between the eyes. A battle ensued, a flurry of dusty white ammunition, flying arms and legs, and laughter. Molly ambushed us both by pretending to be hurt, then blasting us with two fierce chunks of snow when we came to her aid. We all froze our fingers, noses, and toes. We tumbled. We played. The horrors of the day before—of the past month—got lost in a frosty flurry. For the first time in years, I felt mischievous, silly, goofy. As the sun set, I rolled with Molly down hills of frozen white down, hung upside down over Nick’s shoulder, landed in pillows of soft snow. By the time it got dark and we came inside, a lost part of my life had been restored. partly because of Molly. Mostly because of Nick.
FORTY-EIGHT
I WASHED MOLLY’S HAIR AND LET HER SOAK IN A WARM, BUBBLY tub. When I came out, Nick was putting water up for pasta. I offered to help cook, got turned down. He handed me a glass of wine and told me to sit. I sat and leaned against the island, relaxed and a little dreamy
“Can we talk about what happened with Charlie?” Nick gulped some wine.
The question startled me. At the mention of Charlie, my chest tightened, banishing whatever relaxation I’d felt. I didn’t want to talk about Charlie, didn’t want to remember why we’d come to the cabin or what had happened back home. “You saw my statement to the police. What else is there to say?”
“Details. Like what he talked about just before he died. Was he rational?” Nick sounded like a cop now. His shoulders rolled as he turned a pan, spreading olive oil.
My head began to throb. “He said he was there to protect us.”
The shoulders stopped rolling, held stock still. “Protect you. From what?”
Near the pantry, Charlie raised a finger to his lips, hushing me, but I went on. “From evil. I assumed he meant the nanny killer.”
“And Charlie was going to keep you safe.” His shoulders relaxed. He reached for a paring knife. “By stalking you.”
“By watching us. Guarding us. He said he knew the killer and that I’d let him get too close, but he’d keep Molly and me safe.”
Nick lifted an eyebrow. “But he never said who the killer was?” “No.”
Nick gathered vegetables from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. Releasing a long sigh, he swallowed more wine and stared intensely at an eggplant. Neither of us spoke. The conversation felt strained and uneven. I felt awkward and self-conscious, not clear on our ground rules. Were we cop and witness? Detective and consultant? Former jilter and jiltee? What? I wanted to change the subject, re-create the lightness we’d shared outside. Nick had other ideas.
“I talked to Beverly about him.”
Oh. I’d almost forgotten about Beverly. The captivating Dr. Gardener. As long as we were chatting, I should ask about their “deal.” “And?”
“And she had some interesting comments.”
He wanted me to ask. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
Nick leaned against the counter, crossing his arms in a casual, professorial pose, knife in hand. About to deliver a lecture? A knife as his pointer? “She said that paranoid delusions like Charlie’s can be insidious—so detailed and vivid that even psychiatrists sometimes buy into them.”
“So?”
“So you might find yourself believing what Charlie said. Even small parts of it. And if you do, you need to sort it out.”
I didn’t understand. He didn’t make sense. Was he implying that by listening to Charlie I’d become delusional? That Charlie’s madness was contagious? That I’d caught it?
“Beverly says Charlie’s delusions must have begun way before the nannies began to disappear,” he went on, “and that the person he was guarding you from was none other than himself— that is, part of himself.”
“What?”
“Charlie divided himself into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ parts. His good part didn’t like the bad, so he blocked it out and gave his bad self a separate identity. In other words, he created an evil alter ego out of his own dark side.”
“And that’s who was reading his thoughts? His alter ego?”
“Exactly. The evil murderer who wired his dreams and listened in on his thoughts was really himself. His own other half.”
“Beverly Gardener said all this?”
“She’s very smart.”
“And she knew so much about Charlie because—”
“Because of the police investigation. And what you said in your response to her profile report.” His words merged, became a steady flow of senseless syllables. Beverly Gardener was apparently Nick’s ultimate authority on everything, but I wasn’t sure she was