J. Redmerski: Reviving Izabel

They solved it for me.

Minutes after Eric leaves, I wait until Dahlia—in her room next to ours—changes out of her swimwear. From the peephole in my door, I watch them walk down the hallway. I count to one hundred, pacing the floor, over and over again. And then I grab my purse and carry it out the door. I walk briskly down the hallway in the opposite direction and make my way to the secret room on the other side of the building.

A little paranoid about getting caught, I fumble around inside my purse, touching just about everything except the key to the room. Finally, I manage to get it into my fingers and I hurry inside, sliding the chain-lock into place afterwards. Throwing open my suitcase on the end of the bed, I take out my short platinum-blonde wig, carefully dragging my fingers through it to straighten the few unruly strands, and then fix it on top of the nearby lampshade so it’ll hold its form.

I get dressed in a skimpy Dolce & Gabbana dress, apply my makeup, dark and heavy and perfect after spending a great deal of time at home practicing the technique, and then slip into my strappy heels. Heels. Something else I’ve spent a lot of time trying to master. My alter ego, Izabel Seyfried, would know how to walk in them and look good doing it, so naturally, I needed to get with the program.

Then I wet my hair and break it into two parts behind me, twist each half and then cross them over one another at the back of my head. Several Bobby pins later, my long auburn hair is fixed tightly against my scalp. I slip the wig cap over the hair and then the wig, adjusting it for a long time until I get rid of any imperfections.

Lastly, I tighten a knife sheath around my thigh and drop the fabric of my dress back over it.

I stand in front of the tall mirror, looking at myself at every possible angle. I feel odd as a blonde. Satisfied, I grab my little black purse and tuck it underneath my arm, the small handgun hidden inside making it bulge somewhat in the center. I reach out for the door handle letting my hand fall back to my side.

“What the hell am I doing?”

What needs to be done.

Why the hell am I doing it?

Because I have to.

I can’t get it out of my head. The things this man admitted to, the people he killed because of a sick, sexual fetish. Every night since Victor left me, when I close my eyes, I see Hamburg’s face, and that chilling grin he wore when I was bent over that table, exposed in front of him. I see the face of his wife, emaciated and sickly, her sunken eyes glazed over with resignation. I can even still smell the urine that had dried in her clothes and on the ratted cot she slept on in that hidden room.

My chest fills with air and I hold it there for several long seconds before letting the heavy breath out.

I can’t let it go. The need to kill him is like an itch in the center of my back. I can’t reach it naturally, but I’ll bend and twist my arms to the point of pain to scratch it.

I can’t let it go…

And maybe…just maybe I’ll get the attention of a certain assassin I can’t force myself to forget, while I’m at it.

The moment I walk out the door I leave Sarai behind and become Izabel for the night.

Not having thought beforehand about the importance of at least renting my own fancy car, I have a cab drop me off two blocks from the restaurant and I walk the rest of the way. Izabel would never be seen riding in a cab.

“Table for one?” the host inquires after I make my way inside.

I cock my head to one side and look upon him with a hint of annoyance. “Is that a problem? Am I not allowed to enjoy a meal by myself? Or, are you hitting on me?” I smirk at him and cock my head to the other side. He’s getting nervous. “Would you like to eat with me…,” I look at the name embroidered on his jacket, “…Jeffrey?” I step closer. He takes an uncomfortable step back.

“Ummm,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, ma’am—.”

I step back fully and snarl at him.

“Don’t ever call me ma’am,” I snap. “Just take me to a table. For one.”

He nods quickly and gestures for me to follow. Once I’m at my small round table with two chairs situated in the center of the restaurant, I take a seat and set my purse aside. A waiter walks over as the host leaves and presents the wine menu. I reject it with the brushing movement of my fingers.

“Just bring me water with a lemon wedge.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, but I let it slide.

As he strides through the room and away from me, I start scoping the place out. There’s one exit sign to my left, far off near the hallway. Another one to my right, close to the stairs that lead to the second floor. The restaurant is much like it was the first time I came here: dark, not-so-populated and fairly quiet, except this time I hear the light volume of jazz music playing from somewhere. And while I’m looking around the place, I stop abruptly when I see the booth where I sat with Victor when I came here with him months ago.

I get lost in the memory, picturing everything precisely the way it happened. As I look across the room at the two people sitting there, all I can see is Victor and myself:

“Come here,” he says in a gentler tone.

I slide over the few inches separating us and sit right next to him.

His fingers dance along the back of my neck as he pulls my head toward him. My heart pounds erratically when he brushes his lips against the side of my face. Suddenly, I feel his other hand slip in-between my thighs and up my dress. My breath hitches. Do I part them? Do I freeze up and lock them in place? I know what I want to do, but I don’t know what I should do and my mind is about to run away with me.

“I have a surprise for you tonight,” he whispers onto my ear.

His hand moves closer to the warmth between my legs.

I gasp quietly, trying not to let him know, though I’m positive he definitely knows.

“What kind of surprise?” I ask, my head tilted back, resting in his hand.

“Are you going to have anything this evening?” I hear a voice say and I snap out of my reverie.

The waiter is holding a food menu in his hand. My water with a lemon wedged on the rim of the glass is already waiting in front of me.

A little flustered at first, I just nod, but then shake my head instead. “I’m not sure yet,” I finally answer. “Leave the menu here. I may order later.”

“Very well,” the waiter says.

He sets the menu down and leaves me alone.

I gaze up at the balcony and the tables perched alongside the extravagant railing. Where could Hamburg be? I know he’s upstairs because I remember Victor saying that’s where he sits. But where? I wonder if he’s already seen me and the second that thought crosses my mind, my stomach ties up in nervous knots.

No, I can’t look nervous.

I straighten my back against the chair and take a sip of my water, curling my fingers around the slim glass, all except for my pinky finger which makes me look that much wealthier, or just snootier. For a long time I watch the guests come and go, listen to their pointless conversations and find myself wondering which, if any, of the couples here tonight might end up in Hamburg’s mansion this weekend making a lot of money to let him watch them fuck.

Then I look down at the reddish-purple flower arrangement sitting in a small glass vase in the center of my table. Reaching inside my purse, I pull out my cell phone, pretend to dial and then gently place it near my ear so no one will think I’m talking to myself.

“This message is for Arthur Hamburg,” I say in a low voice, slouching forward a little so the mic hidden in the centerpiece will pick up my voice. “Surely you remember me? Izabel Seyfried. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”