Never Wake by Gabrielle Goldsby Page A

them. Desdemona had too much furniture and Troy seemed to have too little. His groaning stomach dictated that he find something to eat before he allowed himself to look around further.
    A wet bar and a bank of cabinets were all that separated the narrow kitchen from the living room. The kitchen was a perfect rectangle. It had a gas stove at one end, and the refrigerator whined from its spot against the wall. The refrigerator was similar to one his nana had when he was a kid. By age fourteen, he could prop his elbow on top of it if he wanted to. Abe snatched an open bag of pretzels from the top of the refrigerator and wolfed them down as he walked into the living room. A bicycle frame leaned against a wall near the front door, and a poster tube leaned against another wall. Abe’s eyes were drawn to the black futon again. He walked over to it and sat down, his lower back protested as he leaned back. A pillow and a folded comforter had been left at one end. She’d sat here, maybe slept exactly where he was sitting.
    Abe sighed. “How depressing.” His voice sounded sharp and cruel in the empty room. A pair of shoes, slim with some kind of rubberized spikes on the sole, had been left on the floor.
    He was a bit disappointed by Troy’s home. He had expected pictures or chatchkas that would give him more insight into her personality. Ha, you think you know this girl from watching her for two minutes? Abe stood up; there was no point in spending too much time dwelling on it. There were two other doors to look behind before he had to leave with his tail tucked between his legs. With any luck, one of them would hold a clue to Troy’s whereabouts.
    The first door led to a closet that looked like a graveyard of bike parts. Frames, wheels, and seats had been stashed in every available space. Four bike chains hung from the clothing rod and the scent of motor oil or something similar assailed Abe’s nose.
    He closed the closet and opened what he figured would be Troy’s bedroom. He fought down his initial disappointment and walked in. Although her living room and kitchen were both neat, this room looked as if it hadn’t been lived in. Abe looked at the bedspread, the two end tables, the bureau, the curtains, and then he looked back out into the drab living room. It was like a movie he had once enjoyed on cable TV where two kids were sucked into a black--and-white TV show. This is odd . Abe rifled in his pocket for a small silver box the size of a cell phone. Did she create this, or is this how she lives? Abe walked over to the end table and started to sit down on the bed. He paused and instead of sitting down, he slid open the small drawer on the nightstand. Troy had placed a paperback book, two rings, a small locket, a newspaper clipping, and a tri-fold flyer inside. The clipping was an obituary. Pictured in the obituary, Patricia Rose Harvey, age thirty, had her head thrown back and seemed to be laughing at something the photographer was saying. The tri-fold flyer was Patricia Harvey’s funeral program, but it made no mention of Troy Nanson as surviving relative or friend, although it mentioned others. But who was she? A relative? A roommate? Not with one bed—.
    Abe sank down on to the bed. “I’ll be damned.” He tried not to notice the disappointment, but it was there. But why wouldn’t Raife Paterson mention that she was gay? Abe had assumed that there had been a relationship between the two. Abe closed his eyes. He had made the cardinal mistake. He had assumed. His stomach quailed and the pretzels he had consumed threatened to come back up.
    His attraction to Troy Nanson had been so textbook that even he had known what it stemmed from. She was his creation, his triumph: walking, talking, strong, and beautiful. It made perfect sense that he would love her. So what if she looked nothing like the women he dated before and after his marriage? So what if she would never look at him twice on the street? Abe had felt