wetting our heads, splattering against my umbrella. “Let’s go inside,” Ethan says.
63
The fire is still spurting in the grate, as though freshly laid. I’ve left it burning all this time. So irresponsible.
Still, the house feels warm, even with November gusting through the door. Once we’re in the living room, Ethan slips the umbrella from my hand, collapses it, tucks it in the corner, while I sway toward the hearth, the flames waving at me, beckoning me. I slump to my knees.
For a moment, I hear the lapping of the fire. I hear myself breathe.
I feel his eyes on my back.
The grandfather clock gathers itself, tolls three times.
Then he moves to the kitchen. Fills a glass at the sink. Walks it back to me.
By now my breath is deep and even. He sets the glass on the floor beside me; it cracks gently on the stone.
“Why did you lie?” I say.
There’s a pause. I gaze into the flames and wait for him to respond.
Instead I hear him shift where he stands. I swivel toward him, still on my knees. He towers over me, rail-thin, face flushed in the firelight.
“About what?” he asks at last, looking at his feet.
Already I’m shaking my head. “You know what.”
Another pause. He shuts his eyes, his lashes fanning out over his cheeks. Suddenly he looks very young, even younger than before.
“Who is that woman?” I press him.
“My mother,” he says in a low voice.
“I met your mother.”
“No, you—you’re confused.” Now he’s shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s what . . .” He stops. “That’s what my dad says,” he finishes.
My dad. I spread my hands on the floor, push myself up until I’m standing. “That’s what everyone’s been telling me. Even my friends.” I swallow. “Even my husband. But I know what I saw.”
“My dad says you’re crazy.”
I say nothing.
He retreats a step. “I have to leave. I shouldn’t be here.”
I take a step forward. “Where is your mother?”
He says nothing, just looks at me, eyes wide. Use a light touch, Wesley always advised us, only I’m past that point.
“Is your mother dead?”
Nothing. I see the firelight reflected in his eyes. His pupils are tiny sparks.
Then he mouths something I can’t hear.
“What?” I lean in, hear him whisper a pair of words:
“I’m scared.”
And before I can reply, he bolts to the door, flings it open. It swings there as the front door groans, slams shut.
I’m left standing by the fireplace, heat at my back, the chill of the hall before me.
64
After pressing the door shut, I lift the glass of water from the floor and dump its contents down the sink. The merlot bottle chimes against the rim as I pour wine into it. Chimes again. My hands are trembling.
I drink deep, think deep. I feel exhausted, exhilarated. I ventured outside—walked outside—and survived. I wonder what Dr. Fielding will say. I wonder what I should tell him. Maybe nothing. I frown.
I know more now, too. The woman is panicking. Ethan is frightened. Jane is . . . well. I don’t know about Jane. But it’s more than I knew before. I feel as though I’ve captured a pawn. I’m the Thinking Machine.
I drink deeper still. I’m the Drinking Machine.
I drink until my nerves stop twitching—an hour, by the grandfather clock. I watch the minute hand sweep its face, imagine my veins filling with wine, bold and thick, cooling me, strengthening me. Then I float upstairs. I spy the cat on the landing; he notices me, slinks into the study. I follow him.
On the desk, my phone lights up. I don’t recognize the number. I set the glass down on the desk. After the third ring, I swipe the screen.
“Dr. Fox.” The voice is trench-deep. “Detective Little here. We met on Friday, if you remember.”
I pause, then sit at the desk. Push the glass out of reach. “Yes, I remember.”
“Good, good.” He sounds pleased; I imagine him stretching back in his seat, folding one arm behind his head. “How is the good doctor?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“I was wondering if I’d hear from you before now.”
I say nothing.
“Got your number from Morningside and wanted to check in. You doing okay?”
I just told him I was. “Fine, thanks.”
“Good, good. Family okay?”
“Fine. All fine.”
“Good, good.” Where is this going?
Then his voice shifts gears. “Here’s the thing: We had a call from your neighbor a little while ago.”
Of course. Bitch. Well, she warned me. Reliable bitch. I extend my arm, grasp the glass of wine.