questioned, make sure he knew what he was going to say, then drive back to Boston before daylight.
I parked my car across the road, under an oak tree, its branches lowered by the rain, and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. Brad’s truck slid into his spot in front of his unit about 11:00 P.M. I’d cracked my window, but even so, the inside of the Mini had steamed up while I waited, and Brad’s truck was a blur. I rolled my window all the way down and watched as another car, a boxy Honda maybe, slid in next to Brad. Fuck, I thought, probably Polly. I watched as first Brad, then a tall, slender woman, got out of their respective cars. Brad held the door open, and the woman entered his cottage first. She wore some kind of slick, reflective jacket and tight jeans. Way too thin to be Polly, and way too steady on her feet. Brad followed. Something about the way they entered the house made me think this wasn’t a typical pickup. They’d moved like businessmen entering a meeting room. I waited five minutes, then pulled my hood up over my head and got out of my car. I thought it was still raining but it was just the oak tree, rain dropping from its few remaining leaves.
I crossed the road and approached Brad’s cottage—I’d never been inside, but I’d stood in the doorway once, months ago, delivering blueprints, back before Brad and I had become involved. I remembered noticing how neat it was, and how sterile. I crept toward a window that was to the left of the front door. There were slatted blinds, but the way the interior light was coming through made me think I could see through them. I wanted to see if I recognized the woman. I was almost at the window when a light mounted above the door turned on, harsh white light flooding the front of the house. I moved fast around toward the side, my sneakers crunching on the crushed-shell driveway. I pressed my back against the wooden siding where the shadows were the darkest, and waited for the exterior light to extinguish itself. It did, after a very long minute. I heard no one stirring inside the house, and the road remained quiet. There was one window on the side of the house, just low enough that I could look through it while standing on tiptoe. The blinds were closed but there was a little space between them, and I could see through into a kitchen—a white refrigerator, an empty countertop—and, beyond that, into the living area, where Brad and a woman with red hair sat talking on the couch. In front of them, on the coffee table, sat two bottles of beer. For one brief moment, I thought it was Lily Kintner from Mather, and a shiver went through me, but the woman moved her head a little and I decided it wasn’t Lily. She wore cheap makeup: dark eyeliner and bright lipstick, and unless Lily had changed, she was not the type to wear makeup at all.
I watched for a while, Brad and this woman talking intently, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what they must be talking about. Brad seemed beaten down, his shoulders slumped, his mouth hanging open. The woman, whoever she was, was doing most of the talking. Brad looked like a dumb student trying to follow what his teacher was saying. This was not what I had expected to see at all. I expected to see Brad and some slut from Cooley’s writhing around his couch. I wouldn’t have liked it much, but I would have preferred it to what I was seeing now. What could they possibly be talking about?
Brad nodded, several times in a row, like a puppet having a string pulled, then he fumbled around in his jacket pocket, pulling out his cigarettes. The woman stood, stretched, her shirt lifting to reveal a sliver of pale stomach, then walked toward the kitchen. It took all my will but I kept looking through the slats, praying she wouldn’t glance in my direction. I wanted to get a better look at her. She swung open the door of the refrigerator, bent at the waist to peer inside, and I was able to stare at her profile. She really did look a lot like Lily Kintner—the same gamine body, pale complexion, red hair. But the clothes