The Follower (29 page)

He had arranged to meet her after work in the lobby of her office building. He spent the entire day preparing for the date, coming up with clever things to say and planning what to wear. He must’ve tried on ten outfits and didn’t like any of them. He wanted to look preppy, but not college preppy—he was striving for an older, more mature preppiness. At around three o’clock, less than two hours before he had to leave to meet Katie, he went into a panic and dashed to Eddie Bauer on Third Avenue and had a salesperson bring him about a dozen different possibilities before he found a black sports jacket, beige chinos, and a black linen shirt that he was pleased with. But he’d spent so much time stressing over what to wear that when he got back to his apartment he barely had time to shower and get dressed. When he arrived at the Lexington Avenue office building, his hair was still damp and he felt unprepared.

Then the doors to one of the elevators opened and Katie appeared and everything was suddenly okay. He remembered about the connection they’d made the other day, and knew that he didn’t have to win her over or try to impress her anymore. All the games were over. She was his now.

She was with a woman, one of her colleagues from work. She introduced Peter to her, but he was only concerned with Katie and barely even looked at the other woman.

When the woman left, Peter and Katie kissed each other’s cheeks and went outside. The narrow sidewalk was crowded with people rushing by in each direction. As Katie was telling him a story about something that had happened at work, Peter was looking for the right time to hold her hand. He wanted to do it sooner rather than later, but he didn’t want to rush it either.

At the corner, Katie said, “So where are we going?” It was a chilly night, and Katie, in a thin suit jacket, seemed cold.

“I thought we’d go to that French place I told you about.”

“Oh,” Katie said.

“Something wrong?”

“No, it’s just, I was hoping to have something lighter tonight. Just a salad or something like that. The food the other night was great, but I gained weight from it.”

“Your body’s beautiful,” Peter said.

Katie waited a moment—she probably wasn’t used to guys saying such nice things to her—then said, “Thank you. Well, I guess French food’s okay. I mean, there should be something low-cal I could order, right?”

Peter was glad Katie changed her mind. He didn’t have a backup plan and had his heart set on going to Café Boulud. He’d even called earlier in the day to make sure that they’d have the most romantic table in the restaurant waiting for them.

Peter figured they’d take a cab uptown, but he hadn’t anticipatéd how hard it would be to hail one on Lexington Avenue during rush hour. They walked over to Park, but every cab was either off duty or filled, or there were a few people on each corner, competing, trying to get in the best positions to hail cabs for themselves.

After a few minutes, Katie, who was shivering, with her arms crossed in front of her chest, suggested, “We can take the subway.”

“That’s okay,” Peter said. The subway wouldn’t be romantic at all and he wanted this night to go exactly the way he’d planned it.

A few more occupied cabs passed by, then Katie said, “Or maybe we can walk. I mean, it’s getting kind of cold, but you said it’s right up on Madison and—”

“No,” Peter snapped. But he covered well, with a smile, and said, “We’ll get a cab in another minute or two. I see a bunch of them coming. Don’t worry.”

The next wave of cabs came by, but they were all taken and it was getting harder for Peter not to show his frustration. He cursed a few times and didn’t even want to look in Katie’s direction. He just prayed a cab would come soon so they could get on with their date.

A navy sedan with a cab label on the windshield came by and there was no passenger inside. Peter had to practically
leap in front of it to get the driver to stop. When he went to the door a young Asian woman arrived at the same time.

“Sorry, this is my cab,” the woman said.

“I’ve been waiting here fifteen minutes,” Peter said.

“So have I and I was here first.”

The woman tried to get to the passenger door but Peter moved in front, blocking her, and said, “You’re not getting in this cab, okay?”

“Yes, I am,” she said.

She wouldn’t give in, and the last thing Peter wanted to do was cause a big scene.

“Get away, you fucking bitch,” he said.

Peter didn’t know why he’d said this. He hadn’t meant to. It had somehow slipped out.

He looked over his shoulder and, thank God, Katie was still on the sidewalk, arms still crossed in front of her chest, and hadn’t overheard.

The tone in Peter’s voice must’ve frightened the woman, or at least let her know that Peter wasn’t the type of guy to get into a fight over a cab with, because she left. Peter motioned with his hand for Katie to come over.

They got in and Peter gave the driver the address. As the cab pulled away, Katie was looking straight ahead and seemed upset, or at least distracted.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard,” Peter said, hoping the sarcasm would break the ice.

Katie smiled for a moment, but still seemed preoccupied.

“Are you cold?” Peter asked. “Should I tell the driver to put on the heat?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you this yet, but you look absolutely gorgeous today.”

“Thank you,” she said, obviously appreciating the compliment. She was used to going out with young, immature, self-centered guys who never commented positively on her appearance. Or, if they did, it was only as manipulation to help them get laid. She definitely wasn’t used to compliments that were heartfelt.

The romantic mood firmly restored, they continued to Café Boulud on Seventy-sixth Street. When the cab pulled in front, Katie’s eyes widened—the look was priceless—and she said, “
This
is where we’re going?”

“Happy?” Peter asked.

“This is gonna cost a fortune,” she said, “and I’m not dressed up enough.”

“Stop it,” Peter said. “You look perfect.”

He took her by the hand and led her inside. The maître d’ led them to the candlelit table toward the back. Peter ordered a bottle of chardonnay and Katie said, “How do you afford all this?”

“It’s just a bottle of wine.”

“But the restaurant Saturday night wasn’t cheap, either. I don’t want you to spend all your money on me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Come on, you don’t have to do this. We can go to some Mexican restaurant or something on Second Avenue. I don’t want you to go broke.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Why won’t it happen?”

“I’ll explain it all to you later.”

“Why do you have to keep it such a mystery?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Not for much longer anyway. Tonight’s the night that all the mysteries will be solved.” He smiled, lifting his glass. “To the most beautiful woman in New York.”

Katie made it into a joke, looking around, as if wondering where the woman was. Peter was annoyed. This was the time for romance, not for joking around.

“I’m serious, you are.”

“Thank you,” she said. They clinked glasses and drank, and then she added, “But you don’t have to keep complimenting me all the time.”

“Why not?” He wanted to hold her hand, but hers were at her sides. Damn it.

“I mean, it’s nice and everything,” she said. “I don’t know. It just makes me a little uncomfortable.”

He understood. It was because of her low self-esteem.

“You
are
beautiful,” he said. “It’s the truth. I was outside today, walking around, and I compared every woman I passed to you, and you know what? It was no contest. You’re the best-looking woman in the whole city.”

“Okay, enough, enough,” Katie said, smiling.

They ordered their dinners. Katie wanted to have just a salad appetizer, but Peter talked her into having the fennel risotto as well. He had the terrine of rabbit and the beef royale.

When the waiter left, Katie said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you—I got some bad news yesterday. They don’t have the guy who killed Andy.”

“They don’t? But I thought you said—”

“They made a mistake. It was the wrong guy.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry.” Peter shook his head in sympathy—that was a nice touch. “How’d you find all this out?”

“That detective called and then he came over to talk to me again.”

“What about?” He wasn’t crazy about the detective having so much contact with Katie, but it was to be expected. She’d been Frat Boy’s girlfriend after all.

“Pretty much the same stuff he asked me the first time. I mean, I had nothing new to tell him.”

Peter took a sip of wine, enjoying its complexity, then said, “I guess that’s true.”

“But,” Katie continued, “he kept asking me questions about Andy’s roommate, Will. I mean, I barely know Will—I met him, like, one time. I went on a double date with him and Andy and my friend Amanda and he seemed like a really nice guy. The detective said he has some past record, that he assaulted some guy in high school, but it sounds crazy to me.”

Peter hoped they pinned it on Will. That would be a very, very convenient development.

Doing whatever he could to get the idea into Katie’s head that Will could’ve done it, Peter said, “You never know. Sometimes the nice guys are the ones you have to look out for.”

Suddenly Katie seemed upset.

“What is it?” Peter asked.

She was starting to cry.

“I didn’t tell you something,” she said.

“Something about what?” He was worried it had to do with him, that he’d let something slip.

“About…about what he did to me.”

“What who did to you?”

“Who do you think? Andy.”

She’d snapped, but Peter wasn’t offended. She was upset and he wanted to be there for her. Her hands were on the table and he reached across and held them. They were warm and soft and perfect.

“Tell me,” he said.

She couldn’t right away. But after crying for a little while longer, then collecting herself, she said, “I think he date-raped me.”

Every muscle in Peter’s body seemed to tense.

“Ow,” Katie said.

He realized he was squeezing her hands too tightly.

“Sorry.” He relaxed his grip but didn’t let go. “Why do you say ‘think’? I mean, did he or didn’t he?”

She explained what had happened the first time they had sex. Hearing about Katie being intimate with someone else, especially that scumbag, was disturbing in itself, but as far as Peter was concerned, there was no ambiguity about any of it—the slimy little cocksucking Frat Boy had raped the woman of his dreams. He was so glad he’d gotten rid of him when he did; if there was a way to kill a person twice, he would’ve done it all over again. God knows how many other women Frat Boy had raped. Peter felt like he’d done the world a service by getting rid of him. He’d certainly made Manhattan a safer place for women.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, trying to soothe her.

“I know,” she said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. He was the one who had some very serious problems. You were a victim.”

“I know, and thank you for saying that. But now, with everything that’s happened, you can understand why this is so hard for me.”

“What do you mean?”

She had to struggle to keep her composure. He continued holding her hands and looked into her eyes as sensitively as he could, because that was what she wanted right now, what she needed.

“With Andy dying and everything,” she said. “I mean, I feel bad; of course I feel bad. But when I think about what he did to me, and what effect it might have on me for the rest of my life even, I can’t help feeling…happy. God, I can’t believe I just said that. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“What he did to me was bad, but he didn’t deserve to be killed. No one deserves to be killed.”

Peter couldn’t have disagreed with this more, but he said, “It’s natural to feel the way you feel. Anyone in your situation would feel exactly the same way.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course. He did something bad to you. Just because he got killed doesn’t change that, and it doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to feel angry about it.”

“Wow, you’re good. You should think about being a therapist.”

Peter wanted to kiss her, but it would’ve been too awkward, leaning all the way across the table.

“You should think about going to a therapist if you think it’ll help,” Peter said.

“No, thanks,” Katie said. “I saw a therapist once in college. I hated it.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of therapy myself. I went after my parents died.”

“How did they die?”

He hadn’t planned to tell her a lot of details—not yet anyway—but he realized it could be a great way to get sympathy from her, and he decided to go with it.

“I didn’t tell you?” he said. “It happened after we moved from Lenox to upstate New York. There was a fire in our house and…it was pretty awful.”

“They were killed in the fire?”

Peter nodded, then said, “Check this out,” and he shifted in
his chair, extended his leg so Katie could see. Then he rolled up several inches of his right pants leg, exposing part of a large area of bubbly white scar tissue.

“My God,” Katie said. “You mean you were in the fire, too?”

“I was sleeping when it started.”

“Jesus.”

“That’s why I wear sweats in the gym all the time.” Peter sat normally in the chair and said, “I woke up in time. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry.”

This time Katie reached across and held his hands. This was working out perfectly. If he’d known it would have this effect, he would’ve told her about the fire days ago.

“I tried to save them,” he said, “but it was impossible. I had nightmares about it for months. I still do.”

“I can imagine.”

“So that’s when I saw the therapist. I didn’t really get much out of it. What helped me more was eastern philosophy. You know, Buddhism.”

“Does that work?”

“It did for me. Hey, if you want to meditate with me sometime, there’s this place I go in the Village. It’s very relaxing.”