The Plot полностью

“Your book had its very own table, you’ll be happy to hear, right in the front of the store. Placement is so important to an author, I know. And Crib was number eight on the list that week, the guy at Elliott Bay told me. I didn’t know what ‘the list’ was. Not then. I do now. I couldn’t believe I had to spend my own money to read my own story. My story, Jake. Which wasn’t my brother’s to tell, and it sure as hell wasn’t yours. Before I even left that store I knew I was going to get it back from you, even if it took a while to figure out how. You’d already come through Seattle, on your book tour, and that was annoying, because it meant I had to wait for you to come back, but I started working on Randy as soon as they announced the City Arts lecture. That was my plot, I guess you could call it,” she said with extravagant sarcasm. “And I have to say, I’m pretty impressed with myself, though can you explain to me why should I have to actually marry someone who stole from me, just to get back what was already mine? There’s a subject for a novel, isn’t it? Not that I could write a novel, Jake. Because it’s not like I’m a writer. Not like you.”

He looked vaguely up at her. Already he was having trouble understanding how any of this related to him.

“Hey, wow,” she said. “Your pupils. They’re like little points. And you’re very clammy. How are you feeling, would you say? Because what we’re looking for here is depressed respiration—that’s fancy medical speak for slow breathing—drowsiness, weak pulse. And something they like to call ‘change in mental status,’ but I’m not really clear about what that means. Besides, how am I going to get you to describe your mental status now?”

His mental status was that he wanted it all to stop. But at the same time, he was feeling that he would still scream if only he could figure out how.

“I hate to cut this short,” said Anna, “but I’m going to be stressed about traffic if I stay much longer, so I’m going to head out. I just want to set your mind at ease about a couple of things before I go. First, I’ve left out a lot of food for the cat, and plenty of water, so don’t worry about him. Second, I don’t want you worrying out about how I’ll manage afterward. We got all that legal stuff taken care of, and the new book’s finished, so there shouldn’t be any problems. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Crib went right back up to the top of the Times list after this, and hey, if this nice offer from France is any indication, your new book’s going to do really well, too. You must be relieved. Sometimes that next book after a hit is kind of a letdown, isn’t it? But however it works out, you shouldn’t worry, because as your widow and your literary executor I’ll do everything I can to manage your estate prudently, because that’s my duty and, I think you’ll also agree, my right. And finally, I’ve taken the liberty of writing something along the lines of a suicide note into your phone while we’ve been hanging out here, and I’m making it clear that no one’s to feel responsible for this, and that you were in some kind of awful despair because, well, blah, blah blah, you were being harassed by someone online, and you have no idea who it is, but they accused you of plagiarism and that’s such a devastating experience for any writer.”

She held it up to show him, the phone, his phone, and he could hardly at all make out the blur of the words she’d composed. Sentences: his last, and not even chosen by him, or arranged by him, or vetted by him. It was nearly the worst thing of all.

“I’d read it to you, but I don’t think you’re up to making edits right now, and besides, I really need to go. I’ll leave this out on the kitchen counter so you won’t be bothered by any calls or texts while you’re trying to rest. And I think …” She stopped and looked around at the now darkened room. “Yep. I think that’s it. Good-bye, Jake.”

She seemed to wait for him to answer, then shrugged.

“It’s been very interesting. I’ve learned so much about writers. You’re a strange kind of beast, aren’t you, with your petty feuds and your fifty shades of narcissism? You act like words don’t belong to everyone. You act like stories don’t have real people attached to them. It’s hurtful, Jake.” She sighed. “But I guess I’ll have a long time to get over it.”

She got to her feet.