She held my waist and beat for too long in the slow and rhythmic brass instrument, neither of us knew how to continue. She wears high heels and is only an inch shorter than me. I don't believe I will be so close to her melancholy. The two of us separated and both sat down. It's embarrassing to meet someone in a restaurant for the first time. Meeting someone you have loved, perhaps still in love, is three levels more embarrassing than embarrassment. Too vulgar.
I mean, Caitlin and I have different lives, we ride in different cars, we might get different checks. The key word here is separation. When Caitlin stared at me from across the table, I suddenly thought: I hope we don't separate. Very esoteric, isn't it
Caitlin began to say, "You look good, Thomas."
I thought so too, and then added: "I'm sorry, I disappeared from the earth. I am not used to keeping friends with women after the relationship is self-releasing."
"The relationship itself was not forgiven. You broke up with me." She sneered: "Forgive yourself. I will forgive you."
I laughed, and she laughed, and the black nervous cloud that hung over our heads began to look for other prey. (Within a few minutes, we will always hear this old couple starting to jail for the lost Guinness pills.)
The wine is here. The food is here. The wine is here again. Caitlin and I hit it off, and no one—including me, the waitress, or Miss Cleo herself—would suspect that the two of us drove separately. That afternoon, as soon as I told her that Baxter was lying on my lap, the conversation inevitably turned to us.
Caitlin asked the question, "Are you as painful as me?"
I nodded. "I think we can still become friends." This is a fishing comment, but I am not sure what I am fishing.
Either Caitlin liked the bait, or she wanted to get out of the water completely. She said: "I don't want to be friends with you. I want..."
She stopped, and I saw tears beginning to flow in her eyes. I know I have words to solve everything, for her, for me, maybe even forever, but I didn't say it. She wiped her eyes with a napkin and I said, "Caitlin, I still feel for you. I know I hurt you. If I do this to you again, I cannot forgive myself. But things will happen in the next few days. Happened, I think if we act now, it would be unfair to either of us."
""what's up? Stop talking nonsense. This is why you broke up with me in the first place. Because I did not support you and your theory. If you feel betrayed because I told my story to Alex Tums, I am not sorry. This is your luggage, not mine. It was a terrible time, but I chose to overcome it like everyone else. "
My systolic blood pressure rose by 10 points. "Caitlin, only two people know what happened that night. One is me and the other is not you."
"Yes, but the other person is dead."
"No, someone is dead. The person I'm talking about may be dead or not. I survived. He can do the same."
Caitlin's frustration was manifested in the wrinkles on her face. "Thomas, you almost died. No one knows how you did it. Two gunshot wounds, rolling down from the edge of a cliff, drowning in the Atlantic Ocean for twenty minutes, usually solve the problem."
It's like deja vu, we had the same conversation when we broke up for the first time.
I said: "My only problem is that someone should believe me, but he doesn't believe me. The body found was not the one I killed."
She took a deep breath. "I did the autopsy, Thomas. There was no gunshot wound. The cause of death was brain damage caused by falling off a cliff. The DNA of the skin they found in your nails matches her perfectly. Forensic science will not lie."
She did have one case, but it quickly ended after a minute of repeated inquiries. First, I shot the assailant in the knee, although it was a bit vague, because I had just woke up from a 40-hour nap, and it was only then that I realized it for the first time. As for the skin under my nails, they have never found scratches on Anonymous. There is only one explanation to prove this, which is so far-fetched, I haven't tried it on anyone, at least for now Caitlin. She said four words and walked out of the hotel angrily.
Caitlin felt that changing the topic was her greatest interest. I imagined that she would turn a huge topic turntable from absurd theory to uncomfortable silence to continuous uncomfortable silence, and finally back to us.
Great, my favorite.
Her eyes were staring at me deeply, like she was trying to count my rods and cones, and then she whispered in a calm and restrained whisper, "You are willing to accompany me to attend Lacey’s Do you have multiple sclerosis charity activities?"
Lacey held a gallery opening ceremony for young painters, including herself, and all income was donated to multiple sclerosis. It's next Friday, and I'm not sure if walking into Caitlin Doz's arms is in my best interest. But I rarely do what is best for me, so I said, "I'm happy."
Caitlin reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and turned the knob to point to somewhere between Tristen Greer and us. She said: "I don't know what you think will happen tomorrow, but I don't want you to have too much hope. Nothing will happen. When it doesn't happen, I want you to continue your life and I want to be a part of it. ."
She stood up, kissed my forehead, and then left the Austin room. I think we still can't check out separately.
The signing event was held at the bookstore in Bangor at noon. I left the highway from the Bangor exit and crossed several streets to a large retail store. At the end of two blocks is a huge gray brick border store. A banner on the side of the building informs people that "October to receive the "Eight" signed by the writer Thomas, October 1rì 1:00 noon-afternoon: 00".
I looked at my watch, and it was twelve and two, and there was already a thread around half of the building. When I was parking the car, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten the October book "Eight" on the kitchen table. Instead of going back and forth for forty minutes to retrieve the book, I decided to wipe my wallet from the glove box. Let me think about it, how much did I spend on this boring book? Four times twenty-seven equals.
Damn, if I continue like this, the eighth book in October will be the best-selling book of all time. Be careful, the Bible.
When I reached the end of the line, I couldn't help but notice that the number of men far exceeded the number of women. Then I thought about it, women don’t read real crime types, they read Daniel Steele and Nicholas drummers.
In the store, there are about a hundred people lined up in long lines. I stood on tiptoe and tried to take a look at the distinguished guest, but my sight was blocked by a tall table filled with October's "Eight". The person in front of me turned around and asked: "Did you see the photo?"? Pretty rough shit, isn't it?"
"What photo?" I asked kindly.
He took out a magazine from his back pocket. This is the cover of "Time" in November last year. The title is "Maine Incident." On the left side of the cover is a photo of Tristen Greer's disfigured body. The letters "vs." are separated on the cover, and the right half is an enlarged photo of me wearing a University of Washington hoodie.
I held my breath. The man bypassed the cover and began to flip through the magazine. Before he knew it, he must have noticed something, and finally returned to the cover. He moved his gaze from me to the cover, then watched the action again, and finally asked: "Is that you?"
I assured him that it was not me.
He said, "It's still the same face. The same sweatshirt. I think this is you."
"Well, no." I moved myself as far as possible without losing my position.
The man whispered a few words in the ears of the people in front of him, and everyone in front of them heard them. In less than two minutes, everyone craned their necks to see the famous Thomas Prescott. A brave couple approached me and asked if I would sign their "Eight" magazine in October. I told them politely, if I had a pen, I would. They always provide me with pens, but they always break in half intermittently. It's weird. After writing the third pen, people stopped asking.
The team moved steadily, and by 1:00 PM, I was already 10 people in front of the team. The pile of books is much smaller now, but it still blocks Alex Toums's view. This kind of expectation tortures me, and I want to see what this bastard looks like. He can't be an attractive guy, can he? My brain imagined a half-human half-Jaba image. This may be why they set up a wall of books to hide this beast.
When it was finally my turn, I walked across the book curtain and took a deep breath. Alex Toums is a woman.
Alex, or Alexander, has her eyes fixed on the book she is writing, but I can still recognize most of her facial features. She looks almost 0 years old, 5 feet 6 inches tall, with ponytails, brown mocha hair combed back, and olive skin smooth and delicate. She is wearing faded blue jeans and a simple red vest. I'm not sure if she has three or four brothers. She sensed my existence and said without looking up: "Do you need to buy a book?"
I heard myself say, "Yes, I need a book."
She pushed her work aside, took a new one, kept her head down, reminding you, and then said, "Who do you want to write it to?" (to be continued) (end of this chapter)