The Wrong Man

“What? What? What?” she yelled as each went past her eyes.

And then, in that second, she saw it.

The message from Michael O’Co

It was that he’d been able to send them at all.

Each one had come from a different name on her address list. Each was from him. That they were grade-school-level testimonials of undying love was irrelevant. What was critical was that he had managed to insinuate himself into her own computer. And then, through a clever choice of words, managed to get her to read every message he’d sent. And, she understood, the likelihood was that by opening one, she had opened some sort of hidden electronic door. Michael O’Co

With a small gasp, Ashley leaned back hard in her chair, almost losing her balance, feeling a sense of dizziness as if the room were spi

She turned slowly and began to let her vision creep over the small world of her apartment. Michael O’Co

She shook her head.

The two of them had slumped back on the bed in the aftermath. She had grabbed a pillow and, with the room swerving unsteadily and a sour taste in her mouth, plummeted into sleep. What had he done? she asked herself. He had lit a cigarette. In the morning, she had risen, not inviting him for a second tumble, making up some story about needing to be at an appointment, not offering any breakfast, or even a kiss, just disappearing into the shower and scrubbing herself under steaming water, sudsing every inch of her body, as if she’d been covered with some unusual smell. She had wanted him to leave, but he had not.

Ashley tried to recall the brief morning-after conversation. It had been filled with falsehoods, as she had distanced herself, been cold and preoccupied, until finally he had stared at her in an uncomfortably long silence, then smiled, nodded, and exited without much further talk.

And now, all he talks about is love, she thought. Where did that come from?

She pictured him going through the door, a cold look on his face.

That recollection made her shift about uncomfortably.

The other men she had known, even if only briefly, would have exited either angry or optimistic or even with a little bravado after the one-night stand. But O’Co

She thought to herself, sleep. Shower. Plenty of time with her back turned. Had she left the computer on and ru

What else had he taken?

It was the obvious question, but one she didn’t really want to ask.

For an instant, the room spun again, and then Ashley rose and, as quickly as she could, raced to the small bathroom, where she pitched forward, head over the glistening toilet bowl, and was violently, utterly sick.

After she cleaned herself up, Ashley pulled a blanket around her shoulders and sat on the edge of her bed, considering what she should do. She felt like some shipwrecked refugee after rough days adrift at sea.

But the longer she sat there, the angrier she got.

As best as she could tell, Michael O’Co

In general, Ashley was an understanding sort, one who disliked confrontation and avoided a fight at almost all costs. But this foolishness-she could think of no other word-with a one-night stand had really gone too far.

She threw the blanket off and stood up.

“God damn it,” she said. “This is ending. Today. Enough of this bullshit.”

She walked over to her desk and picked up her cell phone. Without thinking about what she was going to say, Ashley dialed O’Co

He answered almost immediately.

“Hello, lover,” he said almost gaily, certainly with a familiarity that infuriated her.

“I’m not your lover.”

He didn’t reply.

“Look, Michael. This has got to stop.”

Again, he didn’t answer.

“Okay?”

Again, silence.

After a second, she wasn’t even sure he was still there. “Michael?”

“I’m here,” he said coldly.

“It’s over.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s finished.”

There was another hesitation, then he said, “I don’t think so.”

Ashley was about to try again, but then she realized he had hung up.

She cursed, “You goddamn son of a bitch!” then redialed his number.

“Want to try again?” he answered this time.

She took a deep breath.

“All right,” Ashley said stiffly, “if you won’t make this easy, I guess we can do it the tough way.”

She heard him laugh, but he did not say anything.

“Okay, meet me for lunch.”

“Where?” he asked abruptly.

For an instant she scrambled about, trying to think of the right place. It had to be someplace familiar, someplace public, someplace where she was known and he wasn’t, somewhere she was likely to be surrounded by allies. All this would give her the necessary gumption to turn him off once and forever, she thought.

“The restaurant at the art museum,” she said. “One this afternoon. Okay?”

She could sense him gri

“So I suppose,” I said, “in a way this is all about recognition. Everyone needed to see what was happening.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Easy to say. Hard to do.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. You know we like to presume that we can recognize danger when it appears on the horizon. Anyone can avoid the danger that has bells, whistles, red lights, and sirens attached to it. It’s much harder when you don’t exactly know what you’re dealing with.”