The Hand That Feeds You by A.J. Rich Page B

between the Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens. I thought back to my fruitless search for his apartment in Montreal and wondered if he even spoke French. I googled the National Hockey League schedule and found the Montreal Canadiens had not been in an exhibition game.
    Later, in the room, when he took off his pants, I saw a large fresh bruise on his shin. When I asked how he got it, he said he banged it helping one of his bands move some equipment. One of those bands he didn’t represent.
    That night I moved to the right side of the bed as usual. The left side was against the wall, and Bennett knew my holdover childhood fear about sleeping next to a wall and slipping through it. Just as I was falling asleep in his arms, he whispered, “If you love me, you’ll sleep next to the wall.” What if I hadn’t obliged him? What might he have done to me? The next morning—oh, I didn’t want to remember our lovemaking. Seeing it through the lens of what I had learned in Boston, it was repulsive. Yet, that night it seemed he never let go of my hand. He was still holding it when I woke up.
    I got back to Penn Station a little after midnight. I was exhausted but not sleepy. As soon as I got home, I looked up every article about Susan Rorke’s death in the order the stories were filed.
    She was described as a thirty-five-year-old police incident-reports analyst who volunteered at the South Boston homeless shelter every week. Early on, her death was reported as an accident. She had not returned from a break after trying to fix a window shade on the third floor. Ms. Rorke’s body was found in the alley behind the shelter. Police said it appeared Ms. Rorke had fallen from an open window and died on impact. The next article reported that the police were investigating the death as a possible homicide. They were looking for a homeless man who had stayed at the shelter that night. Witnesses said he had argued with Ms. Rorke earlier that evening. The homeless man was found, questioned, and released. The police were still ruling the death a homicide, pending further investigation.
    I went on Facebook next. Her profile picture was the same one the detective had showed me, the one-eyed Jack Russell on her lap. I wondered what happened to the dog. I scrolled through the last few months of her postings and found the following: a picture of her left hand, fingers splayed, presenting a view of a diamond engagement ring. The old-fashioned, marquise-cut diamond was approximately one carat, set in either white gold or platinum. The comments below all said pretty much the same thing: When are we going to meet him?
    I went to my top drawer and took out the tiny leather box, lined in velvet, that housed the ring Bennett had given me, identical. I was tempted to throw it away but I realized it was evidence. It was proof that I belonged to this sorority of the duped. If Susan and I were sorority sisters, then so was the woman who had written me on Lovefraud and pretended to be Susan Rorke. Even she suspected others. If three, why not four? More?
    I went to Lovefraud and left a private message for number three.
    Who are you? Why did you pretend to be Susan Rorke? Why do you think the man you knew as “Peter” had deceived other women? I went to meet you in good faith and discovered that the woman you claimed to be was killed six weeks ago. I have information about the man I knew as “Bennett” that will interest you. I am not making anything up to try to lure you. I am entirely serious. I don’t know why you didn’t meet me, but if you are afraid of him, you need not be. I hope to hear from you.
    I was hungry, and for the first time in weeks, I wanted something healthy. I walked a few blocks to Champs. It opened at 8:00 a.m. As usual I was the only customer without tattooed arms and legs. The staff was reliably cheerful. I got a booth to myself and sat beneath a piece of fifties signage on the wall. I asked for a double order of the tofu