Page 47 of Mr. North
Twelve
Beth
O n the subway, half asleep and drowsy from the heat of so many packed bodies all crushed into such a tight space, I look up at the ads on the other side of the train carriage and I see it. The first of Raphael North’s marketing campaign to win my heart. I know the black and white image is a message from him. It has to be. The image is a chess piece, a pawn, toppled on one side, and above it the words, ‘Checkmate. You’ve got me.’ It can only be a message from Raphael. What could it possibly mean to anyone else?
There isn’t just one of the ads behind the sheet plastic on the wall of the train, either. No, that would have been too easy for me to miss. I stand up, peering through the window at the end of the carriage, into the one ahead of mine, and then in the opposite direction, to the one behind, and every single ad spot in all of the carriages has been taken up the image of the toppled chess piece.
I sit back down, feeling numb. How much did it cost him to do this? How many trains did he buy up all the advertising space on? Was it just this one, on this line, because he knows I use it? Something tells me he bought up the advertising space on every single damn train in New York. Something tells me he did so to ensure I’d see this message and have to respond to it. He couldn’t just message me like a normal human being. A text message would have been too easy. I could have easily ignored a text message. How the hell can I possibly ignore this, though? I sit back down, and the elderly woman in the seat next to me shakes her head, tutting under her breath. “Probably for some new weirdo play,” she says. “None of them make sense no more. Give me Phantom Of The Opera any day.”
I laugh nervously, twisting the fringe on my purse over and over again. There is no other text on the black and white image of the pawn. Just the strapline along the top. What does he expect now? What did Raphael want me to do when I saw this? Call him? Get off the train and head straight back to the Osiris Building? Fall at his feet and thank him for being so romantic and making such a grand, expensive gesture?
I take out my cell phone, bringing up his contact information. Slowly, I type out a response to his message, holding my breath as I do so.
M e: I never said I wanted to win you. I said I wanted honesty.
I hit send, then immediately regret it. Thankfully there’s no reception underground, so the message won’t—
Shit.
Of all the days to get one bar of reception on the damn subway, it would be today. The message makes a shoop ing noise, and a small word pops up underneath the text: delivered. Shit. Shit, fuck, shit.
I’m about to toss my phone back into my bag, when I see the speech bubble pop up below; he’s replying. Call me a glutton for punishment, but I can’t seem to look away.
R aph: Come and see me. I’ll explain everything.
M e: It’s a little late for that. I already got the run down from Nate.
I don’t wantto get Nate into trouble, but I can’t stand this anymore. I need clarity. I need more than half-truths and uncomfortable silences. I need him to be real with me.
R aph: He told me. I was going to explain, Beth. I just needed more time. I needed to figure out how.
M e: It would have been easy. All you needed to do was speak to me.
R aph: Harder than it sounds
M e: No, it’s not. It’s the easiest thing in the world.
R aph: You think it would be easy to tell someone you care about that you killed someone?
F air enough. He has me there. It’s not as simple as that, though.
M e: It wasn’t your fault, Raph. And we’ve wasted all of this time because you feel guilty for something that had nothing to do with you.
H e doesn’t replyfor a long time. I get off the train and start walking, taking the long way in order to avoid any persistent news reporters that might be hovering down the side streets on my normal route from school to home. I let myself into my apartment, and I toss my keys into the bowl beside the door. My phone chimes as I’m taking off my jacket.
R aph: I was driving. I fell asleep. Chloe died. If it’s not my fault, who’s fault is it?
I reply immediately.
M e: Nate said the brake lines on your car were cut.
R aph: He wants to believe that. Please come here. Let me talk to you face-to-face.
M e: Why don’t you come here, Raph? If you want to talk to me that badly, you can make the trip across town. Or are you worried about slumming it over here in Brooklyn?
R aph: I can’t. I can’t leave the penthouse.
M e: Bullshit. Nate said you got 2 years house arrest. That means you were allowed to leave 3 years ago.
