“Of course. But are you all right, Bree? This must be so stressful.”
“Yeah, I’m just hoping that the detective makes some kind of ruling soon and I can definitely head back by the end of the week.”
“Have you been able to avoid Lisa at least?”
“Ah—yes, fortunately,” I say with a twinge of guilt. But I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.
“Good. Please take care, okay?”
“Same here, sweetheart ... Wait, do you have a cold, Bas?”
“I seem to be coming down with something, but I hope if I go to bed early tonight, I can shake it.”
“I wish I could be tucking you in.”
“Same here. Love you,cariño.”
“Love you, too.”
The call ends, leaving me weirdly deflated—and feeling disconnected from Bas, and not simply because of the distance in miles. Though I was determined to share more with him, those old reservations clearly flared up again, helping me light on a new reason to hold back. It makes sense that I can talk about all this with Logan—Melanie was his daughter, too—but I have to find a way to address it with Bas as well.
The taxi trip back to Cartersville seems to take longer than the one here, and I grow twitchier with each mile. I try Logan once more, but I still get only voicemail.
“Slight change of plans, Craig,” I announce as we reach the outskirts of town. “Can you drop me at Oak and Birch Streets instead of the inn?”
While we’ve been traveling, I’ve decided to get a look at Handler’s home, maybe even grab a glimpse of the legendary backyard. I can’t imagine it will unlock any mysteries, but it’s a place to start.
“Got a house number?” he asks.
“No, just the corner is fine.”
As soon as he pulls up, he leans across the seat and cranes his neck to see out the passenger window.
“You sure this is where you want to get out?” he asks. The nearest house is yards away.
“Yeah, this is it.”
Which isn’t exactly true, of course. There’s just no way I’m popping out of a cab directly in front of the Handlers’ house.
I pay the fare along with a generous tip. After exiting the car, I walk toward the nearest house to determine how close I am to the Handlers’. The numeral “2” is on a porch column, which means I have just a few blocks to go. I tighten the belt on my coat and start walking.
Only a few minutes later, I’m standing across the street from number 57, an attractive white center-hall Colonial. On the same lot, also of white clapboard, is a much smaller one-story structure. Though I can’t see a number, I assume it’s 57b, Alison’s studio.
Except for a fixture burning above the stoop, the main house is dark, but light streams from the studio windows. Alison must be at work inside. And Handler? Chances are he’s still on campus, attending one of the many evening events that probably demand his presence.
For a minute I simply stare at the two buildings. There’s no view into the backyard from here, but it’s easy to imagine students back there years ago, lolling on the grass and soaking up Handler’s words.
I also try to picture Handler and Alison at home here. At the dinner on Tuesday night, they’d seemed fairly in sync, but if his relationship with her began as an extramarital affair, it must have crossed her mind since then that his head could be turned again, and that might be a source of tension. Maybe her unnerving painting of the horse at the kitchen table and a plate piled with wax lips hints at what their evenings at home are really like.
I tell myself that it’s time to go, that I’ve seen what I wanted to. But I don’t leave. Instead, before I even know what I’m doing, I dart across the street to the sidewalk in front of the studio. The building is set farther back on the lot than the house, tucked among fir trees, butthere’s a narrow flagstone path leading to the door. I check behind me, find no one there, and though I know I’m being stupid, I turn back around and start slowly down the path.
Despite the light seeping from the studio windows, it’s dark back here, not something I relish. Still, I keep going, oddly curious. Once I get closer to the building, I push up onto the balls of my feet so I’m practically tiptoeing.
Nearing the front door, I pause and listen. I’m close enough that if Alison is working in there, I should be able to hear her moving or speaking on the phone. But there’s suddenly wind in the fir trees, swishing the branches, and that’s the only sound I hear.
I step off the path and move toward one of the windows.This is insane,I think, but that doesn’t stop me from peering cautiously inside.
The studio turns out to be an open space with several large paintings hanging on a far wall and others leaning against it. There’s a big easel in the middle of the room, as well as an array of rolling carts overflowing with art supplies.
