Love at the Abyss

Chapter 1 — The Star Takes the Stage

Jack Rowland climbed out of the taxi and squinted against the glare of the morning light. The city was already wide awake — delivery vans with their back doors flung open, the hiss of a brake, somewhere the metallic rattle of a roller shutter being hauled up. If anyone had told him a few hours ago that he’d be standing more or less upright at this hour, he probably would have laughed — or ordered another drink. He pushed his sunglasses higher up his face, not to look cool but because his eyes flatly refused to make peace with the new day. Even through the tinted lenses the light stabbed at him, as though someone were pressing the flat of a hand against his temples. The club, the drinks, the conversations, the dizzying lights — all of it was only one night behind him, and yet his head felt as if weeks had passed. I need coffee, he thought, and drew a deep breath.

The office building in front of him gleamed in the morning sun — a smooth façade of glass and pale concrete, sharp-edged and flawless, far too sterile, far too real for the state he was in. The clouds drifting slowly across the sky were mirrored in its windows, and the building gazed back at him, cool and unmoved — a fitting audience. Evelyn Klein’s publishing house was more than just an address. His career had taken a new turn here with every visit. Evelyn loved to challenge him — especially when he was least equipped to rise to it.

Jack stretched, feeling each vertebra crack one by one, and stepped inside. The lobby greeted him with cool, air-conditioned air, the muted echo of footsteps on polished stone and, very faintly, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting over from some kitchenette, tempting his stomach and turning it in equal measure. The elevator glided up without a sound while he studied his reflection in the polished metal wall: dark hair, a tired look behind the sunglasses, and three days’ stubble that looked more like five. A face that worked on women without fail — today garnished with a touch of the night before, which, he decided, only made it more interesting. The battered artist always sold better than the well-rested one. The car hummed softly, a digit display jumping silently from floor to floor, and Jack rested his head against the cool wall and closed his eyes for three seconds.

“God, I really need coffee,” Jack muttered. When the elevator doors opened, he was dazzled by harsh neon light — cold, white light spilling from long ceiling tubes, scrubbing every shadow out of the reception area. And by Lisa. Mid-twenties, blonde ponytail, big glasses. She was so absorbed in her screen that she didn’t notice him until he’d taken a few steps into the office, past a sideboard stacked high with galley proofs and a potted plant whose leaves trembled in the draft of the air conditioning. Over it all hung the smell of paper, toner, and cold coffee. Then she looked up — and froze.

Jack knew this moment exactly; he had harvested it a thousand times and knew every stage of it in advance. A brief hesitation, a blink, the unspoken Oh my God, is that really him? — always followed by a slightly parted mouth. There it was again, the little confirmation he drew out of every stranger’s face before they’d so much as said a word: even hungover, sleep-deprived, and with no intention of making any effort, his effect worked flawlessly. He took note of it the way a gambler counts his cards. Smiling, he leaned lazily against the doorframe, one arm above his head, his weight shifted onto one hip, as if he had all the time in the world — every line of the pose calculated, because it worked. “Morning, Lisa,” he murmured in a husky voice.

Lisa swallowed. “Oh my God … you really are Jack Rowland!”

Jack raised an eyebrow, discreetly massaged his temple, and shrugged. “Guilty as charged. Just the slightly worse-for-wear edition today.”

Lisa giggled nervously, and Jack registered the giggle for what it was — a first concession, a first scrap of ground won. He’d get through the hangover on charm and coffee; the girl at the desk was a sideshow, and a pleasant one at that. She blushed and gripped the edge of the desk; in her eyes lay that mix of awe and excitement Jack had seen on countless faces over the years. He stood there with tousled hair and dark shadows under his eyes, and still her gaze clung to him as though he’d opened the door not to a publisher’s office but to something forbidden. That was exactly the effect he prized.

Lisa swallowed, collected herself, and picked up the book from her desk: “The Hangman and the Innocent.” The cover was soft at the corners from many readings, the spine cracked from long hours in impatient hands. She pressed it to her chest as if it might steady her, and finally said, “I … I’m a huge fan! I’ve read it five times.”

Jack glanced at the book, then back at her. The enthusiasm in her eyes was genuine — not a trace of feigned reserve, and genuine enthusiasm was the kind easiest to harvest. Five times. He filed the number away like a sales figure. A smile played at his lips as he took the book from her hands. “Good taste,” he remarked, his fingers stroking the cover. His gaze drifted briefly to the back — to the photo that showed him younger and better rested. Pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, he scrawled a dedication on the first page, the writing slanted and sweeping, the flourish itself a routine practiced a hundred times over: “For Lisa — may the best stories always be the ones still waiting to be written. All my best, Jack Rowland.” The line pleased him every single time, precisely because it cost nothing and promised everything. He handed the book back without taking his eyes off her — a held gaze was half the work done.

Lisa took it carefully, as if it were something fragile. She bit her lip, a hint of red rising in her cheeks.

Jack recognized that expression — that blend of admiration and fascination, effortless, the way a collector appraises a piece he’s about to own. He held the moment a beat, because the pause doubled the effect, then leaned in, his voice low enough that only she could hear it: “A little thank-you for your enthusiasm.”

Lisa’s fingers closed around the book, brushing his as they did — warm, firm, just for a moment. He watched her breath catch, watched her lips part without a word coming out, watched her cheeks flush a shade deeper. A tiny tremor ran through her hand before she pulled the book tighter against herself. Jack noted every reaction with the cool satisfaction of a man who repeats an experiment and gets the same result: touch, catch, blush. Even as he watched it happen, part of him was already translating the image into sentences, weighing the phrasing, setting the scene aside like raw material. Whatever was unfolding inside Lisa was no concern of his; that it was unfolding in her was the whole pleasure.

“Oh wow, thank you! I … I … Oh God, Evelyn’s waiting for you!” Lisa’s voice cracked as she hastily gestured toward the heavy wooden door behind her.

Jack grinned; her flight reflex only showed him how far he already had her. He let his fingertips glide playfully over the book — a tiny gesture that visibly took her breath away, calculated down to the last millimeter. “Then I’d better not risk getting into trouble.” He winked at her, the wink well-worn and dead certain, a coin he spent at every front desk, and crossed to the door while Lisa still clutched the book like a relic. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and her eyes followed him until he touched the handle — that too he filed away, offhand, as the closing line of a small, well-played performance.

With one last step, Jack pushed open the heavy door to Evelyn’s office — it swung silently on oiled hinges — and needed a moment to get his bearings. A tiny second of uncertainty, which he covered with a casual movement. The night was still in his bones. Or rather, in his head, which throbbed dully, as though a small, stubborn drum corps had taken up residence inside it. He smoothed the collar of his coat, took a deep breath — and regretted it at once. The taste of whisky and lost sleep rose in him, a memory of decisions that had felt right at night and now tasted of regret. Then he stepped into the room.

Sunlight flooded through the tall windows and danced on the immaculate surface of the mahogany desk. The room breathed a different air than the frantic anteroom — warmer, more hushed, threaded with the faint scent of polished wood, leather, and a hint of expensive perfume. Heavy curtains framed the windows, and floor-to-ceiling shelves ran along the walls, every spine seeming to know its assigned place. Here a thick carpet swallowed every footstep, and the babble of voices outside reached in only as a distant hum.

Evelyn Klein, perfectly staged, sat in her wine-red trouser suit, her dark hair falling softly over her shoulders. The light caught in the fine strands and made the fabric of her suit shimmer like dark wine in a glass. Her gaze, sharp as a scalpel, reminded Jack who was in control here. And that was exactly what wore him out all the more today — with Evelyn his act came to nothing, and that, next to the hangover, was the real reason for his foul mood. “Jack.” Her voice was calm, decisive — with an undertone of I know exactly what you got up to last night. “Punctual as ever.”

“Of course.” Jack sank into the armchair, his movements a mix of routine and exhaustion. The leather gave way beneath him with a sigh. His gaze wandered around the room — dark wood furniture, meticulously ordered bookshelves, all far too perfect for the state he was in. He laid a hand on the desktop, ran it absently over the cool, waxed wood, and reached for the stapler lying beside a stack of manuscripts. The cool metal in his hand was soothing. A soft click filled the room — a constant in a world that was spinning a little too fast just now.

Evelyn crossed her arms, leaned back, and studied him with raised eyebrows. “So, Jack? What dark fantasies are haunting that head of yours this time? Or would you rather tell me first why you look like you spent the night with a bottle of bourbon?”

Jack set the stapler down, rubbed his temple, and gave a crooked grin. “Neither of those is entirely wrong.” He leaned forward and went on: “I want to write a crime novel. One I haven’t dared to write so far.”

Evelyn’s gaze rested on him. She waited, motionless, only one finger tapping once, soundlessly, on the arm of the chair.

Jack looked out the window, as if he had to think the idea over once more — in truth he was simply savoring the pause, because a good pause sharpened the audience. Then he leaned back and said, “Picture a serial killer who’s utterly inconspicuous. A man who drives from office to office, signing contracts — while he already has his next victim in his sights.” He paused and looked at Evelyn.