. Then she said, “I’m not sure I follow, Sylvia.”
Sylvia did not say anything for a long time. Lucy remembered that Lonnie said he would help get her to talk. But he was supposed to wait until the morning.
“Did Lonnie visit you tonight?”
“Lonnie Berger? From class?”
“Yes.”
“No. Why would Lonnie visit me?”
“It’s not important. So you just came here on your own?”
Sylvia swallowed and looked unsure of herself. “Was I wrong to?”
“No, not at all. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m really scared,” Sylvia said.
Lucy nodded, tried to appear reassuring, encouraging. Forcing this issue would only backfire. So she waited. She waited for a full two minutes before breaking.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” Lucy said.
“What do you think I should do?”
“Tell me everything, okay?”
“I have. I mean, the majority of it.”
Lucy wondered how to play this. “Who is P?”
Sylvia frowned. “What?”
“In your journal. You talk about a boy named P. Who is P?”
“What are you talking about?”
Lucy stopped. Tried again.
“Tell me exactly why you’re here, Sylvia.”
But now Sylvia was being cagey. “Why did you come to my room today?”
“Because I wanted to talk about your journal.”