us. We were almost getting comfortable being together, settling in, but I couldn’t let go. I simply could not believe that the killer was Charlie. Did Nick really believe it? Or was he lying again, hiding the truth, withholding privileged information? Stop it, I told myself. Nick hadn’t necessarily lied. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Charlie had been a serial killer. But doubts still nagged at me. “Charlie said the killer used his tools.”
Nick pushed chopped veggies into bowls. “Zoe. Forget what Charlie told you. He’d divided himself into two, remember? He talked about the killer as if it was someone else.”
“But why nannies? If, as Beverly said, the women represented me, why did he kill younger women? And why nannies? Why not mothers?”
I thought of answers as soon as I asked the questions. To Charlie, I was a young woman. And I wasn’t a typical mother; I’d adopted Molly. Didn’t that make me sort of a permanent nanny? One of the victims had been an adoptive mother like me. If I’d been the person he modeled victims after—no, that idea was absurd. Wasn’t it?
Still, I expected Nick to give me a glib answer. Some easy explanation that would banish my doubts. But Nick didn’t say a word. Instead, he lapsed into silence. He stood rapt, back rigid, legs apart, arms folded across his chest. Why? What was he thinking about? Charlie? Whether to reveal another secret? How long to simmer his sauce?
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
About what? He didn’t say. He stood silently, staring out the window at darkness.
“Smell my hair, Mommy.” Molly joined us, wrapped in an oversized towel.
I did. It smelled clean and sweet, like vanilla. We went to the guest room to put on her pajamas, stopping every three seconds so she could wiggle her tooth.
“Do you think it’ll come out tonight?”
“Maybe. Maybe a few more days.”
“Because the Tooth Fairy doesn’t know where we are.”
“I told you. Don’t worry. The Tooth Fairy knows. Finding kids is part of the job.”
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
“How can you even think that?” I dodged, avoiding the truth. Avoiding a lie.
“Mommy, come on. Tell me—”
I kissed her vanilla head. “Let’s go see Nick.”
“Mommy—” She stuck to my side, asking.
In the kitchen, Nick was finishing a phone call. Hanging up, he forced a smile. “Hungry?” he asked.
“Thtarved,” Molly answered while wiggling her tooth.
“Good. Spaghetti’s my specialty.”
I heard sizzling, smelled garlic frying. Nick’s shirt rippled over his back as he sprinkled diced peppers, anchovies, and tomatoes over broccoli, peppers, capers, olives, mushrooms, and eggplant chunks in the skillet. Occasional odd pieces toppled off the butcher block onto the floor. I took note of the deftness of Nick’s fingers, the decisiveness of his hands, the inability of onions to defend themselves. The force of his slices.
Molly chattered and Nick cooked. Eventually, fighting a headache, I left them at the stove to discuss herbs and spices. I sat by the fire, watching flames curl and lick their helpless prey.
FORTY-NINE
“COME AND EAT, MOMMY. DINNER’S READY.“
Nick and Molly did all the work. They didn’t let me fold a napkin or set a fork. Nick seated me at the table and set before me a plate of steaming linguini in a thick, chunky vegetable sauce. Molly brought a basket of fresh bread; Nick poured wine and milk. Then he lit the candles, spreading fire from match to wick, evenly, easily, until his skin and his eyes glowed with yellow flame.
And after dinner, ashamed and appreciative, lulled by wine and a full belly, I let myself fall again for Nick. I put aside old differences; they didn’t matter anymore. For the last twenty-four hours, Nick had been entirely devoted to me and my daughter. He’d done his best to anticipate our reactions and address our needs. If his intentions were unclear, they were also irrelevant; for the moment, it was enough just to be there with him. To be away from the city. To dwell in Nick’s space. Here, the air was crisp and fresh, the moon a bright half melon. No sirens blaring, no psychopaths looming. I was in a rustic farmhouse beside a strong man who not only cooked but even read bedtime stories to my daughter and helped me tuck her into bed.
But then, once Molly was in bed, Nick and I were alone. Without Molly around, I felt awkward, uncertain how to behave. Nick stoked the fire, added a log and turned to me with his crooked half smile.
“Thanks