What I want is for him to decompress withme. Spoon me in bed, stroke my hair, let me sleep in his arms.
“Okay, see you up there,” I say.
Swiveling back toward the door, I turn the lock.
“When you left the house, did you think to lock that door behind you?” Gabe asks.
“Yup. And that reminds me. I ran into Keira, who said Marcus was looking for you earlier.”
“Thanks.”
Upstairs, I dress for bed and dig out my phone from my purse, looking for news about the rest of my life. There’s a missed call from my mom, and a voice mail asking how the memorial service went. I wish I’d had time to check in with her today. But how do I even begin to explain—about the poem, about Hannah, about the poisoning?
As for work, my agent’s booked me for a voice-over job at the end of next week, which I appreciate, but I can’t help but note there’s nothing from Shawna, noHey, sorry that other job turned into a shitshow, but we’d love you to record the next Liane Moriarty novel.
There are also a couple of texts from friends, who want to know how my vacation is going, and I’m reminded that I haven’t had a chance to tell any of them yet about Claire. Finally, I see a text from Billy Dean asking if I’ve bumped into Hannah again. It doesn’t surprise me—the guy never met a piece of gossip he didn’t love. But maybe there’s a chance he could be of help.
Yeah, unfortunately she turned up AGAIN,I text back.You have friends from USC, right? Anyone know her when she was there?
I’m thinking again of Claire’s comment—Our littleUSCgraduate. Wendy learned Hannah had actually attended the school, but maybe Claire meant something else by her remark, that perhaps Hannah did something at college that wasn’t on the up-and-up.
On it, he replies.
Of course, I’ll end up having to pay Billy back somehow, probably in Moscow Mules. And that’s regardless of whether or not he manages to produce information. But at least I’m not sitting here doing nothing.
Before crawling between the sheets, I make a final run to the bathroom and as I cross the hall, I hear Gabe on his phone downstairs. I pick up the wordvineyard, which makes me think it’s Marcus on the other end.
“Right, right,” Gabe says, his voice low.
There’s a long pause, Marcus clearly elaborating on a point. Twice Gabe attempts to interrupt him to no avail.
“Look,” he says finally. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The bottom line is that we now have the cushion we need.”
As relieved as I am that the sudden influx of cash will enable Gabe to deal with his work crisis, the idea leaves me slightly queasy. The newfound safety net exists only because Claire is dead.
Once I’m back in bed, sleep overtakes me quickly. But at around four, I’m woken by a nightmare in which a huge dog chews through not only my suitcase but also all the clothes packed inside, so I’m left naked, and then finally the animal bares its vicious teeth at me. And that’s when I bolt awake.
With my pulse racing, I yank the covers up to my chin and force my breaths to slow. Gabe’s snoring lightly beside me. After a moment I start to make out the shapes in the room: the dresser with the carved mirror above it, the slipper chair, the filmy white curtains fluttering a little in the breeze. There’s no Hound of the Baskervilles after me or my luggage.
I finally manage to fall back to sleep and wake again at close to seven. Leaving Gabe in bed, I dress quietly and creep down the stairs. Before heading into the kitchen, I tug back a curtain on one of the sitting room windows to see that it’s utterly gloomy out, the early morning sky gray and distended.
In the kitchen, I make coffee and slip outside with my mug. The temperature is probably in the seasonal range, but the dampness in the air makes it feel a little raw and unpleasant, such a far cry from the past couple of days.
Leaving the path, I cross the lawn toward the row ofshrubs I saw that animal shoot behind last night. I know it’s unlikely I’ll find a tuft of fur snagged on a branch, or, ha, a pile of scat I can ask Marcus to analyze, but I’m hoping there might be some paw prints in the dirt around the bushes. But there’s nothing. I might as well be looking for signs of Bigfoot.
Still, the lack of evidence doesn’t leave me any less rattled—not only about what I saw, but the idea that it felt like a harbinger of something bad.
Gabe and Henry are both stirring when I return, and we eat breakfast together. Afterward, determined to give Henry more of my undivided attention, I act out part of a chapter ofPeter Panfor him. Once that’s run its course, we all settle in the sitting room—Gabe with his dog-eared thriller, Henry with his iPad, and me with my laptop.
From time to time I sense Gabe studying me from the corner of his eye. Is he wondering if I’ve done what he asked—taken a long deep breath and let the Hannah business go? I’m certainly using all my acting chops to look like I have. There’s no way he can tell from my I’m-just-perusing-scented-candles-on-Amazon expression that I’m actually doing a deep dive on digitalis. From what I’ve read so far, it stays in the system for days, which means that if an autopsy is done on Claire before she’s buried, the authorities will be able to tell if she had ingested it prior to her death. But first, of course, someone would have toalertthe authorities.
Shortly before ten Gabe asks if I’d mind if he went for a run on the road while the weather’s still decent, and I tell him of course, offering a smile.
“Are we gonna be in the cottage all day?” Henry asksafter he leaves. Curious rather than whiny, with a sliver of hope that I’m going to answer in the negative.
“Well, it’s not really swimming weather. How ’bout a game of horseshoes?”
He shrugs, unenthused. “Can we go play with Bella and Ginger in the big house?”
