Page 56 of Twice
LaPorta’s phone buzzed. He read the screen.
“Looks like we’re done here, Alfie Logan.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re going with the police now.”
“But we haven’t finished the story.”
LaPorta rose from his chair. “I’m going to hear another story.”
“What are you talking about?”
He flipped his phone around to show a text.
“We’ve located Gianna Rule. And—what a coincidence—she’s staying on the island.”
“Wait. She’s here?”
“This oughta be interesting,” LaPorta said, grinning.
As the detective opened the door and yelled for the guard, Alfie’s expression changed. He creased a page in the notebook and carefully closed it around his fingers.
Four
The Composition Book
A lot of couples fight over their wedding plans. Gianna and I never got the chance.
Her parents had moved to Abu Dhabi, so finding a date when they could attend was tricky. And whenever we discussed venues, Gianna would say, “I’m happy with anything,” but when I’d suggest a place, she’d scrunch her face and say, “Oh, notthat.”
So we left it open, being in no rush, until one Saturday after a particularly disappointing week. Gianna had submitted photos to a magazine, pictures of birds in various New York City locations—outside a Macy’s window, or sitting on a pretzel vendor’s cart. I thought they were really good. But the magazine rejected them as “too cliché.” Meanwhile, I had finally gotten an appointment with a record company executive but arrived late for our meeting because the subway broke down. They told me he’d gone into another meeting and I should try to reschedule. Instead, Itwicedmyself back to an earlier train, arrived on time, and figured I’d avoided the worst of it.
But once we sat down and started playing my cassette, the executive’s phone rang and he spent the next three minutes in conversation. He hung up as the last notes of my best song ended and said, “Sorry, man, I just don’t hear it.” There was no going back on that.
So Gianna and I were both pretty fed up, and on Saturdaymorning she said, “Let’s drive as far away as we can get in a day.” We rented a car and headed west through the Holland Tunnel, out into New Jersey and on through Pennsylvania, trading frustrations over the people who had rejected us, until the landscape changed and we rolled down the windows and we stopped talking and put some music on the radio. The sky brightened, and eventually we smelled pine needles. We saw a sign that saidallegheny national forest.
“Let’s get out and walk,” I said.
We hiked for an hour without a map or a destination, shedding the city’s weight with every muddy step. Eventually we came upon a small town near the Clarion River. I don’t even remember what it was called. But there was a general store, and we went in to buy something to drink.
A small bell clanged when the door opened. Behind the counter was a tall Black man wearing a tweed cap. He looked to be in his sixties, with a well-trimmed graying beard. We were the only customers, and he smiled broadly at us.
“Here from New York?” he said. His voice was heavily accented.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Well, let me see.” He hooked his fingers together. “You seem weary, as if you have not slept. And you opened the door harshly and entered in a hurry.”
Gianna and I glanced at each other. Had we really become such ugly creatures of the city?
“Also,” the man added, pointing to my chest, “there is that.”
I looked at my T-shirt, which readmanhattan boxing club.The man burst out laughing.
“I am many things,” he bellowed, “but not a mind reader!”
We laughed along. Then Gianna asked, “What other things?” She was always picking up on people’s sentences that way.
