Catch a Falling Knife

trouble finding a place for his car and finally had to park around the corner. This never happens in the movies when the hero is racing to save the victim, but in a movie I guess he would have had no qualms about double-parking.
    We walked briskly back to the apartment and rang the bell. No answer. Mark and I looked at each other. I had my cell phone in my purse. Was it time to call 911? He tried the door; it wasn’t locked.
    He opened the door and we went inside. Silence reigned. Nothing looked out of place in the main room. Everything was deceptively normal. The beanbag chair slouched, invitingly. The CD player showed a light; it had been playing.
    “Donna,” I called. “It’s Professor Morgan.”
    No answer. I had a mental picture of Donna lying on her bed, engulfed in blood, a replay of Elise. Gingerly, we made our way toward the bedroom. I poked my head around the corner, dreading what I would see. And then I saw her, on her bed, with her back to me.
    “Donna,” I said.
    Donna didn’t move. Mark followed me into the bedroom and also called her name. No reaction. I went over to her and touched her shoulder. She flinched and I jumped back, startled, my heartbeat accelerating. Dead bodies aren’t supposed to move.
    Slowly, Donna rolled over and looked at us. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been sleeping.”
    She sat up on her bed. She wore a white bra and white panties. She brushed back her hair from her face and rubbed her eyes. They looked red. Except for her eyes, she looked the most attractive that I’d ever seen her. Then she became aware of her state of undress. Mark did too, and apologized.
    “That’s all right,” Donna said as he turned to leave the room, but he went out anyway. I picked up a T-shirt and a pair of shorts that were lying on the floor and handed them to her. I wasn’t going to abet her in her seduction of Mark. She pulled them on and Mark returned.
    “Has Mr. Hoffman been here?” I asked.
    “How did you know that?” she asked.
    “Just a guess. He left his house this morning, very angry. We thought that he might have been mad because you identified Elise as the Shooting Star.”
    “I need a drink of water,” Donna said. She led the way out of the bedroom to the main room and then into the kitchen. She asked, “Would you two like something?”
    Mark chose a coke; I took a glass of water. We reassembled in the main room where I carefully avoided the beanbag chair.
    After a few sips, Donna said, haltingly, “You guessed correctly. Mr. Hoffman was here. Actually, I think he came this morning when I was in class, but I didn’t get back here until after lunch. Anyway, he returned after I got home. You are also correct about the reason. He was mad because I had to admit that Elise was the Shooting Star.”
    “So he was the one who convinced you to impersonate the Shooting Star,” Mark said.
    “Oh, no. That was my idea. He didn’t know that Elise was the Shooting Star until I told him. But then he went along with me pretending I was. He said that Elise had suffered enough, having been murdered, and he didn’t want her reputation tarnished. That’s what he said, but I know what the real reason was. He didn’t want his reputation tarnished.”
    “When did you tell him Elise was the Shooting Star?” I asked. Did Donna really not know that Eric had known before the murder?
    “A few days after she was killed. I figured he ought to know the truth about her, his precious baby that he had put on a pedestal.”
    “How did he react?”
    “He was…upset, I guess. I don’t really remember. But that’s when he told me he wanted me to keep impersonating the Shooting Star.”
    “Did Mr. Hoffman hurt you?” I asked.
    “Hurt me?”
    “Today.”
    “No…he didn’t hurt me. He made me cry, but he didn’t hurt me.”
    “When did he leave?” Mark asked.
    Donna looked at her watch. “About an hour ago. I was so upset that I collapsed on the bed. I must have fallen asleep. When you first called I was disoriented and thought I was having a dream.”
    “Do you know where he went?” I asked.
    “No. Home, I guess.”
    I had the feeling Donna wasn’t telling us everything, but I might have that feeling because of her propensity to change stories. There was nothing to be gained by talking to her further. I think she was relieved to see us go, but then I would have been too, in her shoes.
     
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    “I hope you’ve