Not that I killed him or anything. He just up and disappeared one day, leaving no will. The only provision for me was his army benefits. Lucky for me, I know how to take care of myself. That wholesome Southern background, you know? I went straight to the bank after he disappeared and took out as much as they'd let me. Little did I know the IRS were parked around the corner. Luckily those government types would never expect an old lady. I went straight home and cleaned out the house.
So it's tacky--I know, I was brought up right. And the Georgia Wainwrights have a reputation above reproach. We had the prestige and the money to get away with anything. We were old money-that's the important thing. Not that anyone here would notice the distinction, which is what I'd intended. This lease is under a different name. I've canceled all my old accounts. I feel like an escaped convict, hiding out and watching those around me, just in case they work for the IRS. Those tax collectors remind of the Sheriff of Nottingham in that Disney Movie. Couldn't catch me. I'm just like a modern Robin Hood, only I'm keeping the loot. Got to look after number one. After all, I'm the only Wainwright left, and someone had to pay for my new apartment. I'm just afraid the cash I have won't convince the super to change my stove. I can't have gas burners- I'm an old lady. I might accidentally light myself on fire. What I need is a quality electric like I had back home. I did ask him to come fix it--at least I think that man was the super--but he hasn't come yet. Maybe I should go talk to him again. . . .
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It was a quarter 'till eight when Elizabeth mounted the final step to the seventh floor. As she passed the many doors, she began to wonder if anyone else would find the silence awkward — the absence of blaring televisions and blasting stereos. In fact the only thing that gave a hint of inhabitants on the floor was the faint smell of perfume echoing from her neighbor's apartment, eight doors down. It was a faint fruity fragrance — peachy as it were.
The waning elevator chimed its arrival on the seventh floor.
"Mamie Wainwright!" Elizabeth called as the aged woman with pearly white hair exited the contraption.
Hard of hearing Mrs. Wainwright began waddling towards her apartment, a few short steps away.
"Mrs. Wainwright," Elizabeth repeated, after sprinting to her side.
"Yes, deary?" The woman turned her small head.
"You're from Georgia, aren't you?"
"I am."
Mrs. Wainwright fidgeted as she stood.
"Thank you," Elizabeth smiled. "Good night,"
"But dearest?"
"Yes?" Elizabeth replied.
"Where are you from?"
"That's a good question."
"Pardon?" Mrs. Wainwright inquired.
"San Francisco, ma'am. Good night," Elizabeth said before hurrying off to her apartment.
'Georgia. Why Georgia?' Elizabeth thought, sliding John Mayer's "Room for Squares" into her stereo.
She turned to her laptop.
One email from Jerry and one from—
She paused.
"A message from the golden gate," she read the subject line.
She opened the email:
'Hey Elizabeth —
ow is your book coming? Evryone can't wait to read it back here. I hope Jerry han't gotten on your case too much. Stress can cause the mind to deonstruct ones creativity. Kaylee's follwing your passion for history. She's just finished a paper on Joan of Arc and has aditted she's enthralled wth the past. Scott is goig to Enland soon with Colin. They should have some fun.
Best of luck,
Mom'
"What?" Elizabeth asked as she backed away from the email. Having grabbed her coat, she bounded out the door and to the stairwell. Her feet rapidly tap danced their way down the stairs, until ...
"Hello,"
On the platform between the stairs to the first and second floor she had run into a tall early twenties lad with a backpack on his shoulders and deep circles under his eyes.
"Oh," Elizabeth gasped. "I'm so sorry Kevin."
"It's alright," he said, exhausted.
"Listen, can I ask you something?"
"You can," he sighed. "But I don't think I'll be much help. Try Maria, she's probably upstairs."
"Doesn't she live across the hall from you?"
"Yeah,"
"Then why don't you let me take your backpack?"
"Sure, but why?"
"So," Elizabeth began, slipping the straps around her shoulders. "You don't have to become any more tired out than you already are."
"Thanks,"
A weary smile crept upon his face as Elizabeth sprinted up the stairs.
"Hey," Elizabeth smiled as she found Maria on the ninth floor.
"Hey," Maria said, beginning to slide into the crack in her door.
"Maria wait,"
Maria quickly returned to the hallway and shut the door behind her.
"My name's Elizabeth. I'm a friend of your neighbor."
"Kevin?"
"Yes—are you alright?" Elizabeth inquired, as she lowered the backpack to the floor. It landed with a thud.
"Yes," Maria said, meeting her gaze. "I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
Maria nodded. "You wanted something?"
"Yes," Elizabeth began. "My mom, who was an English teacher, wrote this letter—"
Elizabeth paused.
Maria's apartment number had caught her eye. The first number had a rising diagonal chip in the upper right portion of the curve. But no one chips anything while raising an object and without chipping the neighboring number. They always drop something, being clumsy humans, and, with the help of gravity, leave a mark on it and the other numbers in its path. It didn't make sense.
"Nine eighty-two," she read.
"Yeah?" Maria inquired, with a confused expression.
"Is that a ... no it can't be."
"What?" Maria asked, looking to the door.
"An upside down six?"
Maria smiled.
"The mind chooses what it wants to see."
Elizabeth thought for a moment. "Thanks,"
"Don't mention it. Kevin was muttering something about it this morning."
"Oh, well have a good night."
"You too," Maria said, slipping into her apartment.
When Elizabeth returned to her room, she reached for her laptop at once.
"What's missing?"
She scanned the email.
"Correct spelling?" she wondered.
'Ow. Evryone. Han't. Deonstruct. Follwing. Aditted. Wth. Goig, Enland,' she scribed on a scrap piece of paper.
"They're all missing a letter," she whispered.
'H, E,' she began writing. 'S, C, O, M, I, N, G'
"What does that mean? Hescoming?"
She pulled up the Google homepage on her computer and entered the nonsensical word.
"He's coming?" Elizabeth asked, as she read over the top response. "Who — who's coming?"
She sighed.
"Why can't parents make anything clear?"
She opened a document on her laptop — The Narrative of a Most Substantial Regret — and, transferring her frustration to the keyboard, began to type:
Elizabeth watched the mysterious yet pleasing gentlemen return to his seat.
“How did you know my name?” she inquired.
“You’re driver’s license.” he said, turning to her. “They asked me to find a form of identification.”
“Right,”
A pause followed.
“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “You’re probably wondering who I am and what in the world I’m doing here. I’m—”
“Malcolm Gainnes.”
“Right,” he smiled. “So you’re from San Francisco?”
“How’d you—” she paused. “Driver’s license?”
He nodded. “What were you doing in Atlanta?”
“Research,” she replied.
“Really? For what purpose?”
“Inspiration, really. I had a meeting with a few cops and a forensic pathologist.”
“Inspiration for the perfect crime?”
“Kind of,” Elizabeth smiled.
A look of surprise overcame Malcolm’s face.
“Not to commit,” Elizabeth explained. “I’m trying to decide whether I want to write a crime novel, and if I did decide to, how I would do it.”
“What have you decided?”
“I majored in English for a reason,”
Malcolm laughed.
“And,” she continued. “Romantic comedies are more attractive than late nights in the morgue.”
“That makes sense,”
“So what do you do, Malcolm?”
“Please, call me Mal,” he insisted. “I’m a Private Investigator.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” he smiled.
“So, are you from Atlanta?”
“No, my office is in Berkley.”
The phone rang over “St. Patrick’s Day.” Elizabeth was too involved in her writing to notice it, much less answer it. She continued typing.
“Michigan?” Elizabeth inquired.
“No, California. We should have lunch sometime.”
“We should.”
At that moment a man with short grey hair, about six feet in height, wearing a black suit and a shiny red silk shirt strolled into the hospital room.
“Dad,” Elizabeth smiled.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, beside her.
“Better,”
“What happened?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Elizabeth began, looking to Mal.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Mal began. “I’m—”
“Malcolm Gainnes,” Mr. Farraday began. “My wife said you had called.”
“Right,” Mal smiled as they shook hands. “Well, Elizabeth and I had a bit of a collision.”
“Driving?” he asked.
“No, running — in the airport. I was completely oblivious to what was in front of me, and I suppose Elizabeth was too, but she fell backwards, banged her head against the floor, and soon lost consciousness. The medic thought she might have suffered some neck damage, but the doctor’s sure it was only a whip lash.”
“Right,” Mr. Farraday confirmed. “So nothing else seems wrong?”
“Nope,” Elizabeth said confidently.
“Scott and Kaylee will be glad to hear of that.”
“Scott and Kaylee?” Mal inquired.
“Scott is my elder brother and Kaylee is my younger sister." Elizabeth explained. "We were all supposed to meet back home for the weekend.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, genuinely.
“She’s still breathing.” Mr. Farraday smiled. “That’s all that matter’s.”
Mal looked to Elizabeth apprehensively.
“Dad,” she began.
“And I can see the head wound. A small cut above the brow?” he inquired, noticing the stitches.
“Dad,” Elizabeth began again, wearily.
“You’re right,”
“She is?” Mal inquired.
“She needs rest, and you need nourishment.” Mr. Farraday said, turning to him.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth sighed.
“Where are we going to go?” Mal asked, confused. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I was thinking of the cafeteria downstairs.” Mr. Farraday admitted. “It’s close and convenient.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mal smiled.
“We’ll see you soon,” her father said.
“Have fun,” Elizabeth said, turning to her side.
Footsteps trailed out of the room.
The door closed.
Elizabeth sighed as she fell into sleep.
Silence.
“Elizabeth,” whispered the wind.
As if it were in a dream, Elizabeth ignored it. She turned over in the bed.
“Elizabeth,” the wind whispered again.
Her eyes opened lazily in hopes of ending the eerie whispering — dream or not.
Mal’s attractive face appeared only inches away—his chin resting on the edge of the bed.
“Hmm?” she whispered.
“Will you be ok?”
“Yeah,” she said drowsily. “I’ll be fine.”
“Alright,”
He smiled.
As Mal began to stand, Elizabeth’s eyelids fell again.
“Good night,” he whispered in her ear. His nose brushed her the side of her face as he turned to leave.
Elizabeth bit her lip as she looked up from the laptop.
'It's awfully quite,' she thought.
With a few steps and a swapping of CDs, Coldplay began echoing from the speakers. She turned her back on the stereo, smiling. She noticed her cell phone on the floor. The screen was illuminated.
'1 voicemail,' it read as she reached for it. Apprehensive, she selected the message and put the receiver to her ear.
"Hey Elizabeth, it's Mal."
"Great," she said softly, her available hand sliding into her jean pocket.
"I'm in town and—"
"Yeah, right." Elizabeth laughed, mockingly.
"You know that tracking device came in handy."
Elizabeth froze.
He laughed.
"And you thought you'd gotten rid of me."
"Shit," she whispered. "He's coming."
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