Retribution

Chapter Five

The rain was still pouring late that night, attempting to pierce the thick darkness that had fallen as Katherine sat in front of her vanity applying cold cream. Now that she was alone again, the unwanted thoughts that'd been knocking at the door of her mind walked right in. How had Johnny just happened to appear calmly at the professor's house?  And the professor was dead . . . 

            She tried to rein in her thoughts. After all, she didn’t feel as though she could trust her own judgment entirely, since she had been in a state of shock. The only thing that seemed clear was Drake’s body—the eye of the storm—everything else was a blur of events encircling it. How she wished she had thought to ask Johnny more questions before the police got to him. Of course there was a simple explanation. Maybe he knew someone who lived next door, saw me go inside, something like that. This endless waiting and wondering was beginning to wear her down—why didn't he call her?

The loud jangle of the ringing doorbell broke through her musings about the evening. Startled out of her reflections, she squinted up at the clock. Almost midnight. Could it be Johnny? Was it the police again? She hurriedly wiped off the cold cream with a tissue and ran a brush through her hair. Her body screamed at her when she moved; the tiredness in her bones seemed to pound with every movement as she stepped from the bedroom into the small living room. Opening the front door, she stood startled for a moment, the light from her bedroom spilling across the floor and creeping to her feet.

Her fiancé was silhouetted against the bright light of the hallway. He leaned against the doorjamb, looking tired, and gave her a weak smile.

“Johnny!” She pulled him into the apartment and shut the door. “Are you okay? What’s the matter? What happened? She turned their silhouettes into fully fleshed beings by flicking a switch to flood the living room with light. Then she remembered her already-washed face. “I’m a wreck! You should’ve called me before coming over. I don’t even have my face on.”

            He sighed and gave her a half smile. “Don’t worry about it. You always look beautiful.” He tilted up her chin and looked into her eyes for a moment before briefly pressing his lips on her forehead. His eyes searched her living room. “You have anything to drink?”

            “Of course. I’ll get you something. What would you like?” The peaceful world where his kiss had sent her dissipated with his words.

            He removed his hat and placed it on the stand beside the door, strode to her beige couch in front of the dead fireplace and relaxed into the worn cotton tweed as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. “Scotch. No ice.” His hand and the stainless steel lighter in it shook slightly as he lit the cigarette.

            “You should light that thing sometimes.” He nodded to the fireplace, a cigarette in the side of his mouth distorting his words. “It’s chilly in here.”

            In the kitchen, she poured the pale amber liquid into a small crystal glass and looked out. “I know it is. When I’m gone all day it just seems like too much work for only one person.”

He grinned up at her as she brought him his drink. “We’ll fix that soon enough. Where would you prefer to live—your place, or mine? Probably yours; it’s much nicer than mine.” His eyes took in the small room, which looked larger thanks to the large mirror over the fireplace. She’d decorated the room with a mix of beiges, accented with red. Red cushions, tawny curtains, the ceramic lamp bases were admittedly a brighter shade of red than the cushions, but one couldn’t be picky in the face of a bargain.

“Let’s not worry about that now.” She handed him his drink, noticing as she did the haggard lines around his eyes, the tired stoop of his shoulders; he looked spent and beaten. And Johnny was never beaten. “What happened? After I left the police station—did everything go well?”