up in Boston, sun coming through our bedroom window. I looked over at Ted, still deep in sleep, his face pillow-creased. I studied a little patch of dark stubble under his chin that he must have missed while shaving the previous day. He was snoring, lightly, but each ragged breath began with a little nasal hiccup, like his breath had caught on the edge of something. It was infuriating to listen to, and I realized that I was going to spend the rest of my life waking up and looking over at the same face, growing older, and older, and snoring more and more. That part was bad enough, but I also knew that, as soon as Ted woke up, he was going to look over at me, and his face was going to look so pleased, and he would say something like, “Hey there, beautiful.” That was the worst. I’d have to smile when all I wanted to do was smash that stupid grin off his face. Ted stirred a little, and I knew he was going to wake up. As quietly as I could, I pulled the duvet off of me and slid my legs over the lip of the bed. I wasn’t fast enough, though. Ted woke and ran a finger along my back, and said, in a sleepy, dopey voice, “Where you going, sexy?” And right then, I knew I couldn’t do it. I wanted the money but couldn’t spend a lifetime with Ted. Not even close. We’d just begun breaking ground on the house in Kennewick. I thought of Brad Daggett, our contractor, and wondered if he might be good for something besides house construction.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Bangor, the CD had played through twice, but I kept listening to it. I got off of I-95, drove past the Thomas Hill Standpipe and got onto Kenduskeag Avenue, which took me all the way into town. It was grim, the leaves on the trees having already turned and fallen. Most had been bagged or mulched, and the city had settled back into its familiar color palette of shingle and brick, low dwellings underneath a low gray sky.
I got onto State Street, skirting the Penobscot River, heading north toward Orono. A quarter mile from my mother’s condo my phone trilled. I turned down the radio and answered it.
“Mrs. Severson, this is Detective Kimball.”
“Hello,” I said, and even though he could be calling about anything, my heart skipped a little.
“Sorry to bother you, but we have a question. Do you happen to know what your husband did on the day . . . on Friday, during the day?”
“Um. Far as I know, he was home all day. I saw him in the morning before my flight to Florida. He told me he had work to do, and that night he was planning on eating alone at home. He was going to make lamb. I texted him to remind him to take it out of the freezer.” I made my voice tremble a little.
“Uh-huh. Did your husband know anyone in Winslow, Mass.?”
I slowed the car down, looking for my mother’s town house.
“Winslow. I don’t think so. Why?”
“We found a Town of Winslow parking violation in his car. It was from 2:33 P.M. on the Friday that your husband passed away. We were just curious if you knew why he might have driven out there.”
I spotted my mother’s driveway, the Mercedes coupe in Diamond White, and pulled in next to it.
“I have no idea. Where’s Winslow again? That’s where the college is, right?”
“Yes. Did your husband have business contacts there?”
“He might have. I have no idea. Why? Do you think it has something to do with what happened?”
“No, no. We’re just following any lead. So as far as you know, your husband didn’t see anyone he knew during the day on Friday.”
“As far as I know, yes, but I wasn’t there . . .”
“Of course. Thank you very much, Mrs. Severson. If you think of anything else, or remember who your husband might have known in Winslow, please get in touch. You have my number?”
“You just called me. I have it.”
“Right, thank you.”
I sat in my car a while, even though I saw the dark figure of my mother peering out of her second-floor living room window. I was a little concerned that the police were finding it necessary to investigate where Ted had gone the day he was killed. I was banking on their simply