Manhattan shimmers like diamonds on black velvet as the city sprawls around the penthouse tower. A storm is brewing. The skyscraper where we reside creaks as it sways in ever more tempestuous winds. Light rain pelts the windows, clinging to the glass like tears. In the distance, I see lightning. The flashes of destructive beauty briefly illuminate the roiling clouds, then plunge them into stygian black.
My employer sits at his desk, looking at my mobile’s screen. He’s freshly showered and has changed into black silk trousers, and a matching dressing gown belted at the waist. His hair is still damp.
His hand covers his mouth in the absent way of deep thought. A frown sits heavily on his brow.
I wonder if he sees what I do. The woman who left Valon Laska’s body on a blood-drenched lavatory floor carries her clutch tucked under her right arm. When previously photographed, Stephanie Laska carried items tucked under her left arm. The difference is not insignificant when one considers left- and right-handed dominance and the natural tendency to leave the dominant arm unencumbered.
Lily is left-handed.
Mr Black stands and passes my mobile back to me. “I’ll discuss his death with her tomorrow.”
I wait for him to say more, but he rounds his desk.
He pauses beside me, the two of us facing in opposing directions. He sets his hand on my shoulder. “She seems fragile today. I felt it this morning and debated staying home. I don’t want to get upset right now because it’ll upset her. So, let’s pick this up in the morning, okay? That’s soon enough.”
“Of course.” I haven’t noted the fragility of which he speaks. There was some melancholy directly after he left, but Tovah and Salma lifted her spirits. It was fortuitous that they had time available when Lily most needed a distraction.
Why a woman known for having dozens of friends would prefer passing the time with strangers is yet another mystery.
In any case, I’ll have to thank Lacy again for recommending the two women. In the few years she’s been with us, Lacy has proven to be an asset beyond her duties as a member of my household staff.
My employer pauses on the hallway’s threshold. “Gideon Cross gave me a recommendation for a psychologist – a Dr Lyle Petersen. See what you can find out about him, would you?”
“Of course.”
He goes to his wife, and I make my final rounds for the evening. The interior of the penthouse is dark and silent. Outside, fierce winds whistle through the tower’s blow-through floors and sheet lightning flashes below the clouds. The rain is steady now and lashing against the glass.
I collect the delivered dry cleaning from the elevator vestibule cupboard, nodding at the two guards, who are still drinking the coffee I provided earlier. I wonder if my employer will see a need for security services now. I’ll have to convince him that it’s best to leave things as they are for the time being. I’m still unsure whether the threat or not, but caution is the eldest child of wisdom, as Victor Hugo once wrote.
I head down the hallway with its mirrored walls to the private side of the residence Mr Black now shares with a wife we’d thought for ever lost to him. I pause on the threshold of his former bedroom, absorbing the sense of desertion. We freshen the room daily, as we do the entire penthouse, yet there’s a feeling of neglect here. I suppose because it never truly held life. It was a place of stasis, of longing that consumed all hope.
Lily beckons from her place on the wall, a seductive siren luring her husband to join her in an infinite moment. Never evolving or ageing, living or dying.
I stare at her. The image arrests me, as always. She is a mystery as deep and vast as the ocean, a puzzle that remains unsolved. A flurry of questions scratches at the back of my mind, giving me no peace.
In Mr Black’s wardrobe, I hang his garments, then straighten his shoes and adjust the angle of his ties. Lightning flashes with growing frequency as the storm churns in from the Atlantic. I hear voices and find myself moving to the open door of the sitting room.
The television is on, its glow reflected off the various mirrored surfaces. They lie together, Mr Black and the woman whose name we don’t know. He sprawls against the corner of the sectional sofa. She reclines against his bare chest. They watch an improbable motorbike chase in which leather-clad men shoot at each other between fast-moving traffic. He embraces her, his hands stroking her arms in soothing motions. Her long, sleek legs are wrapped in a throw blanket, and his dressing gown has been tossed aside on a chaise. His trouser legs ride halfway up his calves.
Lightning flashes in an explosion of reflected illumination. A moment later, thunder cracks so loudly that I flinch. Everything vibrates.
She gasps, and he laughs, holding her tighter. When she tilts her face up to him, he stares for a long moment, a smile curving his lips. When the lightning strikes again, it illuminates two lovers in a moment of deep connection.
Didn’t I once wonder what a force of nature Mr Black must have been with his wife at his side? As the tempest howls and the tower groans, I realize I was wrong. Together, they are the eye of the storm, anchored and at peace. While destruction and chaos rage around them, they’ve found shelter in one another.
I back away silently.
My employer is correct – tomorrow and all the days that follow will be soon enough to unearth the secrets yet buried.