Perri O'Shaughnessy - Keeper of the Keys

“You bring over different guys all the time.”

She had brought a few of the good ones to Jacki’s. Not-so-hidden meaning: why not me, too?

“You’re a player, just like me. Admit it.”

“Josh, would you please back off so I can pull out?”

A certain light penetrated his flat eyes. Hostility, coming on like a 747.

Would she, two months ago, have gotten out of her car at this point, put her hand on his butt and said, follow me home, let’s go?

“Aw, come over for a coupla minutes. What’s your problem? You’re here. I made a cool drink you’ll like. Gin and lemon. Fresh mint on top.”

How did he know her favorite drink? Probably observed her once in a local hangout. Note to self: excellent reason to cruise far from her own home and Jacki’s, too.

The Echo’s interior was heating up. Perspiration pooled below her thighs on the scratchy fabric of the seat.

Get me out of here.

Could she reverse the car without knocking him down?

Without warning, as if suddenly transforming from an insensitive clod into a sensitive one, he backed away, shrugging. “Okay, another time,” he said.

Relieved, Kat said, “Josh?”

He turned back to face her. “Yeah?”

“You have a lot to offer the right woman.”

He shuffled his feet. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“I’m looking, but I’m confused.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m not for you, Josh.”

“Guess not.”

“It’s tough. Don’t give up.”

He sighed. “You, too.”

Being a player was getting so old.

After the meeting with Antoniou, Ray phoned his mother. “I’ve been hoping you would call. Are you still angry?” she asked.

“I found another tape. That makes three.”

A long silence. If his mother had ever prayed, he could imagine her praying right this minute. “Ray, please, this is getting-you have to stop.”

“I found it at Bright Street. In the fruit cellar. He says he’s coming and then you hang up.”

“My God,” she said.

“Did he hurt you? Beat you?”

“Who?”

“You know damn well who!”

She hung up on him again.

He slammed the phone down so hard it fell off the desk.

Suzanne, sitting at her desk outside his door, said, “Are you okay?”

“I better go home, Suzanne.”

“Sure, Ray.” She blinked big brown eyes and said, “I’m sorry about everything, Ray. I’m embarrassed about me and Martin.”

“It’s okay.”

“I just couldn’t control my feelings. I didn’t realize I might be hurting you, too, when I told the police about Martin and…I hope you and Leigh will be all right.”

On impulse, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You do a great job here,” he said.

Ray sliced radishes in his silent stainless-steel kitchen. He put the finished salad in a glass bowl, wrapping the leftover bits of vegetable in plastic wrap and stuffing them into his refrigerator drawer. Pouring two diet sodas over ice, he carried a tray into the living room and sat it on the sculpturally beautiful dining table.

Sipping his drink, he sat down on the sofa to wait for Kat. Leigh had hated this sofa. She wanted something plush, she always said, something velvety and plump. Leigh had been right. A home was more than its walls of glass and hard furniture. He hadn’t given Leigh a comfortable home.

So many things he would do differently…his life was avalanching down…

The doorbell rang, and he answered.

Kat came inside, all business. She didn’t take off her shoes.

“This place-any chance I could get a tour?”

He led her around, explaining the mechanics of construction, telling her about tricky decisions he had made at the time, as if she was a potential client.

He wound his way down to the workshop. She clutched the wall, balancing.

“Ray,” she said, “you’re going crazy, right? Or you’re already halfway in the bag.”

He didn’t exactly nod, but he didn’t disagree.

All the time she followed him downstairs, she felt anxious. His eerie serenity bothered her. She had pepper spray in her bag and her hand tight on the strap and she wondered if it was a good idea to be alone with him.

Somewhere along the way, she seemed to have accepted the idea that Leigh might be dead. But then she would think, Why? Leigh’s just left home. She looked around the basement, but there was no sign of Leigh.

Ray gestured toward an architectural model that took up part of a shop table. “I make three-dimensional facsimiles of some of the houses I lived in as a kid.”

“Wow.” Kat cocked her head, looking the meticulous models over. On wide shelves beyond, several other little tract houses sat, detailed with trim, porches, even house numbers clear as anything in a high-definition video.

“It started months before Leigh left. It started when-when she-”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

Kat ran a finger over the roofline of one. “You’ve got drainage gutters here. Downspouts. Individual bricks on the fireplace.” She put her hand inside a small kitchen. The faucet over the sink turned. She withdrew her hand. “At least there’s not running water. Yet.”

However, they were wired for lighting. He snapped a switch to show her. The houses lit up like a Christmas village. Even the furnishings included upholstered pieces suitable to the era.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, thinking, He is one sick pup.

“I’ve spent these past months remembering the houses I lived in growing up, thinking about how I felt in them, who I was.” He cleared his throat. “One night, after an argument with Leigh about our future, I thought, If I could only understand. See these kitchens? I never remember anyone there but my mother. I even tried to build in her hiding places. I tried to reproduce whatever I stuck on the wall of my room with pushpins every year.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, examining them. “If what you say is true, you haven’t lived in these houses for years.”

“In the beginning, I thought I could somehow control the past by reproducing it. I could-move the mental dolls around, you know? Make them behave. Explain themselves.”

“Man, you’re a real Henry Darger. Only he did it with paintings of children.”

“It didn’t work, though.”

“No.”

“You still work on them.”

“I wonder if I get it right, whether I can get what went wrong right, too.”

“That’s pretty oblique, Ray. Promise me you won’t take up screen-writing.”

“You asked what I’m doing. I told you. Now you tell me why you’re here again. Why we had to meet.”

The room was so bright, the walls so white-what was that behind him in the dimness past the half-open closet door?

Ray moved a thin wall on the model in front of him slightly. “This was a bad idea, coming down here,” he said. He turned his head a little. His eyes flicked to the right, toward the closet, and Kat saw something flash in them. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

A shaft of cold air traveled down her neck. Kat got up and, moving fast, threw open the door to the closet expecting to see-Leigh?

Rough coir rope, thick, dangled from the high interior ceiling from a huge industrial metal hook. A noose hung on the end. Thick knots made it secure. The rope swayed as air currents entered.

Horrified, she moved back. Ray stepped past her, shut the closet door, and stood with his back against it. “Nothing to do with you or Leigh, okay? Don’t look at me like that. Wait.”

He pulled something out of his pocket. “Look,” he said, walking toward her, holding his hand out. “See, I just bought the thing-”

“Stay away from me!” She pulled out the spray and pointed it at him.