The Animal Hour by Andrew Klavan Read Free Book Online Page A

… unwavering. She rocked a little on the green bench. She pulled her crossed arms in tighter to her middle.
    The park was quieter now. The determined men in suits had stridden away, and so had the women in their curt dresses. She lifted her eyes along the curving path. Over the row of wire garbage cans in the path’s center. Over the leaves stirring around the cans. She could feel how the place had emptied. It heightened her hovering sense of panic. To think that all those people were at work now. Bent to their desks, swiveling in their chairs, sipping their coffee in the bosoms of their normal days. She alone was here. And the occasional workmen bopping past. And the policemen—in the parking lot and on the Hall steps just visible through the trees.
    And the beggars. The homeless men. They hunkered on benches across the way. They hunched or stretched on some of the benches beside her. There were over a dozen of them. In black coats, or wrapped in soiled blankets. In stained, baggy pants. With shirts like rags. White faces, black with grime. Black faces, gray with dust. Eyes balefully glaring.
    I’ll bet some of them hear voices too , she thought.
    She shuddered. Took in another long pull of die autumn air. Her mind was beginning to clear a little now. That cottony feeling between her ears was starting to thin out. Her stomach was still up in her throat, but she didn’t think she was going to vomit anytime soon. She began to release her grip on her middle. She straightened slowly. Sat up against the bench back, her purse by her side.
    Yeah, I’ll just bet they hear voices all the time , she thought.
    She let her breath out in a long stream. So what now? She gazed fuzzily toward the red oaks near Broadway. What the heck, she wondered, was she supposed to do now? Go home? Explain things to Mom?
    Why, you’re home early, dear.
    Yeah. Everyone at work said I wasn’t me.
    Oh that’s too bad. Have some soup. It’ll make you feel better.
    She gave a short laugh. That was no good. She had to go back to the office, that’s all. She had to talk to someone who knew her. Or prove to someone that she was who she was. I mean, I am Nancy Kincaid , she thought; that ought to work to my advantage a little. She imagined herself trying to explain this to her coworkers. She imagined herself being quizzed. The silver-haired, authoritative countenance of Henry Goldstein leaning in toward her. I’m twenty-two years old , she told him. I work for Fernando Woodlawn. I’m his personal assistant. I live on Gramercy Park with my mom and dad. My mom, Nora, who does part-time work at the library. My dad, Tom, who’s a lawyer.
    She tilted her head back carefully. Looked up over the crowns of the trees. She saw the tip of her office building against the cloudless sky. The faint design of its stonework, the shape of its gargoyles, jutting, still. There was a lull in the noise of traffic. She could hear the hiss and splash of the fountain in the grass plot to her left. She gazed at the building a long moment.
    I have always lived in Manhattan , she told Henry Goldstein in her mind. She imagined herself sitting across a desk from him. He leaning back in his chair, finger laid across his lips. His stern eyes narrowed at her. I grew up here , she said. You can ask anyone. Ask Maura. She’ll know me. Maura and I have known each other forever, since we were babies practically. We still see each other almost every weekend. She doesn’t have a boyfriend either, that’s why. I know: It’s arrested development. When you grow up in the city your parents tend to be overprotective. And there’s the Catholic school thing too, like Fernando says. I mean, not that we’re virgins or anything … But that’s another story.
    To be really honest, I’m sometimes afraid Maura will meet someone before I do. I mean, a guy. It’s not that I’m jealous or anything, it’s just …