He grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall and walked out to his
car. Someone was walking by, so he turned to give them a big smile. He
took a kind of vicious pleasure in watching the people stop dead in their
tracks and then fix their gazes straight ahead of them, walking very fast
away from him like overgrown toy soldiers. He wasn't sure why. It should
make him feel angry, or indignant, or at least sad and misunderstood. But
it didn't. He was just... detached. Confident. Only in the dead of night,
alone in that creaky house, did he ever feel unstable. Whenever he tried
to think back, about Ted and Amy and why, exactly, he had suddenly planted
a cornfield in his backyard...
He was therefore very surprised when the person walking by stopped and smiled back. It was a young woman, in her early twenties probably. She had medium skin and long, shiny black hair, and her smile seemed to light up her dark eyes. Now, she would look good in the back room of the mansion as the murderer suddenly appears behind her, blocking the entrance, thought Mort, with a somewhat sinister grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he softened. No—she looks good now, he realized. Very good.
Not only did she not avert her eyes and hasten away, but she turned up his front walk. It had been a long time since a woman came up that path. When was the last time? When Amy... when Amy...
"I'm new in town," the young woman was saying pleasantly and a little apologetically, "could you tell me where"—she checked a slip of paper—"9121 Chestnut Street is?"
Mort was a little taken aback by this. He hadn't had a conversation, come to think of it, with anyone for a long time, aside from people whose jobs involved talking to him, like cashiers and bank tellers and his orthodontist. Of course he knew where 9121 Chestnut was. It was quite a ways in the opposite direction from where she had been walking. It was on the edge of town, almost inside the city.
"I, ah..." he said, his syllables taking on that lazy quality that meant he was uncertain. Not nervous exactly; his confidence was unshaken, but he was surprised. He blinked at her for a second; she was still there, looking back at him slightly quizzically as she waited for a response. She noticed that his eyes were almost as dark as her own behind his glasses, that they held depths that she couldn't even hope to guess, that they were not happy. She noticed his rich, bronzed skin and his high cheekbones, his well-defined jaw. She suddenly felt that she wanted to trace that line, wanted to feel his skin. She repressed the urge instantly—he was just beginning to speak again, and he wasn't giving her directions.
"Where are you from?"
She hardened a little. She hated when people asked her about her nationality before anything else. As if that's the only thing they saw.
"My mother's Korean. My father's half-Korean, half-white."
He blinked. "I meant, where did you move here from."
"Oh." She felt a little stupid for getting defensive. "I'm sorry... Baltimore."
He nodded, smiling slightly. "And what's your name?"
"Marah. Yours?"
"Mort Rainey." He waited for her reaction. If she'd been here more than a few hours, she would know his reputation, even if she didn't know his face. Maybe she'd run away now.
Sure enough, recognition dawned in those dark liquid eyes. But she didn't register suspicion or start edging away. Her eyes lit up.
"I thought I recognized your face from somewhere! I saw it on the jacket flap of your last novel. It was great, by the way. I've read a lot of your work. I really liked that last story, the one you re-published after revision. Secret Window."
Mort was genuinely surprised by this response, but he found himself pleased despite himself. His smile broadened. "Oh, really? That's—that's great, I'm glad you liked it."
"You know, I've always wanted to ask you why you changed it. I mean, it's a much better ending, but where did you get the inspiration?"
His whole train of thought ground to a halt. His smile disappeared. "Oh, it was...a lot of things that had been going on, my... divorce and..." He stopped. He had really never thought about it at all. The re-publication had been a huge success, revenue had started pouring in like never before, book deals, interview requests, even fan mail. He'd declined them all, saying he preferred working the way he always had—freelance, with only a literary agent to handle his legal disputes. Copyrights and the like. But he'd never thought once about it since.
Marah noticed his discomfort, but didn't know how to change the subject. "Oh, I'm sorry," she murmured. He nodded to acknowledge her but said nothing. Silence fell between them and dragged on for a few seconds, before she remembered why she was there in the first place.
"So, um...Chestnut Street?" she asked finally.
"Oh! Yeah, that's," he grinned, "about half an hour's walk, that way." He pointed back the way she came.
Marah groaned and ran her fingers through her hair, laughing a little at herself. "Thanks," she said resignedly. She smiled up at him. "It was really great to meet you."
"You know," began Mort, feeling that slightly sinister confidence returning, "I'm heading into the city to do my shopping. It's right on my way—I could drop you off there in five minutes."
She seemed to consider him, then his car, then him again. Finally she looked up at him. He found himself wanting very much for her to say yes.
"Well thanks, that'd be great."
He was therefore very surprised when the person walking by stopped and smiled back. It was a young woman, in her early twenties probably. She had medium skin and long, shiny black hair, and her smile seemed to light up her dark eyes. Now, she would look good in the back room of the mansion as the murderer suddenly appears behind her, blocking the entrance, thought Mort, with a somewhat sinister grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he softened. No—she looks good now, he realized. Very good.
Not only did she not avert her eyes and hasten away, but she turned up his front walk. It had been a long time since a woman came up that path. When was the last time? When Amy... when Amy...
"I'm new in town," the young woman was saying pleasantly and a little apologetically, "could you tell me where"—she checked a slip of paper—"9121 Chestnut Street is?"
Mort was a little taken aback by this. He hadn't had a conversation, come to think of it, with anyone for a long time, aside from people whose jobs involved talking to him, like cashiers and bank tellers and his orthodontist. Of course he knew where 9121 Chestnut was. It was quite a ways in the opposite direction from where she had been walking. It was on the edge of town, almost inside the city.
"I, ah..." he said, his syllables taking on that lazy quality that meant he was uncertain. Not nervous exactly; his confidence was unshaken, but he was surprised. He blinked at her for a second; she was still there, looking back at him slightly quizzically as she waited for a response. She noticed that his eyes were almost as dark as her own behind his glasses, that they held depths that she couldn't even hope to guess, that they were not happy. She noticed his rich, bronzed skin and his high cheekbones, his well-defined jaw. She suddenly felt that she wanted to trace that line, wanted to feel his skin. She repressed the urge instantly—he was just beginning to speak again, and he wasn't giving her directions.
"Where are you from?"
She hardened a little. She hated when people asked her about her nationality before anything else. As if that's the only thing they saw.
"My mother's Korean. My father's half-Korean, half-white."
He blinked. "I meant, where did you move here from."
"Oh." She felt a little stupid for getting defensive. "I'm sorry... Baltimore."
He nodded, smiling slightly. "And what's your name?"
"Marah. Yours?"
"Mort Rainey." He waited for her reaction. If she'd been here more than a few hours, she would know his reputation, even if she didn't know his face. Maybe she'd run away now.
Sure enough, recognition dawned in those dark liquid eyes. But she didn't register suspicion or start edging away. Her eyes lit up.
"I thought I recognized your face from somewhere! I saw it on the jacket flap of your last novel. It was great, by the way. I've read a lot of your work. I really liked that last story, the one you re-published after revision. Secret Window."
Mort was genuinely surprised by this response, but he found himself pleased despite himself. His smile broadened. "Oh, really? That's—that's great, I'm glad you liked it."
"You know, I've always wanted to ask you why you changed it. I mean, it's a much better ending, but where did you get the inspiration?"
His whole train of thought ground to a halt. His smile disappeared. "Oh, it was...a lot of things that had been going on, my... divorce and..." He stopped. He had really never thought about it at all. The re-publication had been a huge success, revenue had started pouring in like never before, book deals, interview requests, even fan mail. He'd declined them all, saying he preferred working the way he always had—freelance, with only a literary agent to handle his legal disputes. Copyrights and the like. But he'd never thought once about it since.
Marah noticed his discomfort, but didn't know how to change the subject. "Oh, I'm sorry," she murmured. He nodded to acknowledge her but said nothing. Silence fell between them and dragged on for a few seconds, before she remembered why she was there in the first place.
"So, um...Chestnut Street?" she asked finally.
"Oh! Yeah, that's," he grinned, "about half an hour's walk, that way." He pointed back the way she came.
Marah groaned and ran her fingers through her hair, laughing a little at herself. "Thanks," she said resignedly. She smiled up at him. "It was really great to meet you."
"You know," began Mort, feeling that slightly sinister confidence returning, "I'm heading into the city to do my shopping. It's right on my way—I could drop you off there in five minutes."
She seemed to consider him, then his car, then him again. Finally she looked up at him. He found himself wanting very much for her to say yes.
"Well thanks, that'd be great."