The Comfort of Black (10 page)

Justine wasn't coming.

Hannah looked up at the digital clock on the bank directly across the street.

It was one past three.

Dallin didn't like it when she was late.

Hannah walked into the lobby of the Four Seasons, sensing, as she always did here, that she entered a luxurious cave. The décor inside was sleek and modern, stone-like, a mix of various shades of tan and gray, as if the builders had constructed the hotel within a huge piece of slate. Modern enough to be cool, but not cold. Everything geometric, particularly rectangular, long shapes along the walls and floor all pieced together, the perfectly achieved Tetris board.

Hannah knew the hotel well. Sometimes, after going to dinner on a Friday or Saturday night, she and Dallin would come and spend the night here on a whim, and their neighbor Cynthia had always been kind enough to take Zoo for the night.

No change of clothes. No toiletries. Just check into a suite, devour one another, then fall asleep naked in each other's arms. And really, wasn't luxury-hotel sex the best kind of all? The different type of furniture, nooks of the room to explore, the king bed with more pillows than seemed necessary until you realized the myriad ways you could contort a body against or around them. Every stay in a hotel, even just for a few hours, was a mini-vacation for them.

They hadn't been to the Four Seasons in a long time. Hannah used to love this hotel. Today, the cool, modern stone felt cold and lifeless, like she was entering a mausoleum. As she stepped inside the lobby, she cursed Dallin for ruining this place for her. Every night they had spent here now was another night Hannah had to reevaluate in her mind, dozens of nights where she no longer knew who it was she'd been naked with.

A sleek, elongated fireplace spat gas-fueled flames at one end of the lobby. It seemed neither cozy nor warm, but instead sterile, utilitarian, simply a device with which to burn things. Dallin was seated on the marble hearth extending from the fireplace, rising when he saw Hannah walking toward him. He wore a suit, something he rarely did at work, not even when there was an investor meeting or a media interview. Dallin only wore suits for special occasions, times of fun: weddings, special dinners, holidays out with his parents. When he wore a tie, it meant there was something to celebrate.

Seeing him in a tie now chilled her, just like the frozen fire he stood before. His face was expressionless.

Hannah clutched her purse and stole a look down into its partially open pocket, eying the can of mace.

He took only one step forward. It was up to her to walk the rest of the way to him. The lobby was quiet, one guest at the front desk, the clerk tapping away on an unseen keyboard. The sound of water falling came from behind her, a rock wall of cascading water she did not see but remembered, the melody of it making her think of a country stream surviving a cold snap, flowing freely, unfrozen, along narrow banks of snow and smoothed rock. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, then fell silent at the transition to the area rug in front of her husband.

She stopped a few feet short of him. Beyond arm distance.

“I'm here,” she said.

“Thanks for coming. How are you?”

“I'm a fucking wreck, Dallin. How are
you
?”

He grimaced and then held an arm out to the side. “Let's go somewhere a little more private.”

“Where?”

“Follow me.”

“I asked where.”

“There's a small meeting room off the lobby. I reserved it.”

“You need a meeting room to explain to me why you cheated and then assaulted me?”

He took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. “Please, Hannah? Can we just go sit and talk?”

“Fine,” she said. “But the door stays open.”

She studied the outline of her husband as they passed through the lobby. The slope of his shoulders. The gait of his walk. All the things about him she knew so well. So intimately. And it had all been a sham. The extent of his masquerade left her feeling not just vulnerable, but incredibly stupid.
How could I not have known?

Past the lobby, down a carpet-lined corridor. Double doors on each side, beside which meeting room placards displayed the name of the various rooms.
Maple Room. Birch Room. Sycamore Room
.

They stopped at
Ash Room
. Beneath the room name was another card-stock sign with one word on it.

Reserved
.

Dallin opened the door and propped it against the outside wall, where it clicked against a magnet and remained open. He gestured her inside.

She walked around him and stood at the entrance to the room. It was just large enough to house a sleek conference table in the center of the room with ten black leather chairs placed around it. They were going to decide their future in a fucking boardroom.

Hannah entered and pulled out the chair closest to the door. She sat down but kept her purse in her lap. In the middle of the table, a silver pitcher wept condensation from the ice water within it. Hannah noticed an empty glass at each chair. She didn't touch hers. The last thing she wanted right now was ice water coursing through her body.

Dallin sat next to her and poured water for both of them, then took a sip of his. Even though the door was open, there was only the faintest murmur of activity from outside the room. Inside, it was quiet as a tomb. She sensed him preparing to talk, so she spoke first. She didn't want him to control the conversation.

“Yesterday morning you attacked me,” she said. “You slammed me against the wall and put your hand on my throat. Do
you have any idea what those seconds did to completely change everything about us?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“Do you, Dallin? Because I can't imagine you're feeling what I am. The confusion. The betrayal.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he remained silent.

“I'm here alone,” she said. “I didn't have to come. Or I could have come with a lawyer. Or the police. But I didn't.” Though I wish Justine had showed up, she thought. “This is your chance, Dallin. If you have something to say to me, in private, now's the time.”

Dallin took a deep breath and studied her. He looked at her the way he used to, a look of wanting. Of hopefulness. The look that said
I'm so happy you chose me
. But he said nothing. Not a word. He just sat there and stared, and Hannah could do nothing but stare back and fight against a blind, stupid hope that he could explain it all away with the one excuse she hadn't thought of, the one that somehow made sense and put everything back to normal. The only one she could think of was that everything was a long nightmare. Or perhaps she was dead and in some kind of purgatory. Maybe she had died after they had sex, and this was all part of a slow journey to heaven. Hannah didn't like the thought of being dead, but somehow it was more a relief than falling helplessly through a bottomless pit.

“Are you going to say anything?”

Dallin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card and a pen. He scribbled on the back of it and showed it to her.

I'm doing this for you
.

Then he put both items back in his pocket.

“What does that even mean?” she asked. “Why won't you talk to me?”

He shook his head and then looked to his left, at the doorway.

Hannah turned around to see what he was looking at.

Peter stood in the doorway, his hulking body seeming to fill it entirely.

“What is he doing here?”

Dallin reached out and put his right hand on top of hers.

“I'm sorry, Hannah.”

She yanked her hand back as she heard the door close. That single click was the sound of something permanent. She looked down at the purse in her lap. The can of mace was still visible.

Stall
.

“Who are you, Dallin? Who are you really?”

Dallin just shook his head. “I'm sorry. That's all I can say.”

She heard his words, and she thought of his note.

I'm doing this for you
.

She had to get out of this room. She didn't know what they planned to do to her, but she was pretty sure Dallin shoving her against the wall would pale in comparison. Peter was there for a reason, and it wasn't mediation.

Dallin looked up at Peter. “She has mace in her purse,” he said.

“Got it.”

“Everything else secure?” Dallin asked him.

“Cameras won't be a problem,” Peter said. “We're good.”

Peter stood behind Hannah, in front of the door, and Dallin sat to her side. She sensed Peter stepping forward so he stood directly behind her chair, so she wouldn't be able to push backward if she tried.

His massive arm snaked around in front of her. Hannah tensed and pushed back into her chair, steeling herself. Peter plucked the purse out of her lap and dropped it to the floor.

She turned to Dallin. “I'll scream.”

Peter's voice in her ear. “Not for very long, you won't.”

Still looking at Dallin, she said, “I'm leaving now.”

Dallin held her gaze for only a moment. “No, Hannah.”

A spike of electricity shot through her, adrenaline telling her to attack or flee. With the spike came anger, the rage of Billy.
Most of her life she learned to curb this impulse, to deny herself the satisfaction of the uncontrolled rage Billy got high from every night. But now, here, trapped in this tiny room, there was no reason for control. There was only rage, and Hannah wanted to kill.

I'm going to rip your fucking eyes out and get the hell out of this room
.

Hannah lunged.

Her scream lasted as long as it took for her fingernails to arc toward Dallin's face. The last thing she saw was the surprise in his eyes, as if he believed she wasn't really capable of anything so aggressive. Little, pretty Hannah, the wife who had supported her brilliant husband, through good times and bad, through the last two years as he had been distant and cold to her, through all the empty liquor bottles in her wake, she had always been there for him. Even after he shoved her against a wall and had nearly strangled her, she hadn't fought back. All she asked was
why
. But now there were no more questions. There was only feral anger.

Before her nails reached his face, Hannah felt herself lift from the chair, a seemingly supernatural force sweeping her up. Then, for a few seconds, she was being smothered, and a deep chemical smell invaded her entire being.

Before there was only blackness, she had a fractured thought that it smelled like nail polish remover.

D
AY
6

Bacon
.

The aroma swam in her head, awakening her senses. Then she heard it, the spitting of the grease on the pan, the sizzling as the strips flipped to a raw side. If this was a dream, it was a good one. Or maybe she was dead and this was heaven. Heaven would definitely have bacon.

Hannah opened her eyes. The room was dark, but enough light spilled in through the edges of a door and a window shade that she could make out shapes. Her head throbbed, a small victory.
Okay, probably not dead
, she thought.
Dead people don't get headaches
.

Where am I?

She felt around her. She was in a bed, and a quick check with her hands confirmed she still had clothes on. She did a mental scan of her body and moved her limbs. No physical problems, except a bad headache.

Wait. There was something else. Pain in her left arm. Localized. Hannah looked down and saw what looked like a fading bee sting in the crook of her elbow. She rubbed at it and found it sore, like a day-old bruise.

The last thing she remembered was being lifted from the chair, right before she slashed at Dallin with her nails. Then the smell of nail polish remover and then the darkness. And then…bacon. That was it.

Hannah sat up in the bed looked around. Her eyes had adjusted
and she could now see more clearly in the partial darkness. The room was small, maybe ten by fifteen, and sparsely furnished. An armoire. Mirror on the wall. One window, one door.

Hannah swung her legs around and placed her bare feet on the cool hardwood floor. She spotted her shoes placed neatly next to the bed and slipped into them.

The smell of bacon grew and made her intensely hungry.

Where's my purse?

She looked around, not seeing it.

She had no concept of what time it was. She had met Dallin at three in the afternoon and had been attacked not long after that. Was it even still the same day?

Hannah walked to the window and pulled the shade to the side. Her view from the ground level was of an endless expanse of trees. She wasn't staring into someone's backyard. She was somewhere in the woods. The pine trees painted a swath of forest green across the landscape, and the smattering of deciduous trees had shed most of their leaves, the ground beneath them coated in spongy layers of red and yellow.

There was no screen behind the window. She scanned the woods again and saw no sign of anyone. Hannah unlatched the window and lifted. It opened with ease. Cool outdoor air flowed into her lungs.

If she was being held against her will, her captors weren't very good at it. She could just open the window and run. But where? How far was she from the next house? Or road? Or even city?

Hannah turned and looked at the door. There was no lock on it. Back to the window, she lifted the shade fully. She searched for the sun above the spiny fingers of the pine trees and found it low in the sky off to her right. She had no idea if that was east or west.

The sound of movement outside the bedroom door. The sound of plates rattling against each other. Clanking metal, a skillet scraping against an cast-iron burner.

Hannah lifted the window a few more inches.