Not Nick. A sultry voice, familiar. “Nick? Where the hell are you?”
I could almost smell her perfume. She went on, assuming Nick had answered.
“Pumpkin, you were supposed to be here an hour ago. I’m going nuts, waiting—look, the door’s unlocked, so just come right in. How long till you get here?”
“Sorry. It’s not Nick.”
She stopped cold. “Who’s this? Zoe?”
““Nick’s not available right now.”
She was silent, thinking. “Zoe, is that you?” Her voice was tentative, alarmed. “Are you there with Nick? Let me talk to him.” “Nick can’t come to the phone.”
“What? Why not?” She paused. “What happened? Why do you have his cell phone?”
Her breathing was rapid, urgent. I said nothing, didn’t know the answers.
“Zoe? Where’s Nick?”
Excellent question.
“Where are you? At his place? Has he left yet?” “Why is any of that your business?”
“Damn it, Zoe. Why are you being so difficult? You know the situation. What’s going on?”
Another good question. “You’ll have to ask Nick.”
“Trust me, when he gets here, I will.” A loud click. Beverly had hung up.
I looked out the window, saw only my reflection. A still life: nude wrapped in a sheet, holding a cell phone. I slapped the switch, turning the light off so I could see outside. What I saw was snow. Pine trees. Nothing else. No Nick. Where the hell was he? And why the hell was Beverly so agitated? What had she said, that she was waiting for him?
But that wasn’t possible—Nick was out in the country with me and Molly. Except that he couldn’t be found. Oh Lord. Had Nick gone back to town to meet Beverly? In the middle of the night? She certainly seemed to be expecting him. But if Nick was involved with Beverly, why had he brought me here? And taken me to bed? What sick game was he playing?
I made my way through the dark, avoiding the table and the lamp. Shivering, I tied the sheet around me; then, holding on to the phone, I made it to Molly’s room. I opened her door a crack and watched her sleep, bathed in moonlight, undisturbed. I crept in, pulled her covers up under her chin, and stroked her head.
Nothing made sense. We were in the middle of nowhere, cold, alone in inky darkness too dense for shadows. I was accustomed to the city, nights ringing with sirens, revved engines, shouting voices, blaring radios. Here, no one was around to disturb the night. While Molly slept, I hugged the sheet, clutched the phone, and listened to silence so loud it hurt my ears.
Think, I told myself, but my mind felt clouded and thick. My body ached to lie down and get warm. Maybe I should climb back upstairs, get back under the covers, and start over. Wake up again, this time to Nick’s snores. Stop it, I told myself. Get a grip. Think. I closed my eyes, tried to form coherent thoughts.
Nick. The hairs on my neck tingled and stood at alert. Who was he, really? What did I really know about the man I’d just slept with, the man I’d allowed to dump me and my daughter in the middle of nowhere? Except that he was a cop who’d once been shot by his wife. I wandered back to the main room. It was sparsely furnished, gave little information. No photographs or personal items. I walked around, snooping, looking for clues. I opened Nick’s closets, his dresser drawers. I found a woolly fleece robe that smelled like him. I put it on, wore it as I further invaded his privacy, rifling through sweaters and socks, pushing aside hangers, poking into jacket pockets, reaching up onto closet shelves, pulling down a tennis racket, an overnight bag, a box of bullets. In his linen closet, I found spare towels and sheets; in his kitchen cabinets, I found dishes, spices, cans of food. His desk held a drawer full of old cable and phone bills, menus for local pizza parlors, an L. L. Bean catalog, a bunch of brochures for small sailboats.
What I found, finally, was in a stationery box in the bottom drawer. A collection of articles and pictures of Nick and a woman. A woman who, I thought, looked very much like me.
FIFTY-TWO
THE HEADLINES READ, “MURDER/SUICIDE—REAL OR STAGED?” “ ‘I Did Not Kill My Wife’: Cop Claims Innocence.” “Cop Suspended Pending Murder Investigation.”
Shaking, I scanned the articles, gradually accepting the truth. Nick had been suspected of killing his wife, Anne. He’d denied it. He’d insisted that his wife