Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,82

posed.

Or a centerfold out of Playboy.

She likes attention. Craves it, actually. What Hank had said about his wife trailed through Abby’s mind. He had looked half-killed with shame and lustfulness when he’d said it; he had been agitated. Abby set her fingertip near the image of Sondra’s face. She couldn’t put this woman together with this cabin, couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Abby put the photo back, knocking over a smaller photo in the process. She fumbled to rearrange things, feeling clumsy and furious. The awful foreboding, that terrible prescient monster in her mind, was growing, pushing an image at her of Nick and Sondra together. And it seemed so possible. On a certain level, Abby saw Sondra as Nick’s sort of woman. All elegance and dazzle, but not flagrant, not in-your-face. And she was adventurous, clearly up for anything. Sondra would take risks; she would embrace them. Nick would go for that. He’d be intrigued by it.

But, no. Abby gave her head a small, firm shake. Nick having a fling with Sondra was no more possible than Nick having partnered with Adam Sandoval, no more possible than the ridiculous notion that the three were involved in some kind of outlandish corporate robbery scheme. That was the stuff of television crime shows or Hollywood thrillers. She crossed the room to the dining alcove and looked out the window. A shed stood in a clearing some fifty feet away, but the woods were reaching for it, would soon reclaim it and the land it sat on, if cutting wasn’t done. It relieved Abby somehow to think of the upkeep on this place, what it must cost in terms of time and money. Didn’t Nick complain that he never had enough of either? Wasn’t it silly to think he would hide himself away here—but suddenly her attention was diverted by a flash of movement.

Abby focused on trees clustered nearest the shed. A person, she thought. But who would be out there? It was so damp and freezing.

Hank joined her, handing her a mug. “Couldn’t remember if you took sugar or anything.”

“Black’s fine.” Abby was glad just to cradle the warmth in her hands. “I thought I saw someone out there.”

“Hunter, probably. It’s the season.”

She thought of the fawn again. She started to tell Hank the rescue story, but then she couldn’t bear being so close to him. She felt a renewed sense of pity for him, that he was so homely and morose, so dull. Insurance, she thought. Why didn’t he find a better occupation than selling insurance? He might keep Sondra’s interest if he made more money. Or why didn’t he join a gym and work out? If he got into shape, maybe Sondra wouldn’t have to go off and dance naked for other men. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go after someone else’s husband. Abby went to the sofa, unsure of herself and the hot, panicked direction of her thoughts. She yanked on the afghan thinking she would fold it or jam it in her mouth before she screamed.

Something came with it. A pillow, she thought. But when she gave the blanket a sharp shake, what dropped to the floor was a jacket. Brown leather, the same as the couch. Bomber style. Abby stepped back, clutching the afghan to her chest as if she might be in danger of attack. Then thrusting the coverlet aside, she went to her knees, putting her fingers on the jacket, pulling it toward her, turning it over, examining it, finally standing with it in her hands to find Hank watching her.

She held it out to him. “It’s Nick’s. I gave it to him for Christmas last year.”

Hank’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding?”

Abby said she wasn’t. “How did it get here?”

“What do you mean, how? On his goddamn back is how.”

Abby ran a hand down one sleeve.

“I guess that about says it.”

“It could be something else,” Abby said, and when Hank laughed, she hated him for it, for making her feel she was naïve and a fool, for making her think Nick had betrayed her. “But it was at home. After the flood, I mean. I saw it there last summer, in June, or no, it was May, the end of May.” I put it on, wanting him, wanting his arms around me….

“He must have gone back there for it.”

“What are you saying? You think he’s alive?”

“I got the impression that’s what you’ve believed all along. Why else would you contact me and suggest