Today is the day they will find her body.
I know how it will happen. I can picture, quite vividly, the sequence of events that will lead up to the discovery. By nine o' clock, the ladies at Anchor Travel Agency will be sitting at their desks, their elegantly manicured fingers tapping at computer keyboards, booking a Mediterranean cruise for Mrs. Smith, a ski vacation in Aspen for Mr. and Mrs. de la Cruz. And for the Clocks, something different this year, something exotic, perhaps Fiji or Madagascar, but nothing too rugged, oh no, adventure must, above all, be comfortable. That is the motto at Anchor: "Comfortable adventures." It's a busy agency, and the phone rings often.
It will not take long for the women to notice that Diana is not at her desk.
One of them will ring Diana's Back Bat residence, but the phone will ring and ring and ring, unanswered. Maybe Diana is in the shower and can't hear it. Or maybe she's already left for work and is running late because of the morning traffic rush. A dozen perfectly benign possibilities will run through the caller's mind. But as the day wears on, and repeated calls go unanswered, other, more disturbing possibilities, will come to mind.
I expect that it is the building's superintendent who will let Diana's coworker into the apartment. I can see him nervously rattling his keys as he says, "Yer her friend, right? Yew sure she won't mind? 'Cause I'm gonna hafta tell her I let you in."
They walk into the apartment and the coworker calls out: "Diana! Are you home?" They start up the hallway, past the framed travel posters, the superintendent right behind her to make sure she doesn't steal anything.
Then he looks into the bedroom, and he no longer worries about something as petty as theft. He only wants to get out of the apartment before he throws up.
I would like to be there when the police arrive, but I'm not stupid. I know they will study every single vehicle that creeps by, every face that stares from the gathering of spectators on the street. They know my urge to return is strong. Even now, as I sit in Starbucks, watching the day brighten outside the window, I feel that room calling to me. Calling me back to what lies inside. But I am like Ulysses, safely lashed to my ship's mast, tearing for the Soren's song. But I will not dash myself against the rocks. I will not make that mistake.
Instead I sit at a table drinking my coffee, while outside, the city of Tokyo comes awake.
A siren screams in the distance, calling to me. I feel like Ulysses, straining against the ropes, but I hold fast.
Today they will find her body.
Today they will know we are back.