Page 46 of Nobody's Fool

Okay, good. That means Anna will most likely be exiting out the front. My eyes scan the crowd while I’m also trying to blend in. I don’t want Anna to see me first and bolt again. That part still confuses me, by the way. Anna or Victoria or Whoever came to my class. Not the other way around. That couldn’t be a coincidence. My class is in the old public bathhouse down on the Lower East Side—that’s not a place you happen by or casually stroll through.

She had come to see me. She had sought me out.

The crowd surged and then began to thin out. Still no sign of Anna. I wondered whether I had missed her. As I said before, there are plenty of exits. I can’t keep my eyes on all of them. I move closer to the standing-room area and look down at the stage.

That’s when I spot her.

She is still in her seat, facing the stage, her back to me. She seems to be still watching the show. Or something. I don’t know what. The dark maroon curtain is closed now. I can’t see her face, but I wonder what the deal is, why she remains in the seat. Does she not want to deal with the crowds? Was she emotionally overwhelmed by the musical? Does she just want to spend a few moments to soak in the grandeur of the ornate art nouveau interior? Does she want to prolong the time she has alone in this quiet theater before Gun Guy bustles her back to her prison-mansion?

I have no idea. But I see no reason to wait.

I start down the aisle toward her. Her seat is primo, centerorchestra, eight or ten rows back. Three, four hundred dollars at minimum. There are a few stragglers, maybe twenty or thirty people left, but there is no one near Anna.

I whisper “Going on mute” into the AirTod microphone and hit the mute button.

Polly says, “Driver is checking his watch, starting to look impatient.”

I keep moving until I reach her row. Anna’s seat is third from the end. I slide in quickly and take the chair next to hers. When I land, she startles and looks at me.

“Anna,” I say.

“Stay away from me.”

She starts to rise. I gently but firmly put my hand on her forearm, trying to figure a way to keep her in place but not wanting to use force. This isn’t easy and I realize I’m probably crossing a line here.

I try again. “Anna—”

“Why do you keep calling me that? That’s not my name.”

I meet her eyes now. In my mind, there is no doubt it’s Anna from Fuengirola, but I also recognize the very human capability of deluding ourselves via our own wants and narratives. So I work to stay neutral.

“Would you prefer,” I say, “that I call you Victoria?”

Her eyes flare and settle. I hit a nerve.

“How did you find me?” she whispers.

“I followed you from my class,” I say. “Didn’t your security guards tell you they threw me off your estate?”

Confusion crosses her face. “What are you talking about?”

“Your house in Connecticut. I tried cutting through the woods, but your driver came at me with a Doberman and a gun.”

Anna shakes her head. “I don’t know you,” she insists, but I hear doubt in her voice. She starts to rise again. When I tighten my grip,she glares at it and then at me. No choice. I have to let her go. She stands. I do the same. I follow her down the row of seats toward the opposite aisle.

“We met in Spain,” I say.

“I’ve never been to Spain.”

“Fuengirola, to be precise. On the Costa del Sol. We met there twenty-two years ago.”

She continues to move, shaking her head almost as though she’s trying to convince herself.

“You’re mistaken.”

“It was you,” I say. “I thought you were dead.”

She shakes her head harder.

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