Free The Woman in the Fifth by Douglas Kennedy Page B

was a reply from Megan.
     
Hi Dad
     
Thanks for writing what you did. I'm still confused by it all. Like who's telling the truth here? But it's good to know that you didn't want to leave us. That means a lot. And don't worry about Mom. She'll never know we've been writing each other. But do keep the emails coming. I really like them.
     
Love
     
Megan
     
The fact that she signed the email with ' Love ' . . . that was not simply 'good news'. That was the best news I had received since this whole nightmare started. And I immediately wrote back:
     
Dearest Megan
     
It really doesn't matter who is telling the truth here. What does matter is that we stay close. And as I said yesterday, I'm sure that we will be seeing each other again very soon.
     
Love
     
Dad
     
It was a Friday when I sent that email – so it didn't surprise me that I didn't hear from her over the weekend. As she had a computer in her room at home, I knew it might be dangerous if I emailed her on Saturday or Sunday . . . just on the off chance that her mother or Robson might walk into her room when she was opening her mailbox (yes, this was overly cautious on my part – but I wanted nothing to jeopardize our correspondence, let alone land Megan in trouble at home). So I resisted the temptation to write her – and just continued on with my usual routine. Wake up at eight, the morning shop, the morning write, lunch, out the door by 1.30 p.m. at the latest, movies, home by midnight, a Zopiclone sleeping tablet chased with herbal tea, sleep . . . and the inevitable 2 a.m. wake-up call when Omar came rolling in drunk (he did this nightly without fail) and proceeded to pee loudly. Though his loud bodily functions would always snap me into consciousness, the Zopiclone ensured that I'd pass out a few minutes after this wake-up call. As such, I gave daily thanks to that hotel doctor who had overprescribed me one hundred and twenty tabs of this knockout drug.
     
But every morning I awoke to the charming discovery that Omar had left the toilet a mess. After weeks of having to clean up after him, I finally hit the wall. It was the day after I had received my last email from Megan – and the large pool of urine on the floor sent me to his door. I banged on it loudly. He answered after a minute, dressed in stained boxer shorts and an AC Milan T-shirt that strained to make it over his vast gut.
     
'What?' he asked, looking half-asleep.
     
'I need to talk to you,' I said.
     
'You talk to me? Why?'
     
'It's about how you leave the toilet.'
     
'How I leave toilet?' he said, getting a certain edge to his voice. I tried to adopt a reasonable tone.
     
'Look, we both have to share the toilet—'
     
'We share toilet?' he said, sounding outraged.
     
'We both use the same toilet at different times.'
     
'You want we use it together?'
     
'I want you to lift up the seat when you pee, please. And I always want you to flush the toilet and use the scrubbing brush when—'
     
'Fuck you,' he said and slammed the door.
     
So much for my attempts at diplomacy. The next morning I found Omar had pissed everywhere . . . not just on the toilet seat and its adjoining walls, but on my front door as well. For the first time since moving in, I ventured back to the offices of Sezer Confection. Mr Tough Guy let me in with a scowl. Monsieur looked away as I spoke. In other words, business as usual.
     
'There is a problem?' Sezer asked.
     
I explained what had happened.
     
'Maybe it was a cat,' he said.
     
'Yeah – and he happened to arrive on a magic carpet with a full bladder. It was Omar.'
     
'You have proof?'
     
'Who else would piss on my door?'
     
'I am not Sherlock Holmes.'
     
'You need to talk to Omar,' I said.
     
'If I do not have proof that it was his piss on your door . . .'
     
'Can you at least get someone to clean it off?'
     
'No.'
     
'Surely as the building manager—'
     
'We clean the corridors. We make certain that the éboueurs pick up the rubbish every