He reached out to touch her but drew back reflexively from the cold air. He hadn’t been in love with her. He’d loved who she was, and they’d been happy together but they hadn’t been in love. That made it worse, because he wanted to feel grief but felt guilt instead, and a disjointed sadness, even relief. But no real grief.
He pushed the door closed, the rubber seal kissing shut, and he stared vacantly for a few seconds, searching for feelings that wouldn’t come. Eventually, a different line of thought rose up to fill the emptiness, and he thought ahead and thought of Athens. He had a box there. If he was flying out then Athens was the best place to make for. He could stay there a week or so before it became too risky, maybe longer if he had to. And if he did have to move on, it was a good place to move on from. He’d go to Athens that morning, as soon as he’d finished what he had left to do.
He walked back into the bedroom before he left, for one last look, taking it all in, the crumpled, lived-in quality that had always been missing from the living room, the memory of her sitting there on the bed, reading, drinking coffee. It was easier to conjure up her presence there than anywhere else.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the duvet thrown back, and smoothed his hand over the sheet she’d slept on. He picked up the pillow then and held it to his face, breathing in the faint smell of her that remained there, his memory almost overwhelmed by it, by everything it brought to mind.
And then he stood and made to walk out but still turned and looked again. It never ceased to cause him wonder, that here had been a living person and now she was gone, fading away again, the city waking up without her as if she’d never been there. It was an incredible thing, beyond comprehension, as incredible as being there in the first place.
He emerged from the building, the air reviving him. With the sun not on it yet the street was cold and fresh. The taxi driver was still there, like he’d had nowhere to go at that time of the morning, driver door open, one foot resting on the pavement. He was drinking coffee, the flask on the passenger seat, steam creeping up off the cup and out of the car.
He was surprised to see JJ again but made a gesture as if to say he’d finish the drink quickly.
“No, take your time. I’m in no hurry.” JJ got in the back and looked at the building across the street, top half sunlit, the bottom looking like an early taste of winter. It occurred to him that he’d probably never see that street again in winter, that he’d never been to that part of town before he’d met her and would probably never go there again. For some reason it made him sad, sadder even than the thought of never seeing Aurianne again, never seeing her smile, never hearing her speak in English.
The driver seemed nervous with him just sitting in the back like that, silent, eyes on the street, and he finished his coffee quickly anyway, wiping the cup dry with a paper napkin before putting it back on the flask. He closed the door and started the engine and looked in the rearview mirror, eye contact once removed, saying he was ready, but only if his passenger was ready.
JJ responded with a token smile and nodded for him to drive on, giving him general directions at first, then closing in, more specific. When they got there he had him pull up right outside, not down the street like a lot of people would have done. And this time he told him to wait, fifteen minutes or so, told him even that they’d be going to the airport.
He moved quickly through the lobby and up the stairs, opened the lock, let the door slip ajar an inch, and waited, listening. He could hear someone in the kitchen and knew automatically from the time of day what was happening. There were two of them, one sleeping. He couldn’t help but think of Aurianne’s body being eased into her fridge. But this was different; the owner of this apartment was still alive.
He stepped inside and waited against the wall. He could see the door to his bedroom closed and a loaded holster sitting on the low table in the living room, looking like a chic black handbag from that angle. Whoever was in the kitchen deserved a slap for having left it there, but it was the kind of lapse of judgment most people fell into sooner or later.
He came out then, a guy about JJ’s own age or younger, no one he knew, wearing a plain shirt, dark trousers. JJ glanced back at the living room and saw a tie draped over one arm of the chair he’d been sitting on. He was carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and a cup on it, and he was laughing to himself, maybe about how domesticated it all seemed. He shifted the tray into one hand as he got to the bedroom, knocked on the door, got some response, and started to open it.