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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used
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Wild Zone copyright © 2010 by Joy Fielding
Still Life copyright © 2009 by Joy Fielding
Charley’s Web copyright © 2008 by Joy Fielding
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THE WILD ZONE
Joy Fielding
Coming soon in hardcover from Atria Books
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The Wild Zone. . . .
elding_StillLife_i-xii, 1-420_PTR.indd 401 8/28/09 11:43 AM

Chapter One
This is how it starts.

With a joke.
“So, a man walks into a bar,” Jeff began, already
chuckling. “He sees another man sitting there, nursing
a drink and a glum expression. On the bar in front of
him is a bottle of whiskey and a tiny little man, no
more than a foot high, playing an equally tiny little
piano. ‘What’s going on?’ the first man asks. ‘Have a
drink,’ offers the second. The first man grabs the bottle
and is about to pour himself a drink when suddenly
there is a large puff of smoke and a genie emerges from
the bottle. ‘Make a wish,’ the genie instructs him. ‘Any-
thing you desire, you shall have.’ ‘That’s easy,’ the man
says. ‘I want ten million bucks.’ The genie nods and
disappears in another cloud of smoke. Instantly, the bar
is filled with millions and millions of loud, quacking
ducks. ‘What the hell is this?’ the man demands an-
grily. ‘Are you deaf? I said bucks, you idiot. Not ducks.’
He looks imploringly at the man beside him. The man
shrugs, nodding sadly toward the tiny piano player on
the bar. ‘What? You think I wished for a twelve-inch
pianist?’ ”

A slight pause followed by an explosion of laugh-
ter punctuated the joke’s conclusion, the laughter
neatly summing up the personalities of the three men
relaxing at the crowded bar. Jeff, at thirty-two, the
oldest of the three, laughed the loudest. The laugh,
like the man himself, was almost too big for the small
room, dwarfing the loud rock music emanating from
the old-fashioned jukebox near the front door and re-
verberating across the shiny black marble surface of
the long bar, where it threatened to overturn delicate
glasses and crack the large, bottle-lined mirror behind
it. His friend Tom’s laugh was almost as loud, and al-
though it lacked Jeff’s resonance and easy command,
it made up for these shortcomings by lasting longer
and containing an assortment of decorative trills.
“Good one,” Tom managed to croak out between a
succession of dying snorts and chuckles. “That was a
good one.”
The third man’s laughter was more restrained, al-
though no less genuine, his admiring smile stretching
from the natural, almost girlish, pout of his lips into his
large brown eyes. Will had heard the joke before,
maybe five years ago, in fact, when he was still a ner-
vous undergraduate at Princeton, but he would never
tell that to Jeff. Besides, Jeff had told it better. His
brother did most things better than other people, Will
was thinking as he signaled Kristin for another round
of drinks. Kristin smiled and tossed her long, straight
blond hair from one shoulder to the other, the way he’d
noted the sun-kissed women of South Beach always
seemed to be doing. Will wondered idly if this habit
was particular to Miami or endemic to southern climes
in general. He didn’t remember the young women of
New Jersey tossing their hair with such frequency and

authority. But then, maybe he’d just been too busy, or
too shy, to notice.
Will watched as Kristin poured Miller draft into
three tall glasses and expertly slid them in single file
along the bar’s smooth surface, bending forward just
enough to let the other men gathered around have a
quick peek down her V-neck, leopard-print blouse.
They always tipped more when you gave them a flash
of flesh, she’d confided the other night, claiming to
make as much as three hundred dollars a night in tips.
Not bad for a bar as small as the Wild Zone, which
comfortably seated only forty people and had room for
maybe another thirty at the always busy bar.
you have entered the wild zone , an orange neon sign
flashed provocatively above the mirror. proceed at your
own risk .
The bar’s owner had seen a similar sign along the side
of a Florida highway and decided the Wild Zone would
be the perfect name for the upscale bar he was planning
to open on Ocean Drive. His instincts had proved cor-
rect. The Wild Zone had opened its heavy steel doors in
October, just in time for Miami’s busy winter season,
and it was still going strong eight months later, despite
the oppressive heat and the departure of most tourists.
Will loved the name, with its accompanying echoes of
danger and irresponsibility. It made him feel vaguely
reckless just being here. He smiled at his brother, si-
lently thanking him for letting him tag along.
If Jeff saw his brother’s smile, he didn’t acknowledge
it. Instead he reached behind him and grabbed his fresh
beer. “So what would you clowns wish for if a genie of-
fered to grant you one wish? And it can’t be anything
sucky, like world peace or an end to hunger,” he added.
“It has to be personal. Selfish.”

“Like wishing for a twelve-inch penis,” Tom said,
louder than Will thought necessary. Several of the
men standing in their immediate vicinity swiveled in
their direction, although they pretended not to be lis-
tening.
“Already got one of those,” Jeff said, downing half
his beer in one long gulp and smiling at a redhead at
the far end of the bar.
“It’s true,” Tom acknowledged with a laugh. “I’ve
seen him in the shower.”
“I might ask for a few extra inches for you though,”
Jeff said, and Tom laughed again, although not quite so
loud. “How about you, little brother? You in need of
any magical intervention?”
“I’m doing just fine, thank you.” Despite the frigid
air-conditioning, Will was beginning to sweat beneath
his blue button-down shirt, and he focused on a large
green neon alligator on the far brick wall to keep from
blushing.
“Aw, I’m not embarrassing you, am I?” Jeff teased.
“Shit, man. The kid’s got a PhD in philosophy from
Harvard, and he blushes like a little girl.”
“It’s Princeton,” Will corrected. “And I still haven’t
finished my dissertation.” He felt the blush creep from
his cheeks toward his forehead and was glad the room
was as dimly lit as it was. I should have finished that
stupid dissertation by now, he was thinking.
“Knock it off, Jeff,” Kristin advised him from behind
the bar. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Will. He’s just
being his usual obnoxious self.”
“You trying to tell me that size doesn’t matter?” Jeff
asked.
“I’m telling you that penises are way overrated,”
Kristin answered.

A nearby woman laughed. “Ain’t that the truth,” she
said into her glass.
“Well, you ought to know,” Jeff said to Kristin. “Hey,
Will. Did I tell you about the time Kristin and I had a
three-way?”
Will looked away, his eyes skirting the dark oak
planks of the floor and sweeping across the far wall
without focusing, eventually settling on a large color
photograph of a lion attacking a gazelle. He’d never
been comfortable with the sort of sex-charged banter
Jeff and his friends seemed to excel at. He had to try
harder to fit in, he decided. He had to relax. Wasn’t that
the reason he’d come to South Beach in the first
place—to get away from the stress of academic life, to
get out in the real world, to reconnect with the older
brother he hadn’t seen in years? “Don’t think you ever
mentioned it,” he said, forcing a laugh from his throat
and wishing he didn’t feel as titillated as he did.
“She was a real looker, wasn’t she, Krissie?” Jeff
asked. “What was her name again? Do you remember?”
“I think it was Heather,” Kristin answered easily,
hands on the sides of her short, tight black skirt. If she
was embarrassed, she gave no sign of it. “You ready for
another beer?”
“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to dish out.”
Kristin smiled, a knowing little half grin that played
with the corners of her bow-shaped mouth, and tossed
her hair from her right shoulder to her left. “Another
round of Miller draft coming right up.”
“That’s my girl.” Once again Jeff’s muscular laugh
filled the room.
A young woman pushed her way through the men
and women standing three-deep at the bar. She was in
her late twenties, of average height, a little on the thin

side, with shoulder-length dark hair that fell across her
face, making it difficult to discern her features. She
wore black pants and an expensive-looking white shirt.
Will thought it was probably silk. “Can I get a pome-
granate martini?”
“Coming right up,” Kristin said.
“Take your time.” The young woman tucked a
strand of hair behind her left ear, revealing a delicate
pearl earring and a profile that was soft and pleasing.
“I’m sitting over there.” She pointed toward an empty
table in the corner, underneath a watercolor of a herd
of charging elephants.
“What the hell’s a pomegranate martini?” Tom
asked.
“Sounds revolting,” Jeff said.
“They’re actually quite good.” Kristin removed Jeff’s
empty beer glass and replaced it with a full one.
“That so? Okay, then, let’s give ’em a try.” Jeff made
a circle in the air with his fingers, indicating his re-
quest included Tom and Will. “Ten bucks each to who-
ever finishes his pomegranate martini first. No gagging
allowed.”
“You’re on,” Tom agreed quickly.
“You’re crazy,” Will said.
In response, Jeff slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar.
It was joined seconds later by a matching one from
Tom. Both men turned expectantly toward Will.
“Fine,” he said, reaching into the side pocket of his
gray slacks and extricating a couple of fives.
Kristin watched them out of the corner of her eye as
she carried the pomegranate martini to the woman sit-
ting at the small table in the far corner. Of the three men,
Jeff, dressed from head to toe in his signature black, was
easily the best looking, with his finely honed features

and wavy blond hair, hair she suspected he secretly
highlighted, although she’d never ask. Jeff had a quick
temper, and you never knew what was going to set him
off. Unlike Tom, she thought, shifting her gaze to the
skinny, dark-haired man wearing blue jeans and a check-
ered shirt who stood to Jeff’s immediate right. Every-
thing set him off. Six feet, two inches of barely contained
fury, she thought, wondering how his wife stood it. “It’s
Afghanistan,” Lainey had confided just the other week,
as Jeff was regaling the bar’s patrons with the story of
how Tom, enraged by an umpire’s bad call, had pulled a
gun from the waistband of his jeans and put a bullet
through his brand-new plasma TV, a TV he couldn’t
afford and still hadn’t fully paid for. “Ever since he got
back . . . ,” she’d whispered under the waves of laughter
that accompanied the story, leaving the thought unfin-
ished. It didn’t seem to matter that Tom had been home
for the better part of five years.
Jeff and Tom had been best friends since high school,
the two men enlisting in the army together, serving sev-
eral tours of duty in Afghanistan. Jeff had come home a
hero; Tom had come back disgraced, having been dis-
honorably discharged for an unprovoked assault on an
innocent civilian. That was all she really knew about
their time over there, Kristin realized. Neither Jeff nor
Tom would talk about it.
She deposited the rose-pink martini on the round
wooden table in front of the dark-haired young woman,
casually studying her flawless, if pale, complexion.
Was that a bruise on her chin?
The woman handed her a rumpled twenty-dollar
bill. “Keep the change,” she said quietly, turning away
before Kristin could thank her.
Kristin quickly pocketed the money and returned to

the bar, the ankle straps of her high-heeled silver san-
dals chafing against her bare skin. The men were now
placing bets on who could balance a peanut on his
nose the longest. Tom should win that one, hands
down, she thought. His nose boasted a natural ridge at
its tip that the others lacked. Jeff’s nose was narrow and
straight, as handsomely chiseled as the rest of him,
while Will’s was wider and slightly crooked, which
only added to his air of wounded vulnerability. Why so
wounded? she wondered, deciding he probably took
after his mother.
Jeff, on the other hand, looked exactly like his
father. She knew that because she’d stumbled across an
old photograph of the two of them when she was clean-
ing out a bedroom drawer, just after she’d moved in,
about a year ago. “Who’s this?” she’d asked, hearing
Jeff come up behind her and pointing at the picture of a
rugged-looking man with wavy hair and a cocky grin,
his large forearm resting heavily on the shoulder of a
solemn-faced young boy.
Jeff had snatched it from her hand and returned it to
the drawer. “What are you doing?”
“Just trying to make room for some of my things,”
she’d said, purposely ignoring the tone in his voice
that warned her to back off. “Is that you and your
dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. You look just like him.”
“That’s what my mother always said.” With that,
he’d slammed the drawer closed and left the room.
“Ha, ha—I win!” shouted Tom now, raising his fist
in the air in triumph as the peanut Jeff had been bal-
ancing on his nose dribbled past his mouth and chin
and dropped to the floor.

“Hey, Kristin,” Jeff said, his voice just tight enough
to reveal how much he hated losing, even at something
as insignificant as this. “What’s happening with those
grenade martinis?”
“Pomegranate,” Will corrected, then immediately
wished he hadn’t. A bolt of anger, like lightning, flashed
through Jeff’s eyes.
“What the hell is a pomegranate anyway?” Tom
asked.
“It’s a red fruit, hard shell, tons of seeds, lots of anti-
oxidants,” Kristin answered. “Supposedly very good for
you.” She deposited the first of the pale rose-colored
martinis on the bar in front of them.
Jeff lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed at it suspi-
ciously.
“What’s an antioxidant?” Tom asked Will.
“Why are you asking him?” Jeff snapped. “He’s a
philosopher, not a scientist.”
“Enjoy,” Kristin said, placing the other two martinis
on the counter.
Jeff held up his glass, waited for Tom and Will to do
the same. “To the winner,” he said. All three men
promptly threw back their heads, gulping at the liquid
as if gasping for air.
“Done,” Jeff whooped, lowering his glass to the bar
in triumph.
“Christ, that’s awful stuff,” said Tom with a grimace
half a second later. “How do people drink this shit?”
“What’d you think, little brother?” Jeff asked as Will
swallowed the last of his drink.
“Not half-bad,” Will said. He liked it when Jeff re-
ferred to him as his little brother, even though, strictly
speaking, they were only half brothers. Same father,
different mothers.

“Not half-good either,” Jeff was saying now, with a
wink at no one in particular.
“She seems to be enjoying it.” Tom nodded toward
the brunette in the corner.
“Makes you wonder what else she enjoys,” Jeff said.
Will found himself staring at the woman’s sad eyes.
He knew they were sad, even from this distance and in
this light, because of the way she was leaning her head
against the wall and looking off into space, her gaze
aimless and unfocused. He realized that she was pret-
tier than he’d first suspected, albeit in a conventional
sort of way. Not strikingly beautiful like Kristin, with
her emerald green eyes, a model’s high cheekbones,
and voluptuous figure. No, this woman’s looks tilted
more toward the ordinary. Pretty, for sure, but lacking
sharpness. Her eyes were her only truly distinguishing
feature. They were big and dark, probably a deep-water
blue. She looks as if she has profound thoughts, Will
was thinking as he watched a man approach her, expe-
riencing an unexpected wave of relief when he saw her
shake her head and turn him away. “What do you think
her story is?” he heard himself ask out loud.
“Maybe she’s the jilted lover of a British prince,”
posited Jeff, downing what was left of his beer. “Or
maybe she’s a Russian spy.”
Tom laughed. “Or maybe she’s just a bored house-
wife looking for a little action on the side. Why? You
interested?”
Was he? Will wondered. It had been a long time
since he’d had any kind of girlfriend. Since Amy, he
thought, shuddering at the memory of the way that had
turned out. “Just curious,” he heard himself say.
“Hey, Krissie,” Jeff called out, leaning his elbows on
the bar and beckoning Kristin toward him. “What can

you tell me about the pomegranate lady?” He pointed
with his square jaw toward the table in the corner.
“Not much. First time I saw her was a few days ago.
She comes in, sits in the corner, orders pomegranate
martinis, tips very well.”
“Is she always alone?”
“Never noticed anyone with her. Why?”
Jeff shrugged playfully. “I was thinking maybe the
three of us could get better acquainted. What do you
say?”
Will found himself holding his breath.
“Sorry,” he heard Kristin answer, and only then
was he able to release the tight ball of air trapped in
his lungs. “She’s not really my type. But, hey, you go
for it.”
Jeff smiled, exposing the two glistening rows of per-
fect teeth that not even the dust of Afghanistan had
been able to dull. “Is it any wonder I love this girl?” he
asked his companions, both of whom nodded in won-
derment, Tom wishing Lainey could be more like Kris-
tin in that regard—hell, in every regard, if he was being
honest—and Will pondering, not for the first time since
his arrival ten days earlier, what was really going on in
Kristin’s head.
Not to mention his own.
Maybe Kristin was simply wise beyond her years,
accepting Jeff for who he was, without trying to change
him or pretend things were otherwise. Clearly, they
had an arrangement they were comfortable with, even
if he wasn’t.
“I have an idea,” Jeff was saying. “Let’s have a bet.”
“On what?” Tom asked.
“On who can be the first to get into Miss Pomegran-
ate’s panties.”

“What?” Tom’s guffaw shook the room.
“What are you talking about?” asked Will impa-
tiently.
“A hundred bucks,” Jeff said, laying two fifties on
the countertop.
“What are you talking about?” Will asked again.
“It’s simple. There’s an attractive young woman sit-
ting all by herself in the corner, just waiting for Prince
Charming to hit on her.”
“I think that might be a contradiction in terms,”
Kristin said.
“Maybe all she wants is to be left alone,” Will of-
fered.
“What woman comes to a place like the Wild Zone
by herself hoping to be left alone?”
Will had to admit Jeff’s question made sense.
“So, we go over there, we chat her up, we see which
one of us she lets take her home. A hundred bucks says
it’s me.”
“You’re on.” Tom fished inside his pocket, eventu-
ally coming up with two twenties and a pile of ones.
“I’m good for the rest,” he said, sheepishly.
“Speaking of home,” Kristin interrupted, looking
directly at Tom, “shouldn’t you be heading back there?
You don’t want a repeat of last time, do you?”
In truth, Kristin was the one who didn’t want a
repeat of last time. Lainey was as formidable a force as
her husband when she was angry, and she wasn’t too
proud to wake up half the city when it came to ferret-
ing out her errant husband’s whereabouts.
“Lainey’s got nothing to worry about tonight,” Jeff
said confidently. “Miss Pomegranate’s not going to be
interested in his bony ass.” He turned toward Will.
“You in?”

“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. What’s the
matter? Afraid you’ll lose?”
Will glanced back at the woman, who was still star-
ing off into space, although he noticed she’d finished
her drink. Why hadn’t he just told his brother he was
interested? Was he interested? And was Jeff right? Was
he afraid of losing? “Do you accept credit cards?”
Jeff laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Spoken like a true Rydell. Daddy would be very
proud.”
“How are we going to do this exactly?” Tom asked,
bristling at all this newfound brotherly camaraderie.
During the almost two decades he and Jeff had been
friends, Will had been nothing but a thorn in his
brother’s side. He wasn’t even a real brother, for shit’s
sake, just a half brother who was as unwanted as he
was unloved. Jeff had had nothing to do with him,
hadn’t spoken to or about him in years. And then, ten
days ago, Will showed up on his doorstep out of the
blue, and all of a sudden it’s “little brother” this and
“little brother” that, and it was enough to make you
puke. Tom gave Will his broadest smile, wishing “little
brother” would pack his bags and go back to Prince-
ton. “I mean, we don’t want it to look like we’re am-
bushing her.”
“Who said anything about an ambush? We just go
over there, thank her for introducing us to the plea-
sures of vodka-laced antioxidants, and offer to buy her
another.”
“I have a better idea,” offered Kristin. “Why don’t I
go over, chat her up for a few minutes, and try to feel
her out, see if she’s interested.”
“Find out her name anyway,” Will said, trying to

think of a way to extricate himself from the situation
without embarrassing himself or alienating his brother.
“How much do you want to bet her name starts with
a J?” Tom asked.
“Five dollars says it doesn’t,” Jeff said.
“More names start with J than any other letter.”
“There are still twenty-five more letters in the alpha-
bet,” Will said. “I’m with Jeff on this one.”
“Of course you are,” Tom said curtly.
“Okay, guys, I’m on my way,” Kristin announced, re-
turning to their side of the bar. “Anything you want me
to say to the lady on your behalf?”
“Maybe we shouldn’t bother her,” Will said. “She
looks like she has a lot on her mind.”
“Tell her I’ll give her something to think about,” Jeff
said, giving Kristin’s backside a playful tap to send her
on her way. All three men followed her exaggerated
wiggle with their eyes as she sashayed between tables
toward the far corner of the room.
Will watched Kristin retrieve the empty glass from
the woman’s table, the two women falling into conver-
sation as easily and casually as if they were lifelong
friends. He watched Miss Pomegranate suddenly swivel
in their direction, her head tilting provocatively to one
side, a slow smile spreading across her face as Kristin
spoke. “You see those three guys at the end of the bar?”
he imagined Kristin telling her. “The good-looking one
in black, the skinny, angry-looking one beside him, the
sensitive-looking one in the blue button-down shirt?
Pick one. Any one. He’s yours for the asking.”
“She’s coming back,” Jeff said as, moments later,
Kristin left the woman’s side and began her slow walk
back to the bar, the three men swaying forward in
unison to greet her.

“Her name’s Suzy,” she announced without stop-
ping.
“That’s another five you owe me,” Jeff told Tom.
“That’s it?” Tom asked Kristin. “You were over there
all that time, and that’s all you got?”
“She moved here from Fort Myers a couple of
months ago.” Kristin returned to her side of the bar.
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot,” she said with a big smile in
Will’s direction. “She picked you.”

ATRIA BOOKS
PROUDLY PRESENTS
STILL LIFE
JOY FIELDING
Available in hardcover from Atria Books
Turn the page for a preview of Still Life. . . .
CharleysWeb_1-600_4P_EP.indd 583 1/26/09 5:14:33 PM

L ess than an hour before the car slammed
into her at a speed of almost fifty miles an
hour, throwing her ten feet into the air, break-
ing nearly every bone in her body and cracking
her head against the hard concrete, Casey Mar-
shall was sitting in the elegant, narrow dining
room of Southwark, one of South Philadelphia’s
more popular white-tablecloth restaurants, finish-
ing lunch with her two closest friends and steal-
ing glances at the beautiful, secluded courtyard
behind their heads. She was wondering how long
the unnaturally warm March weather was going
to last, whether she’d have time to go for a run
before her next appointment, and whether she
should tell Janine the truth about what she really
thought of her latest haircut. She’d already lied
and said she liked it. Casey smiled at the thought
of an early spring and allowed her gaze to drift
over her right shoulder, past the luminous still-
life painting of a bouquet of enormous pink peo-
nies by Tony Scherman, and toward the magnifi-
cent mahogany bar that was the centerpiece of
the restaurant’s front room.
“You hate my hair, don’t you?” she heard
Janine say. “You think it’s too severe.”
Casey looked directly into Janine’s intense
blue eyes, several shades darker than her own. “A
little, yes,” she agreed, thinking that the sharp,
geometric angles of the blunt cut that hugged
Janine’s long, thin face put too much emphasis
on the already exaggerated point of her chin.
“I was just so tired of the same old thing all

the time,” Janine explained, looking to their
mutual friend, Gail, for confirmation.
Gail, sitting beside Janine and across from
Casey at the small, square table, nodded oblig-
ingly. “A change is as good as a rest,” she said half
a beat behind Janine, so their sentences over-
lapped, like a song being sung in rounds.
“I mean, we’re not in college anymore,” Janine
continued. “We’re over thirty. It’s important to
stay current. . . .”
“Always good to stay current,” Gail echoed.
“Anyway, it was time to move on. That’s
what you always say, isn’t it?” The question was
accompanied by such a sweet smile that it was
difficult to know whether to take offense. What
wasn’t difficult for Casey to figure out was that
they were no longer talking about hair.
“Time for more coffee,” Gail announced, sig-
naling the waiter.
Casey decided to ignore the deeper implications
of Janine’s remark. What was the point in reopen-
ing old wounds? Instead, she offered up her gold-
rimmed white china cup to the handsome, dark-
haired waiter, watching as the hot brown liquid
cascaded artfully from the spout of the silver cof-
feepot. While Casey knew Janine had never quite
gotten over her decision to leave the legal place-
ment service they’d cofounded fresh out of college
to start her own business in the totally unrelated
field of interior design, she’d talked herself into
believing that after almost a year, Janine had at
least made peace with it. What complicated things

was the fact that Casey’s new business had taken
off running, while Janine’s had ground to a halt.
And who wouldn’t resent that?
“It’s amazing how everything you touch turns
to gold,” Janine regularly observed, always with
the dazzling smile that accompanied the vaguely
unpleasant undertone in her voice, making Casey
question the validity of her instincts. It’s prob-
ably just my guilty conscience, Casey thought
now, not sure what she should feel guilty for.
She took a long sip of her coffee, feeling it
burn the back of her throat. She and Janine
had been friends since their sophomore year at
Brown. Janine had just made the switch from
prelaw to honors English; Casey was double-
majoring in English and psychology. Despite the
obvious differences in their personalities—Casey
generally the softer, more flexible of the two,
Janine the more brittle and outgoing; Casey the
more conciliatory, Janine the more confronta-
tional—they’d clicked immediately. Perhaps it
was a case of opposites attracting, of one woman
sensing something in the other that was lacking
in herself. Casey had never tried too hard to ana-
lyze the forces that had brought them together, or
why their friendship had endured a decade past
graduation, despite the myriad changes those ten
years had brought, changes that included the dis-
solution of their business partnership and Casey’s
recent marriage to a man Janine described—com-
plete with dazzling smile—as “fucking perfect, of
course.” Casey chose to be grateful instead.

Just as she was grateful for her other close
friend, Gail, a young woman much less compli-
cated than either Casey or Janine in virtually
every respect. Casey had known Gail since grade
school, and although more than twenty years had
passed, Gail was essentially the same guileless,
open-faced girl she’d always been. With Gail,
what you saw was what you got. And what you
got was a thirty-two-year-old woman who, despite
much hardship, still ended almost every sentence
with a giggle, like a shy teenage girl, eager to be
liked. Sometimes she even giggled in the middle
of a sentence, or even while she was speaking, a
habit that was as disconcerting as it was endear-
ing. Casey considered it the auditory equivalent
of a puppy offering up its stomach to be stroked.
Unlike Janine, there were no pretenses where
Gail was concerned, no hidden agendas, no par-
ticularly deep thoughts. She generally waited until
she knew how you felt about something before
offering up an opinion of her own. Occasionally
Janine grumbled about Gail’s naïveté and “unre-
lenting optimism,” but even she’d been forced
to agree that Gail was such a pleasant person, it
made you feel good just to be around her. And
Casey admired the skill involved in being able to
listen to both sides of an argument and make each
party believe you were on her side. It was prob-
ably what made her such a good saleswoman.
“Everything okay?” Casey asked, turning her
attention back to Janine and praying for a simple
yes in response.

“Everything’s fine. Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem a little . . . I don’t
know.”
“Of course you do. You know everything.”
“You see—that’s exactly what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“Am I missing something here?” Gail asked,
large brown eyes darting nervously between the
two women.
“Are you angry at me?” Casey asked Janine
directly.
“Why would I be angry at you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking
about.” Janine touched the gold locket at her
throat and adjusted the collar of her crisp white
Valentino blouse. Casey knew it was Valentino
because she’d seen it on a recent cover of Vogue.
She also knew that Janine couldn’t afford to pay
almost two thousand dollars for a blouse, but
then, Janine had been dressing beyond her means
for as long as Casey could remember. “It’s very
important to wear nice clothes,” Janine had said
when Casey questioned one of her more exorbi-
tant purchases. Followed by: “I may not have been
born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I know
the importance of dressing well.”
“Okay,” Casey said now, picking up the silver
spoon next to her coffee cup and turning it over
in her hand before letting it drop. “That’s good.”
“So maybe I am a little irritated,” Janine con-

ceded with a shake of her newly geometrically
cut hair. Several straight black strands caught
the side of her generous mouth, and she impa-
tiently brushed them aside. “Not at you,” she
added quickly. “It’s just that little twerp, Richard
Mooney—you remember him?”
“The guy we set up at Haskins, Farber?”
“The one and only. Jerk finishes in the bot-
tom third of his graduating class,” she explained
to Gail. “Has zero social skills. Can’t get a job to
save his life. Nobody, but nobody wants to hire
him. He comes to us. I tell Casey he’s a loser,
we shouldn’t take him on, but she feels sorry for
him, says we should give him a shot. Sure. Why
not? She’s leaving soon anyway, as it turns out.”
“Whoa,” Casey exclaimed, raising her palms in
protest.
Janine dismissed Casey’s objection with a
megawatt smile and a wave of her long, French-
manicured fingernails. “I’m just teasing you.
Besides, we did take him on, and a few months
later you were gone. Isn’t that true?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“So that’s all I’m saying.”
Casey was having a hard time figuring out
exactly what Janine was saying. She would have
made a great lawyer, Casey was thinking, wonder-
ing why they were talking about Richard Mooney
at all.
“So back to Richard Mooney,” Janine said, as
if Casey had voiced her confusion out loud. She
returned her attention to Gail. “Sure enough, we

were actually able to do something for that little
twerp. Turned out one of the partners at Haskins
had a soft spot for Casey. She batted her eye-
lashes at him a few extra times and he agreed to
give Mooney a try.”
“That was hardly the reason,” Casey interjected.
“Anyway, Mooney goes to work at Haskins, lasts
barely a year, then gets canned. Of course, by now,
Casey’s in her new role as decorator to the stars.
And who’s left to deal with the fallout?”
“What fallout?” Gail asked.
“What stars?” asked Casey.
“Well, I can’t imagine Haskins, Farber is too
happy,” Janine said. “I can’t see them beating
down my door in the near future, looking for a
replacement. But guess who does show up at my
door first thing this morning? The little twerp
himself! He wants a job, says we screwed up the
first time by sending him to Haskins, we should
have known it would be a bad fit, and that it’s up
to me to find him a more suitable position. When
I suggested he go elsewhere, he got quite upset,
demanded to know where the person in charge
was. That person, I assume, being you.” Janine
nodded toward Casey. An oblong chunk of blue-
black hair fell across her left eye. “He raised quite
a ruckus. I almost had to call security.”
“That’s awful,” Gail said.
“I’m so sorry,” Casey apologized. Janine was
right—it had been her idea to take Richard Mooney
on; she had felt sorry for him; maybe she had batted
her eyelashes at Sid Haskins a few extra times.

“It’s not your fault,” Janine said. “I don’t know
why I let him get to me. I must be PMS-ing.”
“Speaking of which . . . well, no, not exactly,”
Casey said, stopping to debate with herself
whether to continue, then plunging ahead. “War-
ren and I have been talking about having a baby.”
“You’re kidding,” said Janine, thin lips open-
ing, long chin dropping toward the table.
“I can’t believe you waited until the end of
the meal to tell us such exciting news,” said Gail,
punctuating her sentence with a laugh.
“Well, it’s just been talk up until now.”
“And now it isn’t?” Janine asked.
“I’m going to stop taking the pill at the end of
the month.”
“That’s fantastic,” Gail said.
“Are you sure this is the best timing?” Janine
questioned. “I mean, you haven’t been married all
that long, and you’ve just started a new business.”
“The business is doing great, my marriage
couldn’t be better, and as you pointed out ear-
lier, we’re not in college anymore. I’m going to be
thirty-three on my next birthday. Which should
be just about when the baby would be born. If
things go according to plan, that is.”
“And when haven’t they?” Janine asked with a
smile.
“Good for you.” Gail reached across the table
to pat the back of Casey’s hand. “I think it’s
great. You’ll be a terrific mom.”
“You really think so? I didn’t have a very good
example.”

“You practically raised your sister,” Gail
pointed out.
“Yeah, and look how well that turned out.”
Casey glanced back at the still-life painting over
her shoulder and took a deep breath, as if trying
to inhale the scent of the blush-pink peonies.
“How is Drew anyway?” Janine asked, although
the tone of her voice indicated she already knew
the answer.
“Haven’t heard from her in weeks. She doesn’t
phone, doesn’t return my messages.”
“Typical.”
“She’ll call,” Gail said. This time no soft giggle
accompanied her words.
Janine signaled the waiter for the bill by wig-
gling her fingers in the air, as if she was already
signing the check. “Sure you want to give up that
perfect body?” she asked Casey as the young
man brought the bill to the table. “It’ll never be
the same, you know.”
“That’s all right. It’s . . .”
“. . . time to move on?” Janine quipped.
“Your boobs will get bigger,” Gail said.
“That’ll be nice,” Casey said as Janine divided
the amount.
“Fifty-five apiece, including tip,” Janine announced
after several seconds. “Why don’t you give me the
money and I’ll put it on my credit card to speed
things up?”
Casey knew Janine’s request had nothing to do
with saving time and everything to do with writ-
ing off today’s lunch as a business expense. “So,

what are you up to this weekend?” she asked,
handing Janine the appropriate amount of cash.
“I have a date with that banker I went out
with last week.” Janine’s blue eyes were already
growing opaque with boredom.
“That’s nice,” Gail said. “Isn’t it?”
“Not really. But he has tickets for Jersey Boys,
and you know how hard it is to get tickets, so
how could I refuse?”
“Oh, you’ll love it,” Casey said. “It’s fabulous.
I saw the original on Broadway a few years ago.”
“Of course you did.” Janine smiled as she
pushed herself off her chair and to her feet. “And
this week you’ll be with your fabulous husband,
making fabulous babies together. I’m sorry,” she
said in the same breath. “I’m being a real bitch.
For sure I’m PMS-ing.”
“Where are you off to now?” Gail asked Casey.
“Think I’ll just stick around here. I was debat-
ing going for a run, but I don’t think I have
enough time before my next appointment.”
Casey checked her watch. It was a gold Cartier,
a gift from her husband on their second anniver-
sary last month.
“Save your energy for tonight,” Janine advised
now, leaning forward to kiss Casey on the cheek.
“Come on, Gail, I’ll give you a ride back to
work.”
Casey watched her two friends walk down
South Street arm in arm, thinking them an inter-
esting study in contrasts: Janine tall and con-
tained, Gail shorter and spilling out in all direc-

tions at once; Janine an expensive glass of cham-
pagne, Gail a mug of draft beer.
Which made her—what? Casey wondered.
Maybe she should try something more current.
Although when had long blond hair ever really gone
out of style? And it suited the soft oval of her face,
her fair complexion, and delicate features.
“Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t prom
queen,” Janine had said shortly after they met,
and Casey had laughed and kept silent. What
could she say, after all? She had been prom queen.
She’d also been captain of the debating and swim
teams, and scored near perfect on her SATs, but
people were always less interested in that than in
how she looked and how much she was worth.
“Someone just told me your old man is worth
gazillions,” Janine had remarked on another occa-
sion. Again Casey had remained silent. Yes, it was
true her family was almost obscenely wealthy. It
was also true that her father had been a notori-
ous ladies’ man, her mother a self-absorbed alco-
holic, and her younger sister a drug-fueled party
girl on her way to becoming a total screwup. Four
years after Casey graduated college, her parents
were killed when their private jet crashed into
Chesapeake Bay during inclement weather, offi-
cially making her sister a total screwup.
It was these thoughts that were absorbing
Casey’s attention as she walked along South
Street, Philadelphia’s answer to Greenwich Vil-
lage, with its collection of pungent smells, seedy
tattoo parlors, funky leather shops, and avant-

garde galleries. Truly a world unto itself, she was
thinking as she crossed into South Philly and
headed toward the large indoor parking garage
on Washington Avenue. That was the problem
with having lunch in this area—it was almost
impossible to find a place to park, and once you
got away from South Street, the dividing line
between Center City and South Philadelphia,
you were pretty much in Rocky territory.
Casey entered the parking garage and took the
elevator up to the fifth floor, retrieving her car keys
from her oversize black leather bag as she walked
toward her white Lexus sports car at the far end of
the platform. She heard the gunning of an engine
in the distance and looked over her shoulder, but
she saw nothing. Aside from the rows of multicol-
ored automobiles, the place was deserted.
She didn’t hear the car until it was almost
on top of her. She was approaching her Lexus,
right arm extended, thumb on the bottom of the
remote to unlock the driver’s door, when a silver-
colored SUV came careening around the cor-
ner toward her. She didn’t have time to register
the driver’s face, to ascertain whether a man or
woman was behind the wheel. She had no time
to get out of the way. One minute she was walk-
ing toward her car, the next she was being pro-
pelled through the air, her arms and legs shoot-
ing in four different directions at once. Seconds
later, she came crashing down, a limp repository
of broken bones, her head slamming against the
hard pavement.

Shortly after that, the SUV disappeared into
the streets of South Philadelphia, and Casey
Marshall slipped into oblivion.
She opened her eyes to darkness.

And not just ordinary darkness, Casey
thought, straining to catch even a glimmer of
light. It was the blackest black she’d ever seen, a
wall of impenetrable density she couldn’t see over
or around, affording not even a hint of shading
or shadow. As if she’d fallen into a deep under-
ground cave. As if she’d accidentally stumbled
into the black hole of the universe.
Where was she? Why was it so dark?
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
Was she alone? Could anybody hear her?
There was no answer. Casey felt a tiny bubble
of panic materialize inside her chest and tried to
control its growth with a series of measured, deep
breaths. There had to be a logical explanation,
she assured herself, refusing to give in to her fear,
knowing that if she did, it would expand until
there was no room for anything else, and then
the now monstrous bubble would burst, spread-
ing its poison throughout her veins and circulat-
ing to every part of her body.
“Hello? Can anybody hear me?”
She opened her eyes wider, then squinted, hear-
ing Janine’s reprimand in the back of her head,
reminding her that squinting causes wrinkles.
“Janine,” Casey whispered, vaguely recalling their
lunch together. . . . When? How long ago?

Not long, Casey decided. Hadn’t she just left
her? Yes, that was right. She’d had lunch with Jan-
ine and Gail on South Street—she’d had a deli-
cious warm chicken and papaya salad and a glass
of pinot grigio—and then she’d headed over to
Washington Street to retrieve her car. And then
what?
And then . . . nothing.
Casey pictured herself walking up the sloping
concrete of the old parking garage toward her car,
heard the heels of her black Ferragamo pumps
clicking along the uneven pavement, and then
another sound, a rumble, like distant thunder.
Coming closer. What was it? Why couldn’t she
remember?
What was happening?
It was at that precise moment Casey realized
she couldn’t move. “What . . . ?” she began, and
then stopped, the bubble in her chest instantly
metastasizing into her throat, robbing her of her
voice. Why couldn’t she move? Was she tied
down?
She tried to lift her hands but she couldn’t feel
them. She tried kicking her feet, but she couldn’t
locate them either. It was as if they didn’t exist,
as if she were a head without a torso, a body
without limbs. If only there was some light. If
only she could see something. Anything that
would give her a clue as to her predicament. She
didn’t even know if she was lying down or sitting
up, she realized, trying to turn her head; when
that failed, she strained to lift it.

I’ve been kidnapped, she thought, still trying to
make sense of her situation. Some lunatic had
snatched her from the parking garage and bur-
ied her alive in his backyard. Hadn’t she seen a
movie like that a long time ago? It starred Keifer
Sutherland as the hero and Jeff Bridges as the vil-
lain, and hadn’t Sandra Bullock played the small
part of Keifer’s girlfriend, the poor unfortunate
who was chloroformed at a gasoline station and
came to in an underground coffin?
Oh God, oh God. Had some lunatic seen that movie
and decided to play copycat? Stay calm. Stay calm.
Stay calm.
Casey fought to regain control of her now
ragged breathing. If she had been kidnapped, if
she was lying in a coffin beneath the cold ground,
that meant her supply of air was limited, and it
was imperative she not waste it. Although she
didn’t feel a lack of air, she realized. Nor did she
feel cold. Or hot. Or anything.
She felt nothing at all.
“Okay, okay,” she whispered, straining to see
traces of her breath in the darkness. But again
there was nothing. Casey closed her eyes, count-
ing silently to ten before reopening them.
Nothing.
Nothing but deep, unending blackness.
Was she dead?
“This can’t be happening. It can’t be.”
Of course it wasn’t happening, she realized
with a sudden rush of relief. It was a dream. A
nightmare. What was the matter with her? Why

hadn’t she realized this before? She could have
spared herself a lot of needless grief and wasted
energy. She should have known all along she was
dreaming.
Now all she had to do was wake herself up.
Come on, silly. You can do it. Wake up, damn you.
Wake up.
Except she couldn’t remember having gone to
bed.
“But I must have. I must have.” Obviously,
the whole day had been a dream. She hadn’t met
with Rhonda Miller at nine o’clock this morning
to discuss her ideas for decorating the Millers’
new riverside condominium. She hadn’t spent
a couple of hours checking out the wide assort-
ment of materials on Fabric Row. She hadn’t
met her friends for lunch at Southwark. They
hadn’t talked about Janine’s hair or her unpleas-
ant encounter with Richard Mooney. The little
twerp, Janine had called him.
Since when had she ever been able to recall
her dreams in such vivid detail? Casey wondered.
Especially while she was still dreaming them.
What kind of nightmare was this? Why couldn’t
she wake up?
Wake up, she urged. Then again, aloud, “Wake
up.” And then, louder still, “Wake up!” She’d read
somewhere that you could sometimes jolt yourself
awake with a loud scream, a scream that would
literally push you from one level of consciousness
to another. “Wake up!” she screamed at the top of
her lungs, hoping that she wouldn’t frighten War-

ren, who was undoubtedly sleeping peacefully
beside her in their king-size bed, his arms wrapped
loosely around her.
Maybe that was why she couldn’t move. Maybe
Warren had fallen asleep with his body draped
across her side, or maybe their down-filled com-
forter had twisted itself around her, like a cocoon,
preventing her from moving or feeling her arms
and legs. Except Casey knew even as she was think-
ing these thoughts that they weren’t right. She’d
always been able to sense when her husband was
close by. Now she had no sense of anything.
Warren Marshall was almost six feet tall and
185 pounds of well-toned muscle, thanks to thrice-
weekly workouts at the small boutique gym in the
upscale Main Line suburb of Rosemont, where they
lived. Casey could detect no hint of his presence, no
whiff of his clean, masculine smell.
No, she realized, as a new bubble of fear took
root in her belly. Warren wasn’t here. Nobody
was here. She was all alone.
And she wasn’t dreaming.
“Somebody,” she cried. “Somebody, please
help me.”
Her words echoed in her ears, causing only a
few ripples in the overwhelming silence that sur-
rounded her. Casey lay in her black hole, waiting
in vain for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and
cried into the void.

Heartstopper_567-82_printer 1/17/08 12:21 PM Page 567
ATRIA BOOKS
PROUDLY PRESENTS
CHARLEY’S WEB
Joy Fielding
Available from Atria Books in hardcover
Turn the page for a preview of Charley’s Web. . . .

From: Irate Reader

To: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com
Subject: YOU ARE THE WORST COLUMNIST
EVER!!!
Date: Mon. 22 Jan. 2007, 07:59:47–0500
Hey, Charley: Just a brief note to let you know that

aside from being THE WORST COLUMNIST WHO
EVER LIVED!!! you are quite possibly THE MOST
SELF-ABSORBED WOMAN ON THE PLANET!!!
It’s obvious from your photograph—the long, wavy,
blond hair, the knowing glance from large, downcast
eyes, the subtle smirk on those no doubt Restylane-
enhanced lips—that you think the sun rises and sets
on your lovely shoulders. Your insipid columns about
shopping for the perfect stilettos, searching for just
the right shade of blush, and coping with the de-
mands of a new personal trainer have only solidified
my assessment. But what on earth would make you
think there is anyone who is even moderately inter-
ested in learning about your latest foray into the world
of the sublimely shallow—a Brazilian wax?!!! Before
your graphic and unnecessarily lurid description re-
garding the denuding of your nether region in Sun-
day’s paper—(WEBB SITE, Sunday, January 21)—I
actually had no idea there even was such a thing, let
alone that any grown woman—I know from a previous
column that you celebrated your thirtieth birthday last
March—would willingly consent to such a barbaric
procedure. I wonder how your poor father reacted
when he read about his Harvard-educated daughter
infantilizing her body in such a demeaning way. I won-

der how your mother manages to hold her head up in
front of her friends with the constant public airing of
such private—dare I say, pubic?—matters. (At least
they have two other daughters to keep their spirits
buoyed!!! Kudos to Anne, incidentally, for the stun-
ning success of her latest novel, Remember Love—
number 9 on the New York Times bestseller list, and
climbing!!! And to Emily, who made such a lovely im-
pression when she subbed for Diane Sawyer on
Good Morning America last month!!!) Those are truly
daughters to make any parent proud.
And speaking of daughters, what must your eight-
year-old think when she sees you parading around
the house in the nude, as I’m sure you do, judging
from how much you obviously enjoy exposing yourself
in print!!! Not to mention the teasing your five-year-old
son will be subjected to in his kindergarten class from
other children whose parents were no doubt similarly
appalled by Sunday’s column! Last week’s article
about sex toys was bad enough!!
Can you not look beyond the tip of your pert little
nose—courtesy of the best plastic surgery money can
buy, no doubt—and consider the effect of such indis-
creet blathering on both these young innocents?! (Al-
though what can one expect from a woman who
prides herself on never having married either of her
children’s fathers?!!!)
I’ve had it up to here with your inane yapping about
all things Charley. (Thank you for not using your given
name of Charlotte. At least you spared us the dese-
cration of that most wonderful of children’s books!)
After three years of reading—and shaking my head in
dismay!!!—at your dimwitted musings, I have finally

reached the end of my rope. I would rather hang my-
self by my own still intact pubic hairs than read one
more word of your puerile prose, and I can no longer
justify supporting any newspaper that chooses to
publish it. I am therefore canceling my subscription to
the Palm Beach Post as of today.
I’m sure I speak for many disgusted and disgrun-
tled readers when I say, WHY CAN’T YOU JUST
SHUT UP AND GO AWAY?!!!!
Charley Webb sat staring at the angry letter on her

computer screen, not sure whether to laugh or cry. It
wasn’t just that the letter was so nasty that had her feeling
so unsettled—she’d received many that were worse over
the years, including several this very morning. Nor was it
the almost hysterical tone of today’s letter. Again, she was
used to reader outrage. And it wasn’t the wildly overused
punctuation either. Writers of angry e-mails tended to
view their every sentence as important and therefore wor-
thy of capital letters, italics, and multiple exclamation
points. It wasn’t even the personal nature of the attack.
Any woman who devoted a thousand words to her recent
Brazilian wax had to expect attacks of a personal nature.
Some—including a few of her colleagues—might even say
she invited them, that she prided herself on being provoca-
tive. She got what she deserved, they might say.
They might even be right.
Charley shrugged. She was used to controversy and
criticism. She was used to being called incompetent and
lightweight, as well as a host of other more unflattering
epithets. She’d grown used to having her motives ques-
tioned, her integrity impugned, and her looks dissected
and disparaged. She was also used to being told it was

those same looks that had gotten her a byline in the first
place. Or that one of her more famous sisters must have
pulled some strings. Or that her father, a highly esteemed
professor of English literature at Yale, had used his influ-
ence to get her the job.
She was used to being called a bad daughter, a worse
mother, a terrible role model. Such slurs usually rolled off
her “lovely shoulders.” So what was it about this particu-
lar e-mail that had her trapped between laughter and
tears? What about it made her feel so damn vulnerable?
Maybe she was still smarting from the fallout from last
week’s column. Her neighbor, Lynn Moore, who lived
several doors away from Charley on a once-decrepit, now
verging-on-fashionable, small street in downtown West
Palm, had invited her to a so-called Passion Party, just be-
fore Christmas. It turned out to be a variation of the old
neighborhood Tupperware party, except that instead of a
variety of heavy-duty plastic containers on display, there
were vibrators and dildos. Charley had had a wonderful
time handling all the assorted objets, and listening to the
hyperbolic sales pitch of Passion’s perky representative—
“And this seemingly innocuous string of beads, well,
ladies, let me tell you, it’s nothing short of miraculous.
Talk about multiple orgasms! This is truly the Christmas
gift that keeps on giving all year round!”—then per-
formed a neat evisceration of the evening in her column
the following month.
“How could you do this?” Lynn had confronted Charley
in person the day the column ran. She was standing on
the single step outside the front door of Charley’s tiny,
two-bedroom bungalow. Charley’s column was scrunched
into a tight ball in her clenched fist, her fingers curled
around Charley’s paper throat. “I thought we were

friends.”
“We are friends,” Charley had protested, although, in
truth, they were more acquaintances than actual friends.
Charley didn’t have any actual friends.
“Then how could you do this?”
“I don’t understand. What have I done?”
“You don’t understand?” Lynn had repeated incredu-
lously. “You don’t know what you’ve done? You humili-
ated me, that’s what you did. You made me look like a
sex-crazed fool. My husband is furious. My mother-in-
law’s in tears. My daughter is beside herself with embar-
rassment. The phone’s been ringing off the hook all
morning.”
“But I didn’t say it was you.”
“You didn’t have to. My hostess,” Lynn recited from
memory, “a fortyish brunette sporting tight capri pants, two-inch
crystal-studded nails, and three-inch heels, lives in a charming white
clapboard house filled with fresh-cut flowers from her magnificent gar-
den. A large American flag waves proudly from the tiny, manicured front
lawn. Gee, I wonder who that could be.”
“It could be anybody. I think you’re being overly sensi-
tive.”
“Oh, really? I’m being overly sensitive? I invite you to a
party, introduce you to my friends, pour you not one, but
several glasses of champagne . . .”
“For God’s sake, Lynn. What did you expect?” Charley
interrupted, annoyed at having to defend herself. “I’m a
reporter. You know that. This sort of story is right up my
alley. Of course I’m going to write about it. You knew that
when you invited me over.”
“I didn’t invite you over as a reporter.”
“It’s what I do,” Charley reminded her. “It’s who I am.”
“My mistake,” Lynn said simply. “I thought you were

more.”
There was a moment of awkward silence as Charley
struggled to keep Lynn’s words from sinking in too deep.
“Sorry I disappointed you.”
Lynn brushed off Charley’s apology with a wave of her
two-inch nails. “But not sorry you wrote the column.
Right?” She began backing down the front walk.
“Lynn . . .”
“Oh, shut up.”
WHY CAN’T YOU JUST SHUT UP AND GO AWAY?!!!!
Charley stared at her computer screen. Was it possible
Lynn Moore was her Irate Reader? Wary eyes skipped
across the words Irate Reader had written, searching for
echoes of Lynn’s subtle southern drawl, finding none. The
truth was that Irate Reader could be anyone. In her thirty
years on this planet, three at this desk, Charley Webb had
managed to ruffle an awful lot of feathers. There were
plenty of people who wished she would just shut up and
go away. “I thought you were more,” she repeated under
her breath. How many others had made the same mistake?
From: Charley Webb

To: Irate Reader
Subject: A reasoned response
Date: Mon. 22 Jan. 2007 10:17:24–0800
Dear Irate:
Wow!!!! That was some letter!!!! (As you can see, I,
too, have an exclamation mark on my computer!!!!!)
Thanks for writing. It’s always interesting to find out
how readers are responding to my columns, even
when they aren’t always positive. Call me crazy, but I
sensed you haven’t been too thrilled with my columns

of late. I’m truly sorry about that, but what is it they
say? You can’t please everybody all the time? Well, I
learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to try. Read-
ing is such a subjective endeavor, and one person’s
heaven is another person’s hell. Clearly, as far as
you’re concerned, I’m Satan incarnate!!!!!
Now, while I rigorously defend your right to be
wrong, I feel I must address some of your more egre-
gious utterances. (I’ll see your indiscreet blathering
and raise you one egregious utterance!!!) First, I do
not now, nor have I ever, used Restylane to enhance
my lips. My lips are the lips I was born with, and while
they’re perfectly adequate as far as lips go, I’ve never
considered them to be particularly noteworthy, or I
probably would have written a column about them by
now. Also, I broke my nose when I was seven, running
into a brick wall to get away from my younger brother,
who was chasing me with a garter snake he’d found
in our backyard. The result has been a lifelong fear of
reptiles and a nose that veers slightly—some might
say charmingly—to the left. I’ve never felt the slightest
need to have it fixed, although now that you’ve de-
clared it “pert,” I may have to reconsider.
I’m surprised you’d never heard of a Brazilian wax
before you read about it in my column, because I can
assure you they’ve been around for a long time. But
once you realized what I was writing about, and that
such a topic was an affront to your obviously delicate
sensibilities—a lot of that going around these days—
why on earth did you continue reading?!!! (Finally, I
got to use the ?!!! It’s fun!!!!)
As for what my father thinks about his Harvard-
educated daughter infantilizing (good word!) herself

in this way, I suspect he doesn’t know—cocooned as
he is in his ivory tower at Yale—and if he does, he
doesn’t care, since we haven’t spoken in years. (Reg-
ular readers of WEBB SITE should know this!!!) As
for my mother, she doesn’t have to worry about hold-
ing her head up in front of her friends, since, like me,
she doesn’t have any. (Possible fodder for an upcom-
ing Mother’s Day column that you will, unfortunately,
miss.) My children, on the other hand, have lots of
friends, all of them happily oblivious to the inane yap-
ping of their mother, and since—surprise!—I actually
don’t make a habit of parading around the house in
the nude, they haven’t had to pass any unnecessary
artistic judgments on the denuding of my nether re-
gion. Wow—that’s quite a mouthful, even in writing!!!
As for my never having married either of my children’s
fathers—nor lived with them, I might add—well, at least
I haven’t subjected them to the unpleasantness of di-
vorce, unlike both my more successful sisters, who
have four and a half divorces between them—Emily,
three, and Anne, one divorce, one recent separation.
(Incidentally, I’ll pass on your congratulations to both
of them for their recent, much-deserved triumphs.)
As for my column, you should realize that I am
doing exactly the job I was hired to do. When I came
to work at the Palm Beach Post three years ago, the
editor-in-chief, Michael Duff, told me he was inter-
ested in attracting a younger readership, and that he
was especially interested in what people my age
were thinking and doing. In short, unlike you, he was
deeply interested in all things Charley. What he
wasn’t interested in was objective journalism. On the
contrary, he wanted me to be totally subjective—to be

honest and forthcoming and, hopefully, controversial
as well.
It would seem from all the e-mail I’ve received this
morning that I’ve succeeded. I’m sorry you consider
my prose puerile and that you’re canceling your sub-
scription to our wonderful paper, but that is certainly
your prerogative. I will continue to do my job, com-
menting on today’s social scene, reporting on the
morals and habits of America’s youth, and tackling im-
portant issues such as wife-abuse and the prolifera-
tion of porn, alongside my continuing forays into the
world of the sublimely shallow. Sorry you won’t be
along for the ride. Sincerely, Charlotte Webb.
(Sorry. Couldn’t resist.)
Charley’s fingers hovered over the send button for sev-

eral seconds before moving to the delete button and press-
ing it instead. She watched the words instantly vanish from
her screen as all around her, the busy sounds of Monday
morning began encroaching: phones ringing, keyboards
clicking, rain pounding against the floor-to-ceiling, third-
floor windows of the airy, four-storey building. She heard
her colleagues talking outside her tiny cubicle, inquiring
pleasantly about one another’s weekend. She listened to
their friendly banter, full of laughter and harmless gossip,
and wondered briefly why no one had stopped by her desk
to ask about her weekend or congratulate her on her latest
column. But no one ever did.
It would have been easy to dismiss their attitude as
stemming from professional jealousy—she knew most of
them considered her columns, and, by extension, her, to be
silly and inconsequential, and resented her high profile—
but the truth was that her colleagues’ ever-increasing

coldness was largely her own fault. Charley had purpose-
fully shunned their overtures when she first came to work
at the Palm Beach Post, thinking it was better, safer, to keep re-
lationships on a strictly professional level. (Just as she’d
never believed it was a good idea to get too chummy with
the neighbors. And boy, had she been right about that.) It
wasn’t that she was unfriendly exactly, just a little aloof. It
hadn’t taken her colleagues very long to get the message.
Nobody liked rejection, especially writers, who were al-
ready too used to being rejected. Soon the casual invita-
tions to dinner stopped, along with the offers to tag along
for a drink after work. Even a polite “Hi. How’s it going?”
had stopped coming her way.
Until this morning, she thought with a shudder, recall-
ing the obscene leer that senior editor Mitchell Johnson
had given her when she’d walked by his glassed-in office.
Never subtle to begin with, Mitch had stared directly at the
crotch of her Rock & Republic jeans and asked, “How’s it
growing? Going. I meant going, not growing,” he corrected, as if
his slip had been unintentional.
He thinks he knows me, Charley thought now, leaning
back in her brown leather chair and staring past the divid-
ing wall that separated her tiny space from the dozens of
other such cubicles occupying the editorial department’s
large center core. The big room was divided into three
main areas, although the divisions were more imaginary
than concrete. The largest section was comprised of jour-
nalists who covered current events and filed daily reports;
a second section was reserved for weekly and special-
interest columnists such as herself; a third area was for
fact-checkers and secretarial staff. People worked at their
computers for hours on end, barking into headphones, or
balancing old-fashioned black receivers between their

shoulders and ears. There were stories to uncover and fol-
low, deadlines to be met, angles to be determined, state-
ments to be corroborated. Someone was always rushing in
or out, asking for advice, opinions, or help.
No one ever asked Charley for anything.
They think they know me, Charley thought. They
think because I write about Passion Parties and Brazilian
waxes that I’m a shallow twit, and they know everything
about me.
They know nothing.
WHY CAN’T YOU JUST SHUT UP AND GO AWAY?!!!!
From: Charley Webb

To: Irate Reader
Subject: A reasoned response
Date: Mon. 22 Jan. 2007 10:37:06–0800
Dear Irate: You’re mean. Sincerely, Charley Webb.
This time Charley did press the send button, then

waited while her computer confirmed the note had indeed
been forwarded. “Probably shouldn’t have done that,” she
muttered seconds later. It was never a good idea to deliber-
ately antagonize a reader. There were lots of powder kegs
out there just waiting for an excuse to explode. Should
have just ignored her, Charley thought as her phone
began ringing. She reached over, picked it up. “Charley
Webb,” she announced instead of hello.
“You’re a worthless slut,” the male voice snarled.
“Someone should gut you like a fish.”
“Mother, is that you?” Charley asked, then bit down on
her tongue. Why hadn’t she checked her caller ID? And
what had she just decided about not deliberately trying to
antagonize anyone? She should have just hung up, she ad-
monished herself as the phone went dead in her hand. Im-
mediately the phone rang again. Again she picked it up
without checking. “Mother?” she asked, unable to resist.
“How’d you know?” her mother replied.
Charley chuckled as she pictured the puzzled expres-
sion on her mother’s long, angular face. Elizabeth Webb
was fifty-five years old, with shoulder-length blue-black
hair that underlined the almost otherworldly whiteness
of her skin. She stood six feet one in her bare feet, and
dressed in long, flowing skirts that minimized the length
of her legs and low-cut blouses that maximized the size of
her bosom. She was beautiful by anyone’s definition, as
beautiful now as she’d been when she was Charley’s age
and already the mother of four young children. But
Charley had few memories of this time, and fewer photo-
graphs, her mother having disappeared from her life
when she was barely eight years old.
Elizabeth Webb had reappeared suddenly two years ago,
eager to renew contact with the offspring she’d abandoned
some twenty years earlier. Charley’s sisters had chosen to
remain loyal to their father and refused to forgive the
woman who’d run off to Australia with, not another man,
which might have been forgivable, but another woman,
which most assuredly was not. Only Charley had been suf-
ficiently curious—spiteful, her father would undoubtedly
insist—to agree to see her again. Her brother, of course,
continued to shun contact with either of his parents.
“I just wanted you to know that I thoroughly enjoyed
your column yesterday,” her mother was saying in the
quasi-Australian lilt that clung to the periphery of each
word. “I’ve always been very curious about that sort of
thing.”
Charley nodded. Like mother, like daughter, she

couldn’t help but think. “Thank you.”
“I called you several times yesterday, but you were out.”
“You didn’t leave a message.”
“You know I hate those things,” her mother said.
Charley smiled. Having only recently settled in Palm
Beach after two decades of living in the outback, her
mother was terrified of all things remotely technical, and
she owned neither a computer nor a cell phone. Voice mail
continued to be a source of both wonder and frustration,
while the Internet was simply beyond her comprehension.
“I drove into Miami to see Bram,” Charley told her.
Silence. Then, “How is your brother?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t at his apartment. I waited for
hours.”
“Did he know you were coming?”
“He knew.”
Another silence, this one longer than the first. Then,
“You think he’s . . . ?” Her mother’s voice trailed off.
“. . . Drinking and doing drugs?”
“Do you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I worry so much about him.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” The words
were out of Charley’s mouth before she could stop them.
“Sorry,” she apologized immediately.
“That’s all right,” her mother conceded. “I guess I de-
served that.”
“I didn’t mean to be cruel.”
“Of course you did,” her mother said without rancor.
“It’s what makes you such a good writer. And your sister
such a mediocre one,” she couldn’t help but add.
“Mother . . .”
“Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to be cruel,” she said, bor-

rowing Charley’s words.
“Of course you did.” Charley smiled, felt her mother
do the same. “Look, I better go.”
“I thought maybe I could come over later, see the chil-
dren. . . .”
“Sounds fine.” Absently, Charley clicked open another
e-mail.
From: A person of taste

To: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com
Subject: Perverts
Date: Mon. 22 Jan. 2007 10:40:05–0400
Dear Charley,
While I’m normally the kind of person who believes
in LIVE AND LET LIVE, your most recent column has
forced me to reconsider. Your previous column on sex
toys was bad enough, but this latest one is an affront
to good Christians everywhere. What a vile and dis-
gusting pervert you are. You deserve to BURN IN
HELL. So DIE, BITCH, DIE, and take your bastard
children with you!
P.S.: I’d keep a very close eye on them if I were
you. You’d be horrified at what some people are ca-
pable of.
Charley felt her breath freeze in her lungs. “Mother, I

have to go.” She hung up the phone and jumped to her
feet, upending her chair as she raced from her cubicle.
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HEARTSTOPPER
JOY FIELDING
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Heartstopper. . . .
Killer’s Journal
The girl is waking up.

She stirs, mascara-coated eyelashes fluttering seduc-
tively, large blue eyes opening, then closing again, then
reopening, staying open longer this time, casually absorb-
ing the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. That she is in a
strange place, with no memory of how she got here, will
take several seconds to sink in fully. That her life is in dan-
ger will hit her all at once, with the sudden force of a
giant, renegade wave, knocking her back on the small cot
I’ve so thoughtfully provided, even as she struggles gamely
to her feet.
This is my favorite part. Even more than what comes
later.
I’ve never been a huge fan of blood and guts. Those shows
you see on TV today, the ones that are so popular, the ones
filled with crack forensic experts in skintight pants and
push-up bras, they’ve never held much appeal for me. All
those dead bodies—hapless victims dispatched in an in-
creasingly gory variety of exotic ways—lying on cold steel
slabs in ultramodern morgues, waiting to be cracked open
and invaded by dispassionate, gloved fingers—they just
don’t do it for me. Even if the bodies weren’t so obviously
fake—although even the most obvious of rubber torsos look
more real than the ubiquitous breast implants held in check
by those heroic push-up bras—it wouldn’t turn me on. Vi-
olence, per se, has never been my thing. I’ve always preferred
the buildup to an event over the actual event itself.
Just as I’ve always preferred the flawed, natural contour
of real breasts to the perfectly inflated—and perfectly
awful—monstrosities so popular today. And not just on TV.
You see them everywhere. Even here in the middle of Alli-
gator Alley, in the middle of south-central Florida.
The middle of nowhere.
I think it was Alfred Hitchcock who best summed up the
difference between shock and suspense. Shock, he said, is
quick, a jolt to the senses that lasts but a second, whereas
suspense is more of a slow tease. Rather like the difference
between prolonged foreplay and premature ejaculation, I
would add, and I like to think old Alfred would chuckle and
agree. He always preferred suspense to shock, the payoff
being greater, ultimately more fulfilling. I’m with him on
this, although, like Hitch, I’m not averse to the occasional
shock along the way. You have to keep things interesting.
As this girl will soon find out.
She’s sitting up now, hands forming anxious fists at her
sides as she scans her dimly lit surroundings. I can tell by the
puzzled look on her pretty face—she’s a real heartstopper,
as my grandfather used to say—that she’s trying to stay
calm, to figure things out, to make sense of what’s happen-
ing, while clinging to the hope this is all a dream. After all,
this can’t really be happening. She can’t actually be sitting
on the edge of a tiny cot in what appears to be a room in
somebody’s basement, if houses in Florida had basements,
which, of course, most of them don’t, Florida being a state
built almost entirely on swampland.
The panic won’t be long in coming. As soon as she real-
izes she isn’t dreaming, that her situation is real and, in fact,
quite dire, that she is trapped in a locked room whose only
light comes from a strategically placed lamplight on a ledge
high above her head, one she has no way of reaching, even
were she to turn the cot on its end and somehow manage to
climb up its side. The last girl tried that and fell, crying and
clutching her broken wrist, to the dirt floor. That’s when
she started screaming.
That was fun—for a while.
She’s just noticed the door, although unlike the last girl,
she makes no move toward it. Instead, she just sits there,
chewing on her bottom lip, frightened eyes darting back
and forth. She’s breathing loudly and visibly, her heart
threatening to burst from between large, pendulous
breasts—to her credit, at least they’re real—like one of
those hyperventilating contestants on The Price Is Right.
Should she choose door number one, door number two, or
door number three? Except there is only one door, and
should she open it, what will she find? The Lady or the
Tiger? Safety or destruction? I feel my lips curl into a smile.
In fact, she will find nothing. At least not yet. Not until I’m
ready.
She’s pushing herself off the cot, curiosity finally forcing
one foot in front of the other, propelling her toward the
door, even as a gnawing voice whispers in her ear, remind-
ing her it was curiosity that killed the cat. Is she counting on
the old wives’ tale about cats having nine lives? Does she
think a bunch of useless old wives can save her?
Her trembling hand stretches toward the doorknob.
“Hello?” she calls out, softly at first, her voice as wobbly as
her fingers, then more forcefully. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
I’m tempted to answer, but I know this isn’t a good idea.
First of all, it would tip her to the fact I’m watching. Right
now, the idea she’s being observed has yet to occur to her,
and when it does, maybe a minute or two from now, her
eyes will begin their frantic, fruitless search of the premises.
No matter. She won’t be able to see me. The peephole I’ve
carved into the wall is too small and too elevated for her to
discover, especially in this meager light. Besides, hearing my
voice would not only tip her to my presence and approxi-
mate location, it might help her identify me, thereby giving
her an unnecessary edge in the battle of wits to come. No, I
will present myself soon enough. No point in getting ahead
of the game. The timing simply isn’t right. And timing, as
they say, is everything.
“Hello? Somebody?”
Her voice is growing more urgent, losing its girlish tim-
bre, becoming shrill, almost hostile. That’s one of the inter-
esting things I’ve noticed about female voices—how
quickly they jump from warm to harsh, from soothing to
grating, how shameless they are in their eagerness to reveal
all, how boldly they hurl their insecurities into the unsus-
pecting air. The gentle flute is overwhelmed by the raucous
bagpipe; the chamber orchestra is trampled by the march-
ing band.
“Hello?” The girl grabs hold of the doorknob, tries pulling
the door toward her. It doesn’t budge. Quickly, her move-
ments degenerate into a series of ungainly poses, becoming
less measured, more frantic. She pulls on the door, then
pushes it, then bangs her shoulder against it, repeating the
process several times before finally giving up and burst-
ing into tears. That’s the other thing I’ve learned about
women—they always cry. It’s the one thing about them
that never disappoints, the one thing you can count on.
“Where am I? What’s going on here?” The girl bangs her
fists against the door in growing frustration. She’s angry
now, as well as scared. She may not know where she is, but
she knows she didn’t get here by her own accord. Her mind
is rapidly filling with increasingly terrifying images—recent
newspaper headlines about missing girls, TV coverage of
bodies being pulled from shallow graves, catalog displays of
knives and other instruments of torture, film clips of help-
less women being raped and strangled, before being
dumped into slime-covered swamps. “Help!” she starts
screaming. “Somebody help me.” But even as her plaintive
cries hit the stale air, I suspect she knows such pleas are use-
less, that nobody can hear her.
Nobody but me.
Her head snaps up; her eyes shoot toward me, like a
searchlight, and I jerk away from the wall, almost tripping
over my feet as I stagger back. By the time I regroup, regain
my breath and equilibrium, she is circling the small room,
her eyes darting up and down, this way and that, the palms
of her hands pushing against the unpainted, concrete walls,
feeling for any signs of weakness. “Where am I? Is anybody
out there? Why have you brought me here?” she is crying,
as if the correct question will trigger a reassuring response.
Finally, she gives up, collapses on the cot, cries some more.
When she raises her head again—for the second time, she
looks right at me—her large blue eyes are bloated with
tears and ringed in unflattering red. Or maybe that’s just
my imagination at work. A bit of wishful thinking on my
part.
She pushes herself back into a sitting position, takes a se-
ries of long, deep breaths. Clearly, she is trying to calm her-
self while she takes stock of her situation. She glances at
what she’s wearing—a pale yellow T-shirt that shouts,
MOVE, BITCH, in bright lime-green lettering across its
stretched front, low-slung jeans pulled tight across her slen-
der hips. The same outfit she was wearing . . . when? Yester-
day? Last night? This morning?
How long has she been here?
She runs her fingers through long, strawberry-blond
hair, then scratches at her right ankle before leaning back
against the wall. Some madman has kidnapped her and is
holding her hostage, she is thinking, perhaps already won-
dering how she can tell this story to maximum effect after
she escapes. Perhaps People magazine will come calling.
Maybe even Hollywood. Who will they get to play her? The
girl from Spider-Man, or maybe that other one, the one who’s
all over the tabloids these days. Lindsay Lohan? Is that her
name? Or is it Tara Reid? Cameron Diaz would be good,
even though Cameron’s more than a decade older than she
is. It doesn’t really matter. They’re all more or less inter-
changeable. Heartstoppers all.
As am I. A heartstopper of a very different kind.
The girl’s face darkens. Once again, reality intrudes.
What am I doing here? she is wondering. How did I get here?
Why can’t I remember?
What she probably remembers is being in school, al-
though I doubt she recalls much, if anything, of what was
being taught. Too busy staring out the window. Too busy
flirting with the Neanderthals in the back row. Too busy
giving the teacher a hard time. Too ready with the smart re-
mark, the sarcastic comment, the unasked-for opinion. No
doubt she recalls the bell sounding at the end of the day, re-
leasing her from her twelfth-grade prison. She likely re-
members rushing into the school yard and bumming a
cigarette from whoever was closest at hand. She might re-
member snatching a Coke from a classmate’s hand and
guzzling it down without thank-you or apology. Several
cigarettes and snarky comments later, she may even re-
member heading for home. I watch her watching herself as
she turns the corner onto her quiet street; I catch the tilt in
her head as she hears the soft wind whisper her name.
Someone is calling her.
The girl leans forward on the cot, lips parting. The mem-
ory is there; she has only to access it. It plays with her senses,
goading her, like the bottom line of an eye chart, the letters
right there in front of her, but blurred, so that she can’t
quite make them out, no matter how hard she strains. It lies
on the tip of her tongue, like some exotic spice she can taste
but not identify. It wafts by her nose, trailing faint wisps of
tantalizing smells, and swirls around the inside of her
mouth, like an expensive red wine. If only she could give
voice to it. If only she could remember.
What she does remember is stopping and looking
around, listening again for the sound of her name in the
warm breeze, then slowly approaching a row of overgrown
bushes at the edge of a neighbor’s untended front lawn. The
bushes beckon her, their leaves rustling, as if in welcome.
And then nothing.
The girl’s shoulders slump in defeat. She has no memory
of what happened next. The bushes block her vision, refuse
her entry. She must have lost consciousness. Perhaps she was
drugged; maybe she was hit on the head. What difference does
it make? What matters isn’t what happened before, but what
happens next. It’s not important how she got here, I feel
her decide. What’s important is how she’s going to get out.
I try not to laugh. Let her entertain the illusion, however
fragile, however unfounded, that she has a chance at escape.
Let her plot and plan and strategize and resolve. After all,
that’s part of the fun.
I’m getting hungry. Probably she is also, although she’s
too scared to realize it at the moment. In another hour or
two, it’ll hit her. The human appetite is an amazing thing.
It’s pretty insistent, no matter what the circumstances. I re-
member when my uncle Al died. It happened a long time
ago, and my memory, like the girl’s, is kind of hazy. I’m not
even sure what killed him, to be honest. Cancer or a heart
attack. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, whatever it was. We
were never really all that close, so I can’t say I was terribly
affected by his death. But I do remember my aunt crying
and carrying on, and her friends offering their condolences,
telling her in one breath what a great man my uncle was,
how sorry they were at his passing, and in the next breath,
complimenting her on the wonderful pastries she’d pre-
pared, saying “Could we please have the recipe?” and “You
have to eat something. It’s important to keep up your
strength. Al would want that.” And soon she was eating,
and soon after that, laughing. Such is the power of pastry.
I don’t have any pastry for this girl, although in a couple
of hours, after I’ve grabbed something to eat myself, I may
bring her back a sandwich. I haven’t decided yet. Certainly a
good host would provide for guests. But then, no one ever
said I was a good host. No five stars for me.
Still, the accommodations aren’t all that bad, consider-
ing. I haven’t buried her in an underground coffin or
thrown her into some snake-and-rat-infested hole. She
hasn’t been stuffed into some airless closet or chained to a
stake atop a nest of fire ants. Her arms haven’t been bound
behind her back; there’s no gag in her mouth; her legs are
free to traverse the room. If it’s a little warmer than she
might like, she can take comfort in that it’s April and not
July, that it’s unseasonably cool for this time of year, and
that it’s evening and not the middle of the afternoon. Given
my druthers, I too would opt for air-conditioning, as would
any sane individual, but one takes what one can get, and in
this case, what I could get was this: a dilapidated old house
at the edge of a long-neglected field in the middle of Alliga-
tor Alley, in the middle of south-central Florida.
The middle of nowhere.
Sometimes being stuck in the middle of nowhere can be
a blessing in disguise, although I know at least two girls who
would disagree.
I discovered this house about five years ago. The people
who built it had long since abandoned it, and termites,
mold, and dry rot had pretty much taken over. Far as I can
tell, no one’s made any attempt to claim the land or tear
this old place down. It costs money to demolish things,
after all, even more to erect something in its place, and I se-
riously doubt that anything worth growing would grow
here, so what would be the point? Anyway, I stumbled upon
it by accident one morning when I was out, walking
around, trying to clear my head. I’d been having some prob-
lems on the home front, and it seemed like everything was
closing in on me, so I decided the best thing to do was just
remove myself from the situation altogether. I’ve always
been like that—a bit of a loner. Don’t like confrontations;
don’t like to share my feelings all that much. Not that any-
one was ever much interested in my feelings.
Anyway, that’s the proverbial water under the bridge. No
point brooding about it now, or living in the past. Live for
today—that’s my motto. Or die for it. As the case may be.
Die for today.
I like the sound of that.
Okay, so it’s five years ago, and I’m out walking. It’s hot.
Summer, I think, so really humid. And the mosquitoes are
buzzing around my head, starting to get on my nerves, and
I come across this ugly, old field. Half-swamp really. Proba-
bly more than a few snakes and alligators hiding in the tall
grass, but I’ve never been one who’s afraid of reptiles. In fact,
I think they’re pretty awesome, and I’ve found that if you
respect their space, they’ll usually respect yours. Even so,
I’m careful when I come here. I have a trail pretty well
etched out, and I try to keep to it, especially at night. Of
course, I have my gun, and a couple of sharp knives, should
anything unexpected happen.
You always have to guard against the unexpected.
Somebody should have told that to this girl.
The main part of the house isn’t much—a couple of
small rooms, empty, of course. I had to supply the cot,
which was kind of tricky, although I won’t get into any of
those details now. Suffice to say, I managed it all by myself,
which is the way I usually do things. There’s a tiny kitchen,
but the appliances have been ripped out, and there’s no run-
ning water in the taps. The same is true of the bathroom and
its filthy toilet, its once-white seat cracked right down the
middle. Wouldn’t want to sit on that thing, that’s for sure.
I’ve thoughtfully provided the girl with a plastic bucket,
should she need to relieve herself. It sits in a corner to the
left of the door. She kicked at it earlier, when she was flail-
ing around, so right now it’s lying on its side at the other
end of the room. Maybe she doesn’t realize yet what it’s for.
The first girl chose to ignore it altogether. She simply
lifted up her skirt and squatted right there on the floor. Not
that she had to hike her skirt very far. It was so ridiculously
short, it could have passed for a belt, which I guess was the
look she was going for—strictly Hooker City. Of course, she
wasn’t wearing panties, which was pretty disgusting. Some
might say she was no better than an animal, although not
me. No way I’d say that. Why? Because it disrespects the an-
imals. To say that girl was a pig is to slander the pig. Which,
of course, is why I chose her. I knew no one would miss her.
I knew no one would mourn her. I knew no one would
come looking for her.
She was only eighteen, but already she had that knowing
look in her eyes that made her seem much older. Her lips
had frozen into a cynical pout, more sneer than smile, even
when she was laughing, and the veins on the insides of her
skinny arms were bruised with the piercing of old needles.
Her hair was a frizzy cliché of platinum curls and black
roots, and when she opened her mouth to speak, you could
almost taste the cigarettes on her breath.
Her name was Candy—she even had a bracelet with
candies for charms—and I guess you could say she was my
test case. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like doing any-
thing halfway—it has to be perfect—and once I knew what
I had to do, I realized I’d have to plan everything carefully.
Unlike so many people you read about, I have no desire to
be caught. Once this project is over, I plan to retire and live
peacefully—if not always happily—ever after. So, it was im-
portant that I get things right.
Hence, Candy.
I met her at a Burger King. She was hanging around out-
side, and I offered to buy her a burger, an offer she accepted
readily. We talked, although she didn’t have a lot to say, and
she clammed up altogether when my questions got too per-
sonal. That’s okay. I understand that. I’m not too fond of
personal questions myself.
But I did find out some key facts: she’d run away from
home at fourteen and had been living on the streets ever
since. She’d met some guy; he’d gotten her hooked on
drugs, and the drugs had, in turn, gotten her hooked on
hooking. After a while, the guy split, and she was on her
own again. She’d spent much of the last year moving from
place to place, occasionally waking up in a strange hospital
room or holding cell. One place was pretty much the same
as the next, she said.
I wonder if that’s how she felt when she woke up here, in
the underground room of this forgotten old house.
Did I neglect to mention this room is underground?
Shame on me—it’s what makes the place so special, the
“pièce de résistance,” if you will.
I said before that, for the most part, houses in Florida
don’t have basements. That’s because they’re built on what
is essentially quicksand, and you could wake up one morn-
ing to find yourself up to your eyeballs in muck. Entire
homes have been swallowed up, and I’m not just talking
about the older, less substantial ones. There’s a brand-new
subdivision going up not far from here, built almost
entirely—and ill-advisedly, in my humble opinion, not that
anybody has asked for my opinion—on landfill, and one
day, one of the houses just up and disappeared. The builders
didn’t have to look very far to find it, of course. They were
standing on top of it. Serves them right. You can only go so
far challenging nature.
If I were going to build a house today, I’d hire the guy
who designed this one. True, it’s seen better days, but who-
ever constructed it was a genius. He created a whole warren
of little rooms underneath the main floor, rooms he prob-
ably used for storage.
I have something quite different in mind.
Candy didn’t think much of the place when she realized
it wasn’t the kind of holding cell she was used to. Once I fi-
nally showed myself, and the seriousness of her predica-
ment became clear, she tried all the tricks in her arsenal,
said if sex was the goal, there was no way she was doing any-
thing with me on that dirty old cot. She’d do whatever per-
verted things I wanted, only not here. The idea of sex with
this person was so repugnant I was tempted to kill her on
the spot, but the game was far from over. I still had some
surprises up my sleeve.
Ultimately I killed her with a single bullet to the head.
Then I dumped her body in a swamp a few miles away. If
anybody finds it, and I doubt they will—it’s been four
months after all—there’ll be nothing left to link her to me,
no way of determining exactly when she died, at what pre-
cise moment her heart stopped beating. Even had she been
found immediately, all in one piece, I know enough about
DNA, courtesy of all those surgically enhanced forensic ex-
perts on TV, to ensure I’ve left no clues.
Just as Candy left no mourners.
But this girl, this heartstopper with the big blue eyes and
large, natural breasts, will be different.
Not only will a lot of people be out looking for her—
they may even be looking for her now—she’ll be more of a
challenge all around. Candy was a trifle dim-witted to be
much fun. This girl is stronger, both mentally and physi-
cally, so I’ll have to up my game, as they say—move
quicker, think faster, strike harder.
She’s looking this way again, as if she knows I’m here, as
if she can hear the scribbling of my pen. So I’ll sign off for
now, go grab something to eat. I’ll come back later, initiate
phase two of my plan.
Maybe I’ll keep the girl alive till morning. Maybe not.
Risk management after all. It doesn’t pay to get too cocky.
Stay tuned, as they say. I’ll be back.
Mad River_499-500 10/19/06 2:10 PM Page 499
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Still Life copyright © 2009 by Joy Fielding

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She opened her eyes to darkness.

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From: Irate Reader

Hey, Charley: Just a brief note to let you know that

infantilizing her body in such a demeaning way. I won-

dismay!!!—at your dimwitted musings, I have finally

Charley Webb sat staring at the angry letter on her

and disparaged. She was also used to being told it was

around Charley’s paper throat. “I thought we were

“My mistake,” Lynn said simply. “I thought you were

From: Charley Webb

sensed you haven’t been too thrilled with my columns