"It happened Thursday… or Friday. I don't know. But somebody killed him! They stabbed him or something... impaled him." Her voice drops low, cracking as she steps toward me. "They said it was his pointer thingy, that the stick was like, stuck, in his chest! Can you believe it?"
I can't. Her words hit me, bouncing off the surface, refusing to sink in. How can he be dead? "Who did it? Who killed him?"
"Don't know," she says. "The police are investigating, but I don't think they've arrested anyone. It's just... wow. Someone killed him."
"Who would do such a thing?" I look at Naz, who is packing up my books in silence. "Naz?"
He turns at the sound of his name, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Professor Santino... he's dead!"
His expression is stoic. "I heard."
"Can you believe it?"
"Yes," he says, his curt answer catching me off guard. "I'm only amazed it didn't happen sooner."
"What? What do you mean?"
"Daniel didn't have a lot of friends, Karissa," he says. "It was only a matter of time before he pushed the wrong button."
I stare at him. How can he be so unaffected? Sure, Santino wasn't nice, but Naz knew the man.
Melody clears her throat, drawing my attention back to her. She launches into conspiracy theories, who could've done what and why and how, like this is a game of Clue and she can riddle it out with the right game pieces. I listen to her, my attention consistently shifting to Naz. He steadily packs, but I can tell he's listening.
"It's just so crazy," Melody says after a moment. "Thank God we're moving out this week. I don't know if I feel safe here right now, you know? It's creepy."
"I know," I whisper. "My mom always said New York was too dangerous."
A loud whack echoes through the room. I flinch as Melody gasps. My eyes dart to Naz in shock as he reaches down and picks up a textbook from the floor that he dropped. Wordlessly, he places it in the box, continuing on with the others, as if he hadn't interrupted.
"So you're packing now," Melody says. "Are you going home for the summer?"
Before I can respond, Naz interjects. "Forever."
"What?" Melody asks.
"She's going home forever," Naz clarifies.
Melody's gaze shifts between us. "Wait, what? You're moving back in with your mother?"
"No," I say quietly. "I'm moving in with Naz."
These were things I hadn't given much thought to last night. In fact, it didn't really hit me until we landed in New Jersey and Naz told me he'd help me gather my things to move in.
I told him that was crazy; I couldn't live with him.
He told me it would be crazy not to, considering we were engaged.
Melody stares at me with shock, and I almost feel guilty. The girl doesn't know the half of it yet.
"You're moving in together?" she gasps. "Already?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Are you ready for all that?"
Such a loaded question, one I'm not even sure the answer to. Before I can conjure up a response, Naz chimes in, laying it all out on the table. "I certainly hope she's ready, considering she agreed to marry me."
Melody looks like she's been slapped, her eyes so wide I'm surprised they haven't popped out of their sockets. She just stares at me, and I smile sheepishly, holding out my hand to show her the ring.
I expect her to be confused.
Maybe even angry.
But I don't anticipate her excitement.
She lets out the loudest shriek as she grabs my hand, jumping up and down with delight, yelling at me to spill every last detail. I explain what I can, what I remember. It's not much of a story, but the dreamy look she gets in her eyes tells me it's enough to make her swoon.
Naz remains quiet throughout my story.
He's still packing like it's the only thing that matters.
Melody is rambling too fast for me to keep up when a series of familiar beeps rings out in the room, interrupting her train of thought. Naz pulls out his phone, glancing at it, and turns to me. "I have to get going. Have something to handle for work."
"Okay."
"I'll be back to pick you."
"I, uh... I'd rather stay here tonight."
A look of hurt passes across his face, wounded pride, like I've rejected him. "You want to sleep here?"
"Yes. I mean, if you don't mind. I have to finish packing, and it'll give me a chance to catch up with Melody."
Naz looks like he's going to argue, but his phone ringing again stops him. Sighing, he kisses the side of my head and strides toward the door. "I'll be back tomorrow morning."
He walks out without waiting for me to escort him down, and I shrug it off. What are they going to do? Evict me? Certainly isn't the first time he's wandered these halls alone.
I turn to Melody as she flops down on her bed, staring off into space, shell-shocked. "You're engaged."
"I am."
Her skeptical gaze turns to me. "Have you told your mother?"
"No," I whisper. "Not yet."
Loud laughter bursts from Melody, like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard. I smile at the absurdity, although my insides are knotted tightly, so much I can hardly breathe.
My mother's not going to take this in stride.
She's going to think the city corrupted me.
And maybe it has, but I'm happy that way. I can't step in the same river twice, but that's okay, because there are more rivers out there, unchartered water, that I'll get to explore with the man of my dreams.
The sky is still dark. It's so early it barely constitutes 'tomorrow' or 'morning' when Naz reappears at the dorm. He once more makes it up to my room without anyone signing him in, slipping right past the flimsy security of the dorm, reminding me how unsafe a place like this can be. Santino's death lingers on the back of my mind, knowing there's a killer roaming around putting me on edge.
Maybe moving in with Naz is the best idea. At least with him, I'm safe. Nobody is stupid enough to mess with him.
He knocks on the door of the dorm room before dawn, rousing both Melody and me from sleep. We locked the door last night for probably the first time all semester. Melody merely rolls over, throwing her blanket over her head with a groan as I flick on the light and open the door. Naz strolls in, dressed as usual, a pair of black gloves on his hands.
Groggily, I rub my eyes as I survey him. "Is it cold out or something?"
He raises an eyebrow in question. "Why?"
"You're wearing gloves," I point out.
"No," he says, glancing down at his hands, before turning away from me and surveying my things. I finished packing last night, everything shoved into boxes except for my pillow and blanket. "This should all fit in the car, but if not, we can come back for it later."
"Okay."
I flop back down on my bed, yawning, and watch as he stacks boxes and picks them up, heading out the door.
It takes him less than ten minutes on his own to take everything downstairs to the Mercedes, parked in a coveted spot right along the curb. He has it all crammed in and loaded before I even get around to sliding on my shoes. I tell him I'll meet him at the car as I snatch the blanket off of Melody's head and shove her over to sit down.
"What?" she groans, half-asleep. She elbows me as she tries to grab her blanket.
"I'm leaving," I say. "Wanted to say goodbye."
"Later, hooker," she says. "See you later, not goodbye."
"See you later," I say, throwing the blanket back over her head. I stand back up and head for the door.
"So just chill," she calls out. "'Till the next episode."
Rolling my eyes, I head out, finding Naz waiting downstairs with the passenger door open for me. I get in, some anxiety brewing in my stomach when he climbs in beside me.
"You ready to go home?" he asks as he starts the car.
Home. Such a simple word, but the connotation of it makes something inside of me soar. I've never really felt like I was standing on s
table ground, like there was somewhere I could call home permanently. My life has always been a series of temporaries: new towns, new people, new schools, and new houses. New everything. The world around me fluctuated, so many variables in my word problem of life to ever figure out the answer of who I am.
But Naz is my new constant.
My permanent.
He makes it easier to find my answer, to find my place.
My home.
"Yeah," I say, offering him a small smile. "I'm ready."
I'm quiet on the drive to Brooklyn, quiet when we pull up to the house, quiet as we head inside. We unload my things, taking them up to his room… our room… for me to unpack.
"Should I…?" I hesitate, looking at the massive dresser. "Can I…?"
"Whatever you want," he says, answering my unasked questions. "What's mine is yours, Karissa."
There's an extra closet in here, half of the drawers in his dresser empty, like it was all waiting for me to move in all along. Naz lingers in the room while I unpack before excusing himself when his phone rings. He comes back a few minutes later, pausing in the doorway. "I have some work to take care of… I'll be back around noon. Settle in, get comfortable…"
"I will."
He strolls over, kissing me, a smile tugging his lips. "I'm happy you're here."
"I'm happy to be here," I whisper, but he's already gone before the words are from my lips.
I finish unpacking, almost everything I own belonging in the bedroom, before I head downstairs to the den. I take the few DVDs and books I own and put them on his shelves, mixed in with his. When I'm finished, I glance at the time. Barely ten o'clock in the morning. I have at least two hours until Naz gets back, so I do what any self-respecting woman would do when left all alone with her guy's belongings for the first time.
I snoop.
I've seen what Naz has on the surface, but I dig deeper, wanting to see more of the man, the parts of him that are tucked away. I rifle through shelves and cabinets, even searching his junk drawer in the kitchen, before heading back to the bedroom and turning to his things.
You can tell a lot about a person by what they keep hidden in their underwear drawer. It's their private spot, the one place they don't expect anyone to touch out of decency. It's where I always hid my love letters, my birth control when I got it at sixteen without my mother's consent, the vibrator I bought on my eighteenth birthday… but Naz's drawer is a ghost town.
What a letdown.
I shut the drawer, glancing in the others to find nothing out of the ordinary, before heading to his closet. I count a dozen black suits, not including the one he's wearing and whatever's dirty, but he has a good bit of other clothes. I wish he'd wear the others more often. I'm checking out his tie collection, most solid colors, when my eyes drift to the shelf on the top of the closet.
A silver metal case, no bigger than a shoebox, sits in the corner. Curious, I reach up on my tiptoes and pull it down, nearly dropping it as soon as I get my hands on it. It's heavy. I can hear stuff jingling around inside. There's a lock on the box, but I haven't found any keys during my search that would open it.
Scowling, I shake the box, trying to figure out what's inside, before straining my muscles to shove it back up on the shelf.
Another letdown.
Giving up, I head out of the bedroom, looking in closets and scarcely furnished guest rooms, before heading back downstairs. Every other room is exactly as expected… nothing but laundry stuff in the laundry room, a spare room full of exercise equipment, and the massive garage is full of tools, old faded stains on the concrete.
I find a door leading down into what I assume is the basement, a musky, dank odor wafting out of it. There's no light switch, and the stairs are flimsy, the little bit of light filtering down from behind me illuminating tons of cobwebs, so I don't dare go down there.
No thanks.
It's twelve o'clock on the dot when I hear the front door open. I'm sitting on the couch in the den, my feet tucked beneath me as I flip through channels on the television. Naz walks in, letting out a deep sigh as he flops down beside me. He looks older than when he left just hours ago, the bags beneath his eyes heavier, a weariness in his face that hints at exhaustion.
"You look tired," I say, settling on some cooking show.
"I am," he says. "I feel like I could sleep for a week."
"Take a nap."
"I'm not a toddler."
I shrug. "I take naps."
"Yeah, well, it's beauty sleep for the beautiful," he says, looking at me, "but there's no rest for the wicked."
I roll my eyes. "I wouldn't call myself beautiful."
"I would."
"I wouldn't call you wicked, either."
"I would."
"Regardless," I say, "if you're tired, you should go to sleep."
"Yeah, I should," he admits, although he makes no move to go upstairs, settling in on the couch as he kicks his shoes off. "You find anything interesting today?"
My brow furrows. "When?"
"When you went through my stuff."
My heart seems to stop for a second as I turn to him. "Why do you think I went through your stuff?"
"Because you're human," he says. "It's normal to be curious, and you're a smart woman… I'd expect no less."
I'm not sure what to say. He doesn't sound upset in the least, but his matter-of-fact tone, pegging my actions from the start like he knows me better than I know myself, still unnerves me. "No, I didn't find anything."
"Figured you wouldn't," he said. "Nowhere near as interesting as what I found in your drawers in the dorm."
Now my heart does stop. My eyes widen. "You went through my stuff?"
"Of course. I'm human, too."
"What…? When…?"
"When you were sleeping that first night. You woke up and caught me."
I know when he's referring to… he'd been looking at the picture frame on my dresser when I woke up. "So that's what you were doing."
"Yes," he says. "Although, I have to say, I was surprised you only had one vibrator. That's at odds with the vixen you turn into when I get you naked."
Blood rushes straight to my face. I can feel my cheeks flame with embarrassment. I look away from him, covering my face with my hands, as he lets out a loud laugh. Before I can think of something to say he grabs ahold of me, laying down on the couch and pulling me into his arms. I tuck in against him, my head on his chest. "Ugh, I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be." He kisses the top of my head. "Do you use it often?"
"Oh God," I groan, closing my eyes. "You're not helping me not be embarrassed, Naz."
"There's nothing to be ashamed of… I'm just curious."
"No," I whisper. "Not anymore, anyway. Not since you."
Ugh, are we really talking about this?
"Good." I can hear the sleep in his voice. "I'm glad."
"You are?"
"Yeah," he says. "I like to know I can keep you satisfied."
They say what goes around, comes around. Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you. It's the Golden Rule. I've always tried to follow it, to be a good person, but karma has caught up to me.
Dozens of calls. Just as many messages.
I haven't heard from my mother in weeks.
I'm regretting all those times I sent her to my voicemail, regretting the missed calls and days where I didn't respond to her messages. Every time her answering machine clicks on, I grow a little more worried, leaving yet another message she won't respond to.
"Mom, it's me… call me."
"I'm worried, Mom… where are you?"
"Why aren't you calling me?"
"Please, just let me know everything's okay."
I'm in the den, where Naz spends most of his time when he's home, sprawled out on the couch in my pajamas. I've been here for seven days now, and it still feels surreal, like I'm just visiting, although Naz acts like I've lived here all along. His guard dropped easily, quickly, the f
açade of perfection he always carried melted away now that I've moved in.
Today he's sitting at his desk, still wearing a black suit, but he didn't bother putting on a tie and his feet are still bare. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the bottom not tucked in. His laptop is open in front of him as he types away. He's doing whatever it is he does, I'm not entirely sure. I asked and he said 'dealing with people'.
For someone who deals with people every day, I rarely see another living soul come around him.
He works odd hours, leaving occasionally on a whim, slipping away in the middle of the night and returning before I'm awake. I have my suspicions about what kind of dealing he does, but I don't bring them up to him.
Maybe because I don't think he'll admit it.
Or maybe because I'm afraid he will.
Sighing, I open up the contacts on my phone and find my mother's name, hitting the button to call her. Bringing the phone to my ear, I listen as it rings twice. I wait for her machine, the monotone 'leave a message' voice, but instead a series of beeps greets me before the line dies.
I call her back again right away, hoping it's a fluke, once more getting the beeps. My stomach drops. The tape is full. I don't know what to do, what to think, but sickness brews inside of me at the realization.
She hasn't been listening to my messages.
"Do you think I should call the police?"
The typing instantly ceases as Naz's eyes dart over top of the computer, meeting my gaze. "Excuse me?"
"I can't get my mother on the phone," I say. "I haven't heard from her in weeks, so I'm wondering if I should call the police, you know, to have them go check on her."
He stares at me for a moment. "People go weeks without talking to their parents. That's nothing out of the norm. I haven't spoken to mine in months."
His words distract me from the worry. "You have parents?"
"Of course," he says. "I didn't create myself."
I roll my eyes. "I know that. I just didn't realize they were still around. You don't ever talk about them."
"We're not close," he says. "Ray's more of a father to me than my own father ever was."
My curiosity is piqued. He opened the door, so I stick my foot in, seeing how far into the room I can get. "Have you known Raymond long?"