Page 51 of The Vacancy In Room 10

“I don’t know what I’m doing anyway,” he says, and we sit in the hot air for a moment or two. The only sound is the crickets outside the open windows and the hum of the fan. A breeze floats through now and then and rustles the curtains but does little to cool the room.

“I wanted to apologize for my friend first,” I say.

“It’s fine.” He smiles.

“Jesus. What happened to your hands?” I say, noticing the abrasions and blisters.

“Oh, nothing. Just when I pulled this unit out the other day, I started to drop it and sort of cut up my hands trying to catch it before it fell,” he says.

“Oh, wow, looks painful,” I say, and there is something about him that seems different today. A despair that seems almost palpable. A brokenness and a tenseness that I should take as a sign to leave the poor guy alone, but I don’t because I’m feeling the same despair and maybe we can help each other.

“Well, anyway. I appreciate you talking to me before, about Henry. It’s hard not knowing what happened—how this even could happen, so I just need...” I stop and sigh. “I found his journals,” I say, and Callum looks taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

“He kept a journal I didn’t know about, and he, well, I found out that he was having an affair—not just an affair, but he was in love with someone else.”

“Oh, God. I’m sorry,” Callum says. “Like a diary, you mean?” And he seems to be confused by this because, fine, not many men I know keep a journal. I can see how it seems out of the ordinary.

“We met in a poetry class actually. He was an artist—a sensitive guy. It’s not shocking he’d keep a journal,” I say. “I mean, okay, I’m a little shocked to find it, but only because of what was in it. He writes about being in love, and he says he painted the woman, like, a hundred times. That’s probably an exaggeration, but the point is, I need to know who she is. I can’t find any women he painted more than once. I mean, I know you didn’t know him that well, but I thought since you live here, you might, I don’t know...have seen something? Seen him with someone?”

“God,” he says, sipping his beer and leaning back. “That’s a lot for you to deal with after everything that’s happened. I mean, it’s tough, because all the pool girls doted on him, he painted all the kids, he was friendly to everyone, so picking out one person he seems closer with... I don’t know. I was teaching during the day when he was here, and he was home—with you, I assume—in the evening when I was here, so I’m probably the last person who would notice. Did you ask the pool girls? They’re here all day and seem to watch everyone.”

“Yeah. They couldn’t help. I have a theory on why, though,” I say.

“A theory as to why the pool girls are not helpful.” He almost smiles saying this. “I’d love to hear your theory,” he says, and he stands and goes to the tiny kitchen only a few feet away and grabs another beer. That’s when I notice six empties in the sink and how fast he drank the one I gave him, and my instinct that he is having a very rough time right now is confirmed. He sways just slightly when he comes to sit back down, and I’ve only seen him in complete control and being careful with his words, but he seems as tipsy as I am at the moment. I can’t fault him for that.

“I wonder if Rosa is the one he was having an affair with,” I say, and Callum gives me a wide-eyed look that seems to be a mix of surprise and amusement, and I think he even tries not to smirk.

“Okay,” he says. “Go on.”

“We know Eddie is a psycho, right? What if Henry was trying to help her and they got close? Then what if Eddie found out about it, and...” I stop.

“And what?” he asks.

And in this moment, I just decide to tell him everything. I need to tell someone, or I feel like the weight of it all will suffocate me. “And what if Eddie retaliated?”

“Anna, I mean... I don’t know what...” He starts to gently try to ask me what the hell that has to do with suicide, and I just say it.

“They think it’s foul play. They don’t think it was suicide.” And I say this as if there is still room for doubt, even though they are certain it was homicide. Maybe I’m not ready to say it with indisputable certainty.

“Jesus. What?” He moves to the edge of the couch, and for a moment I think he starts to reach to take my hand but stops.

“So it makes sense that with his track record, and an affair, that could be possible. I mean, it’s just a theory, but it’s all I got. God, the more I talk out loud the more I sound like I’m losing it,” I say and put my beer on the coffee table, rubbing my eyes with my palm.

“No, God. I mean, what you’ve been through. I just...can’t believe that. It makes sense you’d try to figure out who would ever want to hurt him. I thought it was a closed case, it sounded like. Who would ever guess foul play? Jesus.” And then he does rest his hand on my knee. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how you feel,” he says, and I lay my hand on top of his. I revel in the comfort of someone’s touch for just a minute before he pulls away self-consciously. He leans back on the couch and sighs.

“Rosa just seems like the last person I imagine having some illicit affair,” he says, in drunken detective mode with me.

“It’s the quiet ones that surprise you,” I say, and he smiles at this.

“You might be right. But let’s say it’s not her. I just want to apologize again for bringing up the girl from the high school, so please don’t jump to any conclusions there.”

“No, I looked that girl up, and she’s a redhead. The woman he was having an affair with had dark hair, dark brown or black,” I say, and he sits up and furrows his brow but then shifts gears.

“So that’s why Rosa,” he says.

“Or Cass, maybe,” I add, to see if he’ll get defensive or give away any clues. “You two seem close. You sure you never saw anything off?” I ask.

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