Dead Politician Society

Chapter 10: Annabel

Annabel waited until Matthew’s snores were loud and constant. Instead of putting in her earplugs and curling up a few inches away from him, she slipped noiselessly from her bedroom. She didn’t pause to watch him sleep; the sight could break her heart. So long as she kept her nesting instinct at bay, her so-called relationship was safe. But as soon as she began to demand more than the fragments of himself that Matthew was prepared to give, he would be gone.

So why did she stay with him? That was another day’s question.

She powered up her iMac—a gift to herself when she’d purchased this condo, before she realized a mortgage was something you actually had to pay. Each month. She put the kettle on—stainless steel to match the rest of the kitchen—and prepared her bunny rabbit mug with mint tea.

She opened her blinds and looked at Toronto. She was at Church and Adelaide, slightly east of the the business district. Even the pre-construction price she’d paid stretched her crappy salary to near its breaking point. But it was worth every passed-up pair of shoes to gaze out floor-to-ceiling windows upon the old St. James Cathedral and the St. Lawrence Market beyond.

She put some grapes on a plate. She was tempted to add a cookie, but she hadn’t worked out since Sunday. So no cookie. But half a banana would be okay. It would feel more like a treat than grapes, anyway.

She wished she could be given some kind of sign to know if her plan to contact Utopia Girl was intelligent or just plain dumb. She willed the city to do something dramatic with its lights and skyscrapers. Anything at all to alert her if she was plunging into disaster or rising to meet her destiny. When ten minutes had passed and the cathedral was still standing, she opened her email.

Whatever you do, don’t respond to the email, the strange little man, Detective Inspector Morton, had told Annabel and Penny when he’d spoken to them together at the Star. This “Utopia Girl” person wants attention. Feed that and you’re playing right into their hand.

Annabel clicked the X in the corner to close her email. Who was she kidding, contacting a killer in the hopes of writing a book that no self-respecting publisher would touch? Why did she think she stood a chance in hell of getting out of the rat race?

Penny’s face appeared in her mind, a looming giant head like the Wizard of Oz. They’d never spoken face-to-face until that morning, but within five minutes of meeting, Penny had taken Annabel’s excitement over a scoop and left her feeling like an untrustworthy child. What disgusted Annabel most was her own inability to fight back. It was like Penny shot some kind of stun substance through her eyes that immobilized Annabel—or worse, turned her into a ridiculous pet puppy dog—until Penny was long gone and all Annabel’s pride had vanished with her.

She opened Outlook again. The Wizard of Oz was imaginary, and the only thing stopping Dorothy was herself. What Annabel needed was a healthy dose of confidence. All the self-help articles advised trusting your own strengths, taking chances, acting as if you felt as strong as you hoped to one day become.

Okay, she typed. I’m intrigued. Your obituary isn’t going to print in the Star. The police have issued a ban on publication until you’re caught, so sending it to other papers won’t accomplish anything.

Was this too obvious a lie? Surely Utopia Girl would know that the police couldn’t interfere with freedom of the press. Annabel deleted the last sentence and continued.

But if you give me more, like your motivation and some background info, you and I can turn this into a pretty great book. You’ll get your story told anonymously; I’ll get my name in lights.

Respond to this email address if you’re interested. Or instant message me—my screen name is Death Reporter. Anything you send to my work email will be monitored by my boss and the police.

She clicked Send before she could change her mind.

She looked outside again, saw the glimmering lights of the skyscrapers downtown, the low-rise lofts off to the east. Was her future publisher out there, waiting to meet her? Was her future agent working late tonight, wishing someone would submit something that excited her like Annabel’s project would? And where in the city would Utopia Girl be when she opened the message?