and told them that he’d hired a private detective to track down his sister, and they’d thanked him, and prayed that wherever she was she’d found peace. He could hear in their voices that they actually didn’t want to find her, that they’d already accepted a life without their children. They didn’t want him back. He knew that much. He hadn’t laid eyes on them for ten years.
Henry refocused on the sketch in front of him. He decided not to smudge the eyes, as temping as it was. It would probably be too much; Kate would call the police, probably leave the apartment. Instead, he turned to the picture she’d drawn of him and used his finger to smooth out some of the lines that defined his face, then he allowed himself to dab at the charcoal eyes with a moistened finger, altering them just enough so that they looked out of focus. Satisfied, he shut the book and slid it back under the bed, wondering how long he’d been sitting there. Disoriented suddenly, he stood, the room swimming a little in his vision. He was hungry, and he went to the kitchen to see if there was enough food that he could take some. If not, his backpack was filled with granola bars.
Kate came home around eight that night. Henry was in the guest room, sitting in the dark. He didn’t bother to hide. If she came looking, he’d have enough time to duck into the closet while she was turning on the light. And if he didn’t, and she spotted him, well, Kate would have to die. Henry wondered how Corbin would react to that. Would it be more personal because she was family, his blood, or less personal because he’d never fucked her? Either way, it would flush Corbin out from his hiding place in London. He’d have to return to Boston. Henry was pondering this when the white cat he’d seen in the basement trotted into the bedroom and stared at him, eyes glowing yellow in the dark. Henry hissed and the cat cocked its head, then turned and left the room.
He waited and listened. He heard the front door open and close, and wondered if Kate had left, but somehow he doubted it, and he stayed where he was. Fifteen minutes later, she came padding down the hall, heading for the media room, or whatever Corbin called that dark-paneled man cave with the overstuffed leather sofa. Henry let five minutes pass, then stepped out into the hall. The lamp by the leather sofa was on, and even though its back was to Henry, he could see the crown of her head and hear the dry flicking sound of a page being turned. She was reading. Henry stayed where he was, still as he could be, waiting for another page to turn. She must be a slow reader, he thought, then he heard the book clunk to the floor and Kate shift on the sofa. She’d fallen asleep.
He stood behind the sofa. She was half covered by a lumpy duvet, one of her hands turned so that the palm faced outward and the knuckles rested on her cheek. He watched her for a while, amazed that people were held together by something as fragile as skin. Even in the dull light from the lamp, he could see the blood moving beneath it. Her jaw moved, and with it, the delicate tendons of her neck. She began to snore, then shifted, her eyes squeezing shut as though trying not to see whatever it was that her dreams were showing her. Henry backed away, then turned and walked to the kitchen, where he drank milk directly from the bottle. Just to amuse himself, he thought of sleeping in Corbin’s bed. There was a good chance Kate was going to stay all night on the sofa. No, he thought. He was having too much fun and didn’t want it to end. He’d sleep under the bed in the guest room. It was the safest place.
He put the milk back in the refrigerator, then heard a soft scratching sound on the door that led to the basement. He opened the door and let in that idiotic cat. It actually rubbed up against his leg. He bent and picked it up, turning it over and holding its skull, not quite the size of a tennis ball, in his hand. The cat purred. Could he crush its head with just his hand?