Living Proof, стр. 18
A light tap from the person behind him sent him scooting forward, as the line had cleared five feet ahead of him. How had he planned to approach her? He tried to remember, but the line was moving so fast, and all he could focus on was keeping her in sight. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her talk, begging God to keep her going. If he left the line now to go up to her, it would look bizarre—he was almost at the front. A slow minute ticked away before he reached Aaron Dakota, a gruff-looking man with a gray beard and a permanent slouch who was sitting behind a plastic table.
“What’s your name?” Dakota mumbled as he took Trent’s book.
Trent told him, and added, “Great mystery.” The book’s cunning was indeed a feat, the most enjoyable research for the DEP that he had ever conducted. Arianna, felon or not, had stellar taste in literature.
Dakota smiled after he scribbled his signature, but to Trent’s relief, he had no interest in conversing; he was already eyeing the next person in line. Clutching his copy, Trent walked—slowly, he told himself—to the drink table and poured himself a cup of Coke. Pinned to the wall above the table was a banner with words the color of spilled blood: WHO KILLED MARY FLETCHER?
Trent opened his book, pretending to study a passage while waiting for Arianna’s conversation to wrap up. Her back was to him, but he could overhear what she was saying: “There’s no way the murderer was the sister! How could she have done it if it was mentioned in the fourth chapter that she was taking a shower at exactly that time—it was just one sentence, but look, just wait, let me find it.”
“Hmm,” mused the woman standing across from her. “But if it wasn’t the sister, then it had to have been the boyfriend, who was so likable.…”
Arianna shook her head as she opened her book and started flipping through the pages.
“It wasn’t the boyfriend either,” Trent cut in, sidling up to them. “Hey, I couldn’t help but overhearing.”
They both stared at him expectantly, as if it were natural that a fellow reader should jump into their discussion. He swallowed, realizing that he had hardly contemplated his own theory about the book’s puzzle.
“What I think is,” he said, “that whether the boyfriend seemed likable or not, it would have been arbitrary for him to commit murder with no motive. Dakota’s a better writer than that.”
“I know!” said the other woman, whose blond hair was pulled into a tight bun that made her powdered face seem pinched. “So who do you think it was, then?”
Arianna looked at him; did he detect amusement on her face? Was he saying something idiotic? Yet it was too late to backtrack. He cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, “Think about Max. Even though he was a minor side character, he was a shady guy who had subtle feelings for Mary. He had a motive, then—he couldn’t have her, and if she was dead, no one else could either. And where was he at the time of her murder? Dakota distracts us with the family’s revelation. So we completely switch focus from Max, just like Dakota wanted.”
“What did I tell you?” Arianna said, snapping her own book shut and turning to the woman. “If it was Max, that’s the only way all the unconnected clues in the later chapters make sense. I can’t find them all now, but go back and you’ll see.” She smiled at Trent, seeming to take him in with a fresh perspective. “Impressive.”
“What,” he teased, “you thought you were the only one who got that?”
She smiled, but the woman frowned.
“Just because you two happen to agree doesn’t mean you’re right. The whole stupid book is just about getting people to argue so it will sell.”
“Maybe,” Arianna said. “We’re just saying we think the answer is there, that’s all.”
We.
“Well, I don’t think it’s that simple.” The woman turned on her heel and walked out, with a pointed glance at Trent.
He looked at Arianna with an apologetic shrug, but underneath her raised eyebrows, she was struggling to hide a smile.
“I think we scared her off,” she said.
Trent nodded, feeling his shoulders relax. “Hey, sometimes the truth is hard to handle.” He smiled.
“The funny thing is,” she said, shaking her head, “that woman started the whole discussion with me, and then she ends up complaining about how the book makes everyone want to argue.”
He chuckled and sipped his Coke. Up close, with her black hair pulled into a long ponytail, all the slopes in her face seemed more dramatic: her straight nose, her pointed chin, her cheekbones protruding like tiny rounded cliffs. Nothing about her was soft—as a woman should be, he thought. The intensity of her steel blue eyes reminded him of a man’s.
He pulled the cup from his mouth and extended his hand. “I’m Trent.”
She shook his hand firmly, as he expected. “Arianna. Can you believe the turnout here?”
“No, the line was ridiculous. But it was worth it, to meet Dakota.”
“Yeah.” She looked in the author’s direction. The line was still snaking through the store. “I love his stuff. I wonder if all these people got the same message.”
Trent’s heart pounded. “What message?”
“Oh, I got this note from his publicist on NYfaces. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known to come.”
“Oh, really? I walk past here to go to work every day, so I’ve been seeing his name in the window for a while.”
“Where do you work?”
“I rent some office space in Midtown,” he said, not missing a beat. “I’m a writer.” This he had