Authors: Amy Gutman
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More muffled voices from the other end of the line. “No, I 2
think Joe has them,” she heard Paul say. And then, annoyed, 3
“Well,
ask
him.”
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In her mind’s eye she pictured her fiancé’s office, just five 5
blocks away. Books stacked neatly on his desk. To-do lists beside 6
the phone. The millefleurs paperweight she gave him for Christ-7
mas holding papers in place. Funny how, when she thought of 8
Paul, it was always his office she saw.
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This time, when he came back on the line, he didn’t apologize.
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“Shall I stop by later, then? What time do you think you’ll get 11
home?”
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“You know, I’ve had this headache. I should probably just go to 13
sleep.”
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“Sure? I could give you a back rub.”
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“Oh, that’s sweet, but . . . How about tomorrow? I’m sure I’ll 16
feel better by then.”
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As she ended the call, Melanie realized that she actually did 18
have a headache, a sharp, pulsing pain coiled at the base of her 19
skull. The only thing she’d eaten all day was some low-fat coffee 20
yogurt. She wandered down the hall to a kitchenette with coffee 21
and vending machines.
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She bought a Snickers bar, wolfed it down, then felt a wave of 23
disgust. A particle of chocolate stuck to her hand, and she flicked 24
at it with a finger. But instead of removing the sticky fragment, 25
she’d rubbed it into her skin. Repelled, she stared at the dark 26
brown smudge, its warm waxiness.
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She threw the candy wrapper into the trash and washed her 28
hands at the sink, dried them roughly on paper towels, then 29
crossed the hall to the rest room. Luckily no one else was there.
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She entered a stall and threw up. Except for the candy she’d just 31
eaten, her stomach had been almost empty. She flushed away the 32
evidence and leaned against the door. Her forehead was damp 33
with perspiration. She wiped it away with a hand.
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When she finally emerged, she went to a sink, one of three in 35 S
a row. In her purse, she kept a travel toothbrush in a blue plastic 36 R
case. As she brushed her teeth, she concentrated on the texture 1 1 4
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of the bristles. She counted the strokes off one by one, an effort 1
to keep from thinking. When she’d finished, she combed her hair 2
and painted her lips pale pink. She looked at the mirror but 3
avoided her eyes, not wanting to see the shame. It had been so 4
long since she’d succumbed to the urge, but the feeling was just 5
the same.
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She’d always associated eating disorders with adolescent angst.
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She herself had passed through the teenage years utterly un-8
scathed. At a time when her peers had grown plump and splotchy, 9
she’d stayed clear-skinned and lean. She’d never thought about 10
her weight, not that she recalled. She’d looked in the mirror and 11
liked what she saw. She was beautiful and strong. It hadn’t hurt 12
that she’d been popular. The phone rang off the hook. When she 13
agreed to go out with boys on dates, they’d always seemed so 14
grateful. During those years, she’d never had any doubt that she 15
was the one in control.
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What a shock, then, to find herself at thirty, heaving over a 17
toilet. The first time it happened was after she found Frank in bed 18
with Mary Beth. She still didn’t know what had prompted it, 19
where the idea had come from. But afterwards she’d felt a sweep-20
ing relief, and that had been the beginning. She’d known it 21
wasn’t a long-term answer, but this knowledge had stayed ab-22
stract, somehow remote from her daily life, while the solace was 23
very real.
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She’d been relieved when, after she moved to New York, the 25
urge had sharply abated, assuming that by this time the behavior 26
had served its use. But then, shortly after Paul had proposed, the 27
cycle had started again. During the past few months she’d been 28
better, hadn’t purged at all. She’d kept track of the time on her 29
calendar: 108 days. Again, she’d almost convinced herself that 30
the problem had disappeared.
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There was a full-length mirror by the rest room door, and she 32
gave herself a quick once-over. She was reassured to see that from 33
the outside she looked just fine. And who was to say that it wasn’t 34
real, this image in the mirror? As long as she could still look like S 35
this, everything would be okay.
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On her way back to the library, she ducked back into the 2
kitchenette, filled a paper cup with water and swallowed two 3
Advil. She was glad that Paul had been distracted, that he hadn’t 4
known something was wrong. But beneath the relief was a vague 5
unease that she couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t that she’d 6
wanted him to read her mind, just maybe to notice
something.
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Frank would have noticed immediately, asked what was bother-8
ing her. Before she could push the thought away, she felt it pierce 9
her heart. She put her books on a reshelving cart and decided to 10
call it a night.
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Twenty minutes later, she walked into the lobby of her Central 12
Park South apartment. “Good evening, Ms. White,” the door-13
man said. She couldn’t remember his name. He was new, had 14
been there less than a month, part of a rotating cast. The build-15
ing had several hundred units, a staff of more than a dozen. Each 16
year she wrote out more than a thousand dollars in Christmas 17
checks for the staff.
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Her apartment was on the fortieth floor, with magnificent 19
views of the park. Two bedrooms, a large living room, a galley 20
kitchen, and bath. While she’d lived here now for more than four 21
years, the rooms were sparsely furnished. A white sofa and arm-22
chair. A few good antiques and rugs. She’d come here straight 23
from her marriage, still numb and despairing. She’d wanted 24
someplace impersonal, a temporary refuge. The apartment had 25
been a place she could hide, a place to lick her wounds. While 26
she couldn’t seem to forget the past, at least she could shut it out.
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Tonight, she went straight for the refrigerator and pulled out a 28
bottle of wine. She uncorked the chilled Chardonnay and poured 29
herself a glass. All it took was one long sip, and she felt an instant 30
buzz.
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Already feeling calmer, she drifted into the living room. On an 32
end table next to the couch, her phone message light blinked red.
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Wine in hand, she sat down and punched the replay button. One 34
call from her father. Another from Vivian.
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She found herself recalling Vivian’s words about Paul.
You’re
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not in love with Paul.
The words still stung. She knew that tone of 1
voice, the self-confidence behind it. Still, Melanie told herself, 2
even Vivian could be wrong. She didn’t love Paul the same way 3
she’d loved Frank, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love him. If 4
anything, the opposite was true. Her love for Frank hadn’t been 5
healthy. With Frank, she’d lost all sense of who she was, a moth 6
drawn to a flame. With Paul, she felt exactly the same as she had 7
before they met.
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The wine was making her pleasantly dizzy. She kicked off her 9
shoes and lay down. Her mind floated back to Laura Seton, to the 10
news about Diane. She remembered Diane as she’d last seen her, 11
a beautiful, vibrant woman. It was hard to believe that she was 12
dead, that she didn’t exist anymore. But then, death was always 13
hard to comprehend. She thought of Steven Gage. Even though 14
she’d expected his death, it had still seemed unreal.
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After a while, she got to her feet and went over to a built-in 16
bookshelf. Beneath the shelves was a row of cabinets. She knelt 17
down and opened one. The book was right where she’d thought.
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She pulled it out, turned it over. Her eyes went straight to 19
the watch. A classic Cartier Panther. She herself wore a Cartier 20
watch, though a less expensive model. She’d bought the Tank 21
watch with the crocodile strap with part of last year’s bonus.
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The watch had cost about eight thousand dollars; the Panther 23
ran around twelve.
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Turning the book back over, she stared at Steven Gage, stared 25
at the handsome, rage-filled face of the man whose life she’d tried 26
to save. Veins pulsed grotesquely in his forehead, his eyes bulged 27
wide. His teeth were bared in a wild grimace more animal than 28
human. You had a sense of some terrible pressure building inside 29
his brain, growing stronger and stronger until the skull couldn’t 30
hold it.
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She folded open the cover and turned to the title page.
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The Vanishing Man: The Secret Life of Serial Sex Killer Steven Gage
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By Diane Massey
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She flipped ahead. The section she was looking for was some-2
where toward the end. It took just a few minutes to find. Stand-3
ing up, she began to read.
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It was a week or so before Dahlia Schuyler’s death when Laura noticed
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the missing pair of panty hose, one of three she’d bought at a drugstore sev-7
eral days before. Two of the pairs were skin-toned. The other pair was
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black. Laura was sure she’d stashed all three in a drawer in her bedroom
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bureau. But searching the drawer as she dressed for work, she couldn’t
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find the black pair. All that was left was an empty box. No sign of the
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stockings. Laura knew that she hadn’t opened the box, of that she was pos-12
itive. She was equally sure that Steven had been the only other person who
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could have. No one else had visited her apartment since she’d made the
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trip to the drugstore, which was why she asked him, when he arrived that
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night, if he’d taken the stockings for some reason.
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He’d looked at her without answering, then gone to the kitchen for a
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drink. Vodka, she thought, with orange juice. That’s what he was drink-18
ing in those days. She’d followed Steven to the kitchen, asking him again.
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She’d actually been a little annoyed, which was rare in her dealings with
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him. She hadn’t had another pair of black panty hose and she’d had to
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change her outfit. Because of that, she’d been late to work. Laura hated
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being late.
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Still, he hadn’t answered. He’d downed the drink in a single gulp, then
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filled the glass again. This time the drink was all alcohol. He didn’t add any
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juice. The whole time, he was watching her, his gaze strangely blank. As
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he drained the second drink, she’d stepped forward, suddenly worried that
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he might be ill. After that, she’d forgotten all about the stockings until
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much, much later. Until after Dahlia Schuyler’s death, when, finally, the
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facts slammed home. At night, she’d lie awake for hours, searching for an
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explanation. Not just for the stockings, but for all the things she’d strug-31
gled so hard to ignore.
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The time she’d found a blood-soaked shirt stuffed behind his bed.
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The time she’d swept out her fireplace and found pieces of bone.
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The time she’d found a bag in his car holding knives, a ski mask, gloves.
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The incidents scrambled in her head until she could barely think. Alone
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at night, she could convince herself that they added up to something. But
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then day would come, she’d see him, and her doubts would fade again.
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This was the man whom Laura loved, the man she hoped to marry. Finally,
3