Dead Politician Society

Chapter 18: Annabel

Annabel shivered as she rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. Her throat hurt and she was cold down to the center of her bones. But the real sign she was getting sick: she didn’t crave alcohol as soon as she opened the door to her condo. She poured a glass of juice, popped a cold prevention pill on the off chance that those actually worked, and changed into her fuzziest pair of sweatpants.

She dialed Matthew. Stupid move. She should be less available, make him chase her, value her, appreciate her.

He didn’t answer, which probably meant he was with someone.

It was six p.m. Too early for dinner, unless it was pre-movie. He might be picking his date up, holding open the door of his fancy Ford Escort. Oh scratch that, of course he wasn’t picking up his flavor of today. On their first date, he’d asked Annabel to meet him at the theater. Not that she had any right to insult Matthew’s car. She didn’t even own one. Which was kind of pathetic at twenty-nine.

At least she owned real estate. Sort of. She sipped her juice and sat on the tan leather sofa that she was halfway through paying for. It was elegant here. Small, simple, but undeniably elegant.

Annabel slipped some jazz into her stereo. She was lucky she was single. The last thing she needed was a man to come in, put up his beer posters and leave rings on her (also half-paid for) glass coffee table. The very last thing she needed was a baby leaving bright-colored building blocks all over the floor while he/she/it screamed unintelligibly about some dire need Annabel would no doubt be neglecting.

Ugh, and now she was stuffed up too. Her nose was running, and—damn, so were her eyes. Was she crying? That was ridiculous. She was acting like a child—sorry for herself because no one was here to make her a big pot of chicken soup.

She grabbed her phone and dialed her sister.

“Hey, leave a message,” said the clipped voice that always had ten other places to be. Of course Kat was off living her own life, maybe still in court or maybe cooking dinner for her daughter while bantering with her husband about who had it worse: the criminal lawyer or the crown.

Maybe Utopia Girl would talk to her. Annabel toyed with her BlackBerry dial until she realized she was waiting for the phone to tell her what was right and what was wrong. Because her own moral compass had no clue.

She turned off the jazz, flicked on the TV, and found a Frasier rerun to keep her company. She pulled her feet up onto the sofa.

Hey Utopia Girl, she typed. Tell me something about your childhood.

The response came in a few minutes.

Utopia Girl: My childhood? Are you my shrink?

Death Reporter: I want to know who you are. Where you come from.

Utopia Girl:Of course you do. You get a scoop like that, you’ll be moved from the obit desk to the police beat. Or any assignment you choose.

Annabel sighed.

Death Reporter: Don’t give me anything incriminating. I’m just curious about what kind of background turns out someone like you.

Utopia Girl: There’s no one like me.

Death Reporter: Well, there’s one of you.

Utopia Girl: What if I said I come from a happy loving home?

Annabel laughed, though she wasn’t sure what was funny. Maybe the cold med was kicking in.

Death Reporter: I guess I’d ask why you’re lying. Or how old you were when things changed.

No response. Annabel tried to focus on Frasier but the intellectual posturing made her think of Matthew. She flipped around until she found a Two and a Half Men she hadn’t seen before.

She felt dread creep through her veins—or maybe that was the virus claiming its grip on her. No wonder the French word for flu was grippe.

She re-read her exchange with Utopia Girl about twenty times, kicking herself mentally for pushing too hard, for not thinking her strategy through before saying any old thing that came into her head. She pulled the quilt from the chair, curled up under it. She wanted tea but didn’t have the energy to stand up and put on the kettle.

And then her phone chirped.

Utopia Girl: I won’t say how old I was—that’s too revealing if the cops get close. But I will say that was the right question. It did all change. And that’s why I’m doing this.

Doing. Present tense.

Death Reporter: In your obituary you talk about launching your campaign to make the world better. Can you talk more about what you mean?

She was careful not to use the phrase political utopia in case this was Matthew on the other end. She didn’t want him twigging that she’d twigged.

Utopia Girl: In time.

Death Reporter: Can you tell me if you’re trying to right a personal wrong or if you have the common good at heart?

Utopia Girl: Yes.

Death Reporter: Yes to which?

Utopia Girl: Yes, it’s one of those. Or both—isn’t altruism always grounded in making your own world better?

Death Reporter: I guess. But murder isn’t often considered altruism.

Utopia Girl: It is when it’s war.

Death Reporter: Is this war?

Utopia Girl: Of course.

Annabel wanted to know if Utopia Girl was insane—like officially, with a diagnosis. But she didn’t know a polite way to ask.

Death Reporter: Did you ever see a shrink when you were younger?

Utopia Girl:Sure.

Death Reporter: Did it help?

Utopia Girl: You’re really asking that?

Death Reporter: Fair point. Were you ever on meds?

Annabel hoped this was a kinder way of saying, Are you crazy?

Utopia Girl: Briefly. One doc prescribed an antipsychotic when he thought I might be schizophrenic. But I hated the way the pill made me feel, so I stopped taking it. And turned out he was wrong, anyway. I wasn’t schizo, just having a rough time adjusting. Adolescent hormones, you know? They can fuck with you.

If she had to guess, Annabel would put Utopia Girl’s age at not much more than a teenager. A student of Matthew’s, most likely. Unless it was Matthew—or Penny—trying to sound like a student.

Utopia Girl: Anyway, nice chatting. I’m off—somewhere I have to be.

Annabel held her eyes shut tight as she willed them not to cry again. Of course Utopia Girl had plans tonight too. Annabel was the only wallflower in this equation.