“I don’t remember.”
“You corresponded, through e-mail, with an individual you knew as Byron.”
“Yes. We met in a chat. Nineteenth-century poets.”
“You agreed to meet him last night, for drinks at the Royal Bar in The Palace Hotel.”
Her brow, pale as marble, creased. “Yes. At . . . nine-thirty. Was that last night? We’d been talking online for weeks, and . . . I met him. I remember.”
“What else do you remember?”
“I—I was a little nervous at first. We’d hit it off so well in cyber, but real life’s different. Still, it was just drinks, and in such a lovely setting. If it didn’t work out, what was the harm? But it did. He was just as I expected . . . Did I have an accident? Am I dying?”
“You’re doing very well,” Michaels told her. “You’re very strong.”
“You had drinks with him,” Eve continued, drawing her attention away from Michaels again. “What did you talk about?”
Moniqua’s face went vague again. “Talk about?”
“With Byron. When you had drinks with him last night.”
“Oh, ah, poetry. And art. Travel. We both like to travel, though he’s been so many more places than I have. We had champagne, and caviar. I’ve never had caviar before. I don’t think it agreed with me. I must have gotten ill.”
“Were you ill at the hotel?”
“No. I—no, I don’t think . . . I must have had too much to drink. I’m usually careful not to have more than one glass. I remember, I remember now. Feeling very strange, but good. Happy. He was so perfect, so attractive. I kissed him. Kept kissing him. I wanted to get a room in the hotel. That’s not like me.” Her fingers pulled weakly at the sheet. “I must’ve had too much to drink.”
“You suggested getting a room in the hotel?”
“Yes. He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh, but I was so drunk, I didn’t care. Why did I drink so much? And he said . . . Take me home with you, and we’ll do things the poets write of.”
She closed her eyes. “Corny. But it didn’t seem corny then. He told me to pay the check. I wasn’t offended or surprised that he meant for me to pay, even though he’d made the date. I went in to freshen up, and all I could think was I was going to have amazing sex with this perfect man. And I could hardly wait to get my hands on him. We took a cab. I paid for that, too. And in the cab . . .”
The faintest color washed into her cheeks. “I think I must’ve dreamed all this. I must have dreamed it. He whispered a suggestion in my ear. What he wanted me to do.” She opened her eyes again. “I went down on him, in the cab. I couldn’t wait to. It wasn’t a dream, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t a dream.”
“What did he give me?” She groped for Eve’s hand, her fingers trying to squeeze, but only twitching. “What was in those drinks?”
Her hand moved, restlessly. Eve covered it. Gripped it. “I wasn’t drunk, was I? It was like being hypnotized.”
“You weren’t drunk, Moniqua, and you’re not responsible for anything you did. He drugged you. Tell me what happened when you got to your apartment.”
“She needs to rest now.” Michaels glanced at the monitors, back at Eve. “She’s talked long enough. You have to leave.”
“No.” Moniqua’s fingers moved in Eve’s hand. “He gave me something that made me do those things to him, with him, made me let him do those things to me? He nearly killed me, didn’t he?”
“Very nearly,” Eve agreed. “But you’re a hell of a lot stronger than he anticipated. Help me catch him. Tell me what happened in your apartment.”
“It’s hazy. I was dizzy, queasy. He put on music, lit candles. He had candles in his bag, and another bottle of champagne. I didn’t want anymore, but he wanted me to drink. I did exactly what he asked me to do. Every time he touched me, I wanted him to touch me again. He said it needed to be perfect. That he was going to prepare . . . set the stage. I should wait. I felt sick. I didn’t want to tell him I felt sick because he might not stay. So when he went into the bedroom, I went into the bath and was sick. After, I felt a little better. Steadier. I went into the bedroom. He had champagne by the bed, and dozens of candles lighted. There were rose petals all over the bed. Pink roses, like the ones he must have sent me at work a few days before. I’d never had anyone go to such trouble.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was so lovely, almost painfully romantic. I actually loved him, in that instant when I walked in and saw him, I was wildly, recklessly in love with him. He undressed me, said I was beautiful. It was all very gentle at first, very sweet and intimate. A fantasy, really. After a while, he handed me the glass. I told him I didn’t want more champagne, but he just looked at me, told me to drink it and I did. Then it wasn’t gentle. It was outrageous. Like going mad. Like becoming an animal. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Burning from the inside out, and my heart beat
ing so fast it felt like it would explode. He was watching me. I can see his eyes now, watching me. He told me to say his name. But it wasn’t his name.”
“What name was it?”
“Kevin. He told me his name was Kevin. Then it was as if things inside me, my head, my body, ripped. And everything stopped. I couldn’t move or see or hear. Buried alive.” Now she wept. “He buried me alive.”