The Comfort of Black (5 page)

That was the second time in three days she'd remained in bed longer than usual. The bedsheet could have been lead-lined considering how heavy her body felt. She forced her bare feet to the floor, stood, and headed to the kitchen where the coffee maker seemed to shine like a beacon of hope. Zoo pursued, his nails click-clicking on the hardwood floors.

She saw the Post-it pressed against the coffee machine.

I really love you
.

Do you?
she wondered. Such an easy note to write, but it takes a lot more than a few handstrokes to actually mean it.

The theme song from
Six Feet Under
emanated from her cell phone. Hannah looked at the screen. Justine.

“Hey there,” Hannah said.

“Morning. How's the view from the top of the castle today?”

Hannah bristled. She loved her sister but could do without
the constant references to Hannah's wealth. Hannah and her sister had had vastly different lives since moving from Kansas together. Justine finished high school but never went to college. When she turned eighteen, she had moved in with her boyfriend, the first in a series of many of the following decade. Justine's last relationship resulted in a brief marriage that ended with her ex leaving both her and their son, Aikman, behind. As Justine struggled, Hannah thrived. A little over a year and a half ago Justine was pregnant again, this time by an almost-boyfriend who had disappeared two weeks after Justine told him the news. She had kept the baby, and Connor was now nearly a year old.

Hannah knew her bond with Justine was based more on shared childhood hardship than true love and friendship. They had both cowered under the shadow of Billy when they were growing up, though Justine had never felt the hand of her father. Hannah only had once, but that had created a chasm between their childhoods. Billy never directed his rage at Justine, which had always made Hannah jealous. How strange to hate your father but also long for his approval.

“Same as it usually is, Justine. Cloudy.”

“Just wanted to call and check in on you. Haven't heard from you in a few days.”

Hannah sighed. “Yeah, I know. Just…I don't know. Stuff going on.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Stuff.”

“Want to be more specific?”

“Not right now. Later, okay?” She would tell her sister about Dallin. Of course she would, because she always did. But at the moment Hannah didn't want to talk about what Dallin had said in his sleep.

“Did something happen with Dallin?”

Hannah paused. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you're rarely quiet, and when you are, it's either
something with Dallin or it's around Mom's birthday. And that's not for another four months.”

“Yes, Justine. I'm fine.”

“Coffee later? After work and I pick up the kiddos?”

“Sure, that'd be great.”

“Oh, and also, I wanted to know if I could borrow a laptop for a few days. Mine just died and my company can't get me a new one for a few days. I'm sure you guys have a spare that you don't use.”

Don't you rich folks have spares of everything just in case?

It was true, though. She and Dallin each had their own laptops, iPads, iPods, and a spare laptop and desktop. That wasn't because they were rich. It made them like most Americans. Sometimes Hannah thought her sister chose to live on a shoestring budget just to appear to be struggling more than she actually was. Her job as an event planner paid well enough. And hadn't they just given her ten thousand dollars a few months ago? Moreover, Justine hadn't paid back any of the home loan they had given her. Not that Hannah would ever ask—she would never do that—but still…shouldn't Justine at least make the effort?

“Sure,” Hannah said. “I'll bring it this afternoon. It's not real new or anything.”

“Oh, I'm sure it's better than what I had. Thanks, sis. That's a huge help.”

In addition to asking for money, Justine always, but subtly, reminded Hannah how hard it was being a single mom, and how lucky Hannah was to be able to have the freedom not to worry about paying bills. Hannah had retaliated at times, once even telling Justine no one had forced her to have two kids with two different men who clearly had no intention of sticking around. They didn't speak for a week after that fight. Justine had been the first to apologize, but it wasn't long after that Justine also needed help buying a car.

Relax
, Hannah told herself.
You're fortunate to have so much after being raised with so little. Appreciate what you have and share it with your sister. You're family, after all
.

Zoo followed Hannah into the office. For a condo, the office was large, nearly three hundred square feet. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves comprised two of the walls, half filled with technical volumes on computer science, the other half with the kind of escapist literature Hannah used since the time she learned to read.
Pride and Prejudice. Last of the Mohicans. Of Mice and Men
. These were complemented by a whole row of comic books, a lifetime of Sunday newspapers and memories of locking herself in her room and disappearing into the abstract lives of Garfield, Calvin and Hobbes, and Cathy. Cathy was especially unfunny, but Cathy had been there with her simple problems to distract a young Hannah when screams of anger filled their small Kansas home.
Ack!
was much more pleasant to read than
fuck you, whore
was to hear Billy yell at her mother.

There were two desks in the office, one for Dallin and one for her. Dallin's desk was littered with Post-it notes—each containing half-thoughts or reminders understood only by its author—iPad and cell phone accessories, and documents with titles like
Adaptive Behavior-Based Malware Protection
. Hannah's desk was empty save for her laptop and a neatly organized pile of things
To Get To
, which never grew too high.

The spare laptop was in a drawer in Dallin's desk, or was at least the last time she had seen it. She reached down and pulled at the drawer, and then was surprised when it resisted. She tried again with no effect. The drawer was locked. She tried the other drawers. Also locked.

Hannah straightened and stared at the desk as if it was a math problem to solve. Dallin had never locked the desk before. His sensitive work information wasn't stored on his hard drive, much less printed out and filed inside a desk drawer. Most of what was inside the drawers was clutter, the office-supply flotsam and jetsam accumulated over the years.

He
had
mentioned something about the cleaning woman, Hannah remembered. Said something a couple of weeks ago.
I
don't trust her
. Maybe he had started locking the desk to keep her out. But what was he keeping her from?

Hannah normally would have waited for Dallin to come home and have him retrieve the laptop. But now she wanted to know what was in there.

The desks were only about a year old, purchased together. Each came with its own set of two keys, and after they were delivered Hannah took one of his keys and put it with hers, and one of hers with his, so if either lost their set a spare would still exist. It was a smart idea proceeded by neither of them ever actually bothering to lock their desks. Until now.

She opened the top drawer of her desk and found the two brass keys on the thin wire loop, tucked back behind a box of paper clips. She tried the first key on his desk and it slid into the keyhole but did not turn. She tried the second key. It turned easily.

Hannah opened the top desk drawer, the wide, shallow one that could not possibly hold a laptop. As soon as it opened she closed it again, her eyes having only scanned a drawer of office-supply clutter.

She reached down and opened the larger, bottom drawer, the one she had tried earlier. This time the drawer slid easily on its rollers. The spare laptop was there on top of a pile of blank printer paper, just where she remembered it. She lifted it out, along with its power cord, then locked Dallin's desk and put the keys back where she kept them. She would tell Dallin she had opened his desk in order to retrieve the computer. She'd say it matter-of-factly, and might ask why he locked the desk but wouldn't be accusatory about it. That's how married couples were supposed to be. Matter-of-fact. Benefit of the doubt.

Hannah wrapped the cord around the laptop and then noticed something sticking out of the side of it. She recognized what it was, though she had never seen this one before. It was a flash drive, a small storage device no longer than an inch or so.

She pulled it out of the USB slot and turned it over in her hand. Small. Silver.
HP
etched into the side.
16GB
.

I wonder what's on there
, she thought. It wouldn't be hard to solve the mystery. Just plug it into her computer and see what was on it. Dallin had probably grabbed the spare for a presentation he needed to give and put his presentation on the portable drive. There were probably a host of PowerPoint files on it.

She hesitated a moment, as if she had no right to look. But then she assured herself
she
wouldn't mind if he looked at her files. She plugged the flash drive into her computer, took a deep breath, and then sat at her desk. Hannah launched her file browser and navigated to the new device, which the computer told her was named
HP ProStor
.

She clicked on the device name and opened it up. There were only two files. She double-clicked on the first one, the one with a .wmv extension. She was pretty sure that was some kind of video file.

When the video opened, she immediately saw it was footage of Dallin speaking at a conference. He would save these to watch and critique himself. He was a wonderful speaker, but was never happy when he watched these, looking for imperfections, ways to improve. She thought he obsessed over the matter. Truth was, he was compelling to look at and listen to, but he wouldn't ever let himself be happy with his performance.

He used to practice in front of her, in those early days when he wasn't as polished as he was now. She missed those moments, her sitting on the couch, an audience of one, Dallin looking to her for any bit of advice she could give him. Now he just watched video of himself alone.

The other file was much larger than the first, nearly four hundred megabytes, and was an
.avi
file. She double-clicked on it.

At first she didn't think it was going to open, but after a few seconds it did. Another video.

This time, it wasn't Dallin.

The woman in the video was young, probably a decade younger than Hannah. Twenty-two, perhaps. She had brown, kinked hair that fell loosely around perfectly smooth, alabaster cheeks, reminding Hannah vaguely of a woman from the Renaissance. The woman was sitting at her computer staring into a webcam, and the image capture stopped just above the top of her breasts. She seemed to be in a bedroom. A framed Coldplay concert poster adorned the wall behind her.

Her voice was fresh and young, hopeful. Playful. “You want to talk or type, sweetie?”

A long pause.

“Talk.” A man's voice. Dallin.

Hannah's stomach twisted.

The woman—just a girl, really—nodded and smiled. “Okay, then. Your name is Samuel?”

Another pause.

“Samuel, yes.”

Hannah looked at the top rim of the laptop screen to the small circle where the built-in web camera existed. The girl viewed Hannah's husband through this tiny lens.

“Okay, Samuel. I'm Rebecca. Thanks for finding me.”

Silence.

“Are you shy, Samuel?”

“A little.”

“Well, if you're shy now, could be a problem when we meet up.” A crooked, not-so-innocent smile.

Hannah felt sick. She wanted to pretend to have no idea of what any of this was, but she knew. She just
knew
.

“I'm okay,” Dallin said. “It's just a little new for me.”

“Are you married?”

No hesitation. “No.”

Hannah squeezed the mouse in her hand. A thin film of sweat coated her palm.

“Okay, Samuel. Well, no need to be nervous. Let me tell you how all this works.” Rebecca brushed a long strand of hair back behind her ear, which remained for a moment before falling in front of her face again. “First, some ground rules. This is a pre-screen I require of all my clients. Someone who is willing to let me see them on camera is as concerned about being safe and smart as I am. You'd be surprised how many men refuse to do this pre-screen. It also lets us get to know each other a bit, so when we do meet in person we're able to let ourselves fully relax and enjoy…our time together.”

“I understand,” he said. “Makes perfect sense.”

“Also, you can record this video stream if you want—just click on the button on the bottom of the screen. But you cannot distribute it in any way or form. I am also recording this, which is for my own protection, but I value confidentiality as much as I do safety, so as long as we're respectful of each other we won't have any issues. Finally, I won't discuss anything overtly explicit during this conversation nor over the phone, and know that, should we meet, you will be paying for my time and not in exchange for anything of a sexual nature.”

Then Rebecca gave a little wink, and that slight flutter of her eyelid may have well been a knife plunging into Hannah's bowels.

Dallin's brief chuckle rumbled through the laptop speaker.

“I get it,” he said.

“You fucking asshole,” Hannah whispered to the screen. “You motherfucking asshole.”

“Good,” Rebecca said, smiling at Hannah. “Now that's out of the way, let me tell you a little about myself.” Then Rebecca launched into a couple of minutes of what things she liked and didn't like, from a loose description of her educational
background to the kind of dogs she rescued. It was scripted but convincing, the portrait of a young, strong, independent woman who was willing to share but not share too much. Rebecca sounded mature beyond what her age must be, and she smiled enough to seem genuinely interested in the person at the other end of the video stream.