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Page 30.
Chapter 23.
 "Lexa," she heard Arthur say.
She stirred in her sleep on his bed beside him.
"Lexa," Arthur repeated, and she opened her eyes. Was there a note of menace in his tone?
She had had a long, hard day. The murder of Jay Pincus had put everyone at Grace Co. into shock. There were still deadlines to meet, but people had found ways to congregate in corners, in halls, to talk about the menace stalking Raritania. It was clear now the shadowy killer was no longer content to operate in clock towers. A memo from management made the rounds, urging every staff member to use the utmost caution and common sense.
Arthur had invited Lexa over to cheer her up. They had had dinner (seafood crepes in crab sauce, brought up to the penthouse at great expense, with a dryish white wine). Something seemed to be troubling Arthur, but Lexa assumed it was concern for her feelings. They had watched an old movie. Arthur had not been particularly talkative. They had fallen asleep while rain pelted the high windows.
She sat up suddenly, electrified, holding the sheet to her breasts. "What time?" The darkness smelled faintly of sweat. Electronic numbers, blue, told the time: One a.m. She whirled. "Arthur?"
He was naked, was a pasty smudge emanating accusation. "I'm here," he allowed. There was grudge in his voice: Male, choked, angry.
She fumbled for a bedside glass, felt stale water drain through her system relieving dryness. "What?" It was a defensive word.
"I know about your poet."
She rubbed awkward fingers around her eyes. "Arthur, it's one a.m." She felt hunted.
"I know. I'm sorry." He sat puddled in his anger, like a child having wet, and stared at her. "I know it's not the time or the day to bring it up, but I can't help myself."
She lay very still, feeling pinned. "What?" she whispered.
He looked pained. "I don't know why, but I became suspicious. Nothing I could put my finger on. You were so distant at times, maybe kind of cruel. I've felt you pushing me away for months now." A thing sailed down and landed on the bed before her. She looked down, and her heart sank. Symbolist Poets. She recognized the thin, heavy volume just by touching it. And she knew the signed inscription by heart: "To Lexa, Who touched my heart. A summer love, I suppose, fleeting but no less beautiful. Thank you, darling, who gave me shelter..."
She whispered: "That was in my bookcase at home. Oh Arthur."
He nodded. "I happened to pick it out while I was waiting for you to finish dressing this evening at your house. I flipped it open, and that jumped out at me. It's dated August 11 of this year. The past summer. I'm not stupid, Lexa."
Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Nothing happened, Arthur. I swear it." She felt pained and guilty, though nothing more than kisses and touches had happened. "I wish you would believe me. He was just a friend, and he fell in love, I guess. I said no and he went away."
Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed his hair back as though he meant to first gather it and then pull it out. "I don't know what to think."
Lexa cried amid the rubble of her sleep while he went into the bathroom, slamming the lock shut. She felt caught, as if by delayed action. Each time she had been with Xavier, she'd had this crawly feeling up her back that Arthur would somehow know. But how could he? He had been a thousand miles away, buried in his interest tables. Yet here she was, weeks later, confronted by her thoughts, her summer secrets. It had to be some form of telepathy. Something maybe that floated in the air between two old friends, herself and Arthur, like a virus of truth that would strike sooner or later.
Sniffling, she began to pack her overnight bag. Where would this go? Usually if she and Arthur had a disagreement, they would resolve it after a day or two. This, perhaps, was different. She was utterly at a loss. Would they make up? Would he believe her, forgive her? A while later, still feeling groggy from interrupted sleep, she tapped on the bathroom door, kit in hand. "Arthur, sweetheart, I'm sorry. All I did was go to a few movies, lunches, things like that."
She heard the slap of a newspaper, the creak of a toilet seat, the ripping sound of a foot stuck to linoleum.
"Arthur, maybe we can talk about it tomorrow, huh?"
Muffled voice: "I need time to think, Lex."
She thought about that. "Maybe we both do." Was she hearing herself saying this? "Don't forget to take your asthma thing, okay?"
"I won't." The newspaper rattled.
"Okay then," she said. And let herself out.
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