Face Of The Monster

***24***

Phoebe Kim should say no and she knows it.

The man is lean, not tall, but still intimidating. He has musty gray eyes that watch her with languid intensity as if he is trying to determine where he recognizes her from. His hair is thin, salt and pepper. He has a sharp nose and a grisled face, unshaven cheeks, and a firm chin. His clothes are casual, wrinkled.

Phoebe Kim should say no, but she tells him to come inside. Her heart beats rapidly, her palms breaking into thick sheens of sweat, but it's too late to take it back. "Go on into the office," she tells him. "I'll be there in just a second."

The man smiles, a smirky little curl of his lip. "Sure," he says. His voice is guttural, thick, like he hasn't used it in weeks. He disappears into Phoebe's office, brushing his hand over the doorknobs so the door fades shut behind him.

"Are you alright?" Lars asks from his desk. He is bent over a book full of math formulas, his glasses riding low on his nose. He sits up straight, taking them off to look her over. "Earth to Phoebe? I said, are you alright?"

"I know, I heard you." Phoebe looks between the door and Lars. She wipes her sweaty hands on her skirt, feeling a quick surge of nausea in her stomach. "I'm okay. I think."

He wraps his hands around her forearms, looking at her with that intense concern she so loves about him. "Do you know that man? Do you want me to tell him to leave?"

The truth is, she does not know that man, but she does want Lars to tell him to leave. His presence makes her so inexplicably uncomfortable that she feels dizzy at the thought of being alone with him.

Phoebe has always thought of herself as a good judge of character, something that has often come in handy as a psychologist. When she meets people, she can often analyze their strengths and weakness after talking to them for a short amount of time.

But even less plausible than these predictions are her intuitions. She supposes everyone has them, a feeling that someone is good or bad within a second of making eye contact with them. She just supposes she reacts more strongly to her own intuitions than others do to theirs. She seeks out the people who radiate their goodness and avoids those who make her uneasy.

Right now, though, she's backed herself into a corner. Phoebe takes a deep breath. She will talk to this man, she decides, and get him out of her office as soon as possible. Then she will go on with her day.

"Don't worry about me," she tells Lars. "I'm just . . . you know."

He knows. Lars squeezes her arms and says, "I'll be listening out for you."

She thanks him and slips away into her office. She finds herself paying too much attention to the way she walks, making sure her hips don't sway. The door clicks shut behind her. Phoebe hopes the man doesn't see her jump.

The boy is following close behind like a stray dog at her heels. He waits for her to sit and then settles in behind her to knead his hands into her hair.

Phoebe makes eye contact with the man. His eyes are bloodshot, very pale brown. "What did you say your name was again, sir?" she asks.

"Everybody calls me Al." He shrugs. "What should I call you?"

"Phoebe is fine." She looks at his outstretched hand and then pretends she hasn't seen. The thought of touching him repulses her. "So, Al. Are you alright? Anything you want to talk to me about?" She tries to sound as warm as possible, making her voice open and her face sympathetic. His pupils are dilated slightly, she notices.

Al nods. He furrows his eyebrows, eyes flitting away from her.

"Al?" Phoebe repeats. "You seem a little distracted."

He shakes his head like a dog expelling water from its coat. "Sorry. It's just, there's something behind you. Somone. Someone behind you."

A chill rips down Phoebe's spine. "What did you just say?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not crazy, really. Forget I said anything."

"No, no. Of course you're not crazy." Phoebe takes a few deep breaths, trying to blink away the dots her shock has projected on her vision. "I just can't believe that you can see him, too."

A moment of perplexed silence passes between them. Al scratches his head, oily hair shaking. The boy perches his chin on the top of her head, affectionately stroking her collarbone. Phoebe wants to go home, curl up with Emma and go to sleep.

Al says, "Who is he?"

Phoebe blinks at him, the answer she is about to give sitting so strangely on her tongue that it's almost laughable. "He's dead," she says. "He's a dead person. And you see him."

"And so do you."

Now it's Phoebe's turn to shake her head. She tries to clear her mind, tries to think. "Okay, who are you? What do you want? Did you know him? Is that it? Because trust me, I don't know any more than you do. I have nothing to tell you."

"I didn't know him," Al says. "I have no idea who that is. I just wanted to come in and make an appointment. That's all."

Phoebe holds her head in her hands. The boy moves his chin to her shoulder, hands massaging her stomach. She is sick of his touch, so used to the dull, thudding pain of him that it's become like a ringing in her ears. "Okay," she says. "Okay. Let's set up an appointment, then."

Al nods in agreement. "Just . . . forget I said anything about it. Him."

She sees him make eye contact with the boy. Chills shoot through her bloodstream. "It's already forgotten."