“You alive?” Sam asks as we meet in the middle of the living room. I notice light seeping in from around the edges of the curtains on the window behind him. It must be after five in the morning by now.
“Barely. How about you?”
“The same.”
I duck into the kitchen and glance around. The knife is gone and so are the walking stick, the candle, the twine, the duct tape, and the key chain Percy dangled. I fill two glasses with orange juice and return to the living room with them.
Sam brings the glass to his lips and slugs back half the contents. “How do you think your interview went?” he says, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. Yours?”
“Same.”
“Do you think they’re not totally buying our version of events tonight?” I ask.
“You mean do they really think some crazy shit went down here? Maybe. Cops get paid to be skeptical.”
“Except in Jamie’s case.”
“Exactly,” he says, darkly.
“But theyhaveto look more closely now. They’ll certainly check Percy’s alibi for the second half of Saturday night. And won’t they collect her DNA, and compare it to what was in the car?”
“I assume they have a right to do that, but since she actually dated Jamie, she could claim she’d been in the car on other occasions.”
“God, you’re right,” I say, dismayed.
“But once Drew hears about this, he’s going to take it seriously, and I’m sure he’ll finally put some pressure on them.”
I nod. “Let’s hope. By the way, the trooper asked what my relationship to you was. Did you get the same question?”
“In so many words. I told them I was a friend and since some weird things had been happening to you lately, I spent the night.”
I nod again. Our answers are probably similar enough to avoid any issue, but I can’t help noting how they seem to be miles apart.
Sam drains the rest of his juice and then stares into the empty glass, like someone trying to read tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.
“How about coffee?” I ask. “I could make eggs, too.”
“Thanks, but I should go.”
Go?I think. Doesn’t he feel a need to talk this through some more, or a desire to decompress together? I bite my tongue, though, rather than voice my chagrin.
He scrunches his mouth and I sense him reading my thoughts. “I promised my parents I’d have breakfast with them today to review some pressing things,” he says. “But I’ll call you later and check in.”
“Okay.”
“You going to be all right on your own?”
“Of course.” It’s beginning to seem as if everything from earlier tonight—kissing, falling into bed, making love—happened eons ago. Or only in my imagination.
Sam stares at me quizzically, obviously sensing his departure isn’t sitting well, but after setting his glass on the coffee table, he pulls me into an embrace and kisses the top of my head.
“Things will work out,” he murmurs, his lips still pressed lightly against my skin.
What things? I wonder, as I watch him trip down the front steps and jog across the lawn. Does he mean Percy being convicted for Jamie’s death, or the situation between the two of us? Or both? I try to gauge my emotions, but they’re impossible to interpret. I feel deflated,but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m in the final stage of an adrenaline crash or because the man I just slept with dashed off mere hours after an intruder broke in and threatened my life.
I drift over to the couch and collapse onto it, dragging a chenille throw over me. At least I have the sad consolation of knowing once and for all that Jamie didn’t take his own life. I can’t bear picturing his last moments, but now that I’ve learned the truth, images fight their way into my brain. Jamie ignoring Percy at the party. Percy leaving in a rage. Then hurrying home, grabbing a gun that she’d gotten her hands on somehow, and returning to the field to lie in wait.
