M. J. Fievre
Room in New York
Greg didn’t look up from the paper, and his voice was unreadable. “They’re saying you killed Joe, Madeleine. Why in the world would they be saying that?”
She didn’t answer at first; her index finger kept on playing La Bohême on the piano. Finally, she spoke up, her voice sandpaper rough. “Joe is dead, Greg. And I’m missing. What else would the paper say?”
She raised her fingers to her throat and closed them around the locket as if she only now remembered that it contained an old photograph of Joe. She unclasped the locket, took off her wedding ring, and slipped the jewelry in her pocket.
Greg’s voice didn’t falter. “Did you kill him? Tell me, Madeleine – when you came here last night, was he already dead?”
Her expression stayed flat and blank; her index finger kept on moving. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked, glancing at the exacto knife on the table, and then at Greg’s pale arm, thinking how easily she might cut the soft skin.
Greg nodded one of his slow, knowing nods, ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it down. “Part of me does.“
Madeleine frowned. She pictured the bright stripe of blood, Greg's shock and pain. She played with these thoughts for several moments before turning toward him. “Joe never stopped you from seeing me before.”
Greg put down the newspaper and, as he rose from the couch, a hot breeze blew through the window.