I held my breath, jerked back the blanket.
The glowing screen of my phone shone up at me.
It was only my phone.
I was getting a call from a New York number I didn’t recognize. Maybe Paul was calling me back from someone else’s phone?
“Hello?” I spoke quietly as I answered, not wanting to wake up Mark.
“Good evening. This is Sergeant Herrera from the New York State Police. I’m trying to reach the family of Paul Deegan.”
My heart hammered. Had something happened?
“I—I’m a family friend. As far as I know, Paul doesn’t have family he’s in regular contact with.”
“I’m at his residence now, 278 Spring Hill Road. He has a Mavis Holland listed as his emergency contact but she doesn’t appear to be at home. Is that his wife?”
“No, no,” I stammered. “She’s his employer.”
“But he lives at the residence with her?”
“He lives in the carriage house—he’s her assistant.”
“Do you know where I can reach Ms. Holland?”
“She’s actually here, staying in my house.”
“May I speak with her?”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “She’s quite ill and heavily medicated at the moment. I’m her daughter, Alison. Please, what’s this about?”
Mark shifted beside me.
“We got your phone number from Mr. Deegan’s phone—nearly all of his recent calls had been to you. I’m sorry to have to deliver this news over the phone.…” He paused and I waited, my heart slamming up into my throat. I knew what he was going to say and I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to hang up before he had a chance. “Mr. Deegan was in an accident this evening on Route 212.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Is he—”
Tell me he’s all right. He’s in the hospital but should be fine. Thank God for airbags.
But that wasn’t what he was going to say, and I knew it. “He was killed instantly,” Sergeant Herrera said, his voice faltering a little. He sounded young, like he didn’t have a lot of experience delivering horrible news over the phone.
“No,” I whimpered. “How? What happened?”
“We believe he hit a patch of ice and lost control coming into a turn. He flipped, went down an embankment. The top of his vehicle was sheared off and Mr. Deegan was…”
“What?” I asked, suddenly needing to know the details. Had he been thrown from the car?
“Well, he was, um…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how much detail you want. And I’m really not supposed to—”
“Please tell me,” I said.
“Well, he was—” Sergeant Herrera’s voice trembled as he spoke. I understood that whatever had happened to Paul had been bad—had shaken this man. He seemed hesitant to tell me, but it almost felt like part of him longed to tell me—to share with another person the horror of whatever he’d seen. “Like I said, he was killed instantly. He was… decapitated.”
I let out a whimper, unable to find words.
I tried to focus on what the trooper was saying, details about wherethey’d taken the remains of the car (which was registered to my mother), how he was passing my contact information on to the coroner, how I should try to find any relatives Paul might have had, his next of kin.
Mark rolled over, opened his eyes, and looked at me. “Who is it? What’s happening?” he asked.
