would slip it into my palm, drop my eyes to the screen, tap a reply with my thumb. I’d been discreet, I thought.
“It’s a work thing,” I explained.
“But what could a child possibly need at this hour?” Josie asked.
I smiled. “That’s confidential. You understand.”
“Oh, of course, of course. You’re very professional, dear.”
Yet amid the roar, even as I skimmed the surface of my brain, mouthed questions and answers, even as the wine flowed and the carols droned—even then I could think only of him.
* * *
The phone buzzed again.
My hands jumped from the wheel for an instant. I’d stowed the phone in the cup well between the front seats, where now it rattled against the plastic.
I looked at Ed. He was watching the phone.
Another buzz. I flicked my eyes to the mirror. Olivia was staring out the window.
Quiet. We drove on.
Buzz.
“Guess who,” Ed said.
I didn’t respond.
“Bet it’s him.”
I didn’t argue.
Ed took the phone in his hand, inspected the screen. Sighed.
We cruised down the road. We hugged a turn.
“You want to answer it?”
I couldn’t look at him. My gaze bore through the windshield. I shook my head.
“I’ll answer it, then.”
“No.” I snatched at the phone. Ed held it from me.
It kept buzzing. “I want to answer it,” Ed said. “I want to have a word with him.”
“No.” I knocked the phone from his hand. It clattered beneath my feet.
“Stop it,” cried Olivia.
I looked down, saw the screen trembling on the floor, saw his name on it.
“Anna,” Ed breathed.
I looked up. The road had vanished.
We were rocketing over the edge of the gorge. We were sailing into the dark.
54
A knock.
I’ve drifted off. I sit up, groggy. The room has gone dark; night beyond the windows.
The knock again. Downstairs. It isn’t the front door; it’s the basement.
I walk to the stairs. David almost always uses the front door when he visits. I wonder if this is one of his houseguests.
But when I flick the kitchen lights and open the basement door, it’s the man himself on the other side, looking up at me from two steps below.
“I thought maybe now I should start coming in this way,” he says.
I pause, then realize he’s trying to joke. “Fair enough.” I step aside, and he moves past me into the kitchen.
I shut the door. We eye each other. I think I know what he’s going to say. I think he’s going to tell me about Jane.
“I wanted— I want to apologize,” he begins.
I freeze.
“For earlier,” he says.
I twitch my head, my hair loose around my shoulders. “I’m the one who should apologize.”
“You did apologize.”
“I’m happy to apologize again.”
“No, I don’t want that. I want to say I’m sorry. For shouting.” He nods. “And for leaving the door open. I know that bothers you.”
An understatement, but I owe him at least that. “It’s fine.” I want to hear about Jane. Can I ask him again?
“I just—” He strokes the kitchen island with one hand, props himself against it. “I get territorial. Probably this is something I should’ve told you before, but.”
The sentence ends there. He swings one foot in front of the other.
“But?” I say.
He lifts his eyes from beneath those dark brows. Rough and ready. “You got any beer?”
“I’ve got wine.” I think of the two bottles on my desk upstairs, the two glasses. I should probably empty them. “Should I open a bottle?”
“Sure.”
I move past him to the cabinet—he smells of Ivory—and remove a bottle of red. “Merlot okay?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s a nice red.”
“Sounds good.”
I open another cabinet door. Bare. Over to the dishwasher. A pair of glasses clash in my hand; I set them on the island, pry the cork out of the bottle, and pour.
He slides a glass toward himself, tips it toward me.
“Cheers,” I say, and sip.
“The thing is,” he says, rolling the glass in his hand, “I did some time.”
I nod, then feel my eyes widen. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use that expression. No one outside movies, anyway.
“Jail?” I hear myself say, stupidly.
He smiles. “Jail.”
I nod again. “What did you—were you in jail for?”
He looks at me evenly. “Assault.” Then: “Against a man.”
I stare at him.
“That makes you nervous,” he says.
“No.”
The lie hangs in the air.
“I’m just surprised,” I tell him.
“I should have said something.” He scratches his jaw. “Before moving in, I mean. I understand if you want me to clear out.”
I don’t know if he means it. Do I want him to clear out? “What . . . happened?” I ask.
He