“I feel... like I can’t forgive myself.”
Paul tried to put some space between them to look into her face, but she held him tight. “What are you talking about?”
“Before... before it happened, I wasn’t a good wife to you. I—”
“No, that’s not—”
“Just listen to me. I know I was distant, that I wasn’t... loving. I wasn’t there for you the way I should have been. I could offer all kinds of excuses, that I was all wrapped up with myself, wondering about my choices in life, whether my life was going the way I’d imagined it when I was younger and—”
“You don’t have to do this,” Paul said.
“All I was thinking about was me. I wasn’t thinking about us. And then that horrible thing happened to you, and I realized...”
She pressed her head harder against his chest. He could feel her body tremble beneath his palms as she struggled not to cry.
“I realized I couldn’t just wait around to receive what I thought was owed me. I realized that I had to give, that I hadn’t been giving to you. Does that make any sense at all?”
“I think so.”
She tilted her head up. Tears had made glistening, narrow tracks down her cheeks. She wiped them away before managing a smile.
“Josh’ll be here in a couple of days. Maybe, while we still have the house to ourselves...”
He smiled. “I hear you.”
She gave him a quick kiss, broke free, and said, “How about a drink?”
He’d already had a prenoon beer, but what the hell. “Sure.”
As she headed for the refrigerator she said, “I picked up a little something for you the other day.”
“What?” he asked.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she said.
He was about to press for details, but his phone alerted him to a text message. He dug it out of his pocket. It was from Hillary Denton, the dean of faculty at West Haven College, and read: Sure, any time you want to come in I’m available.
Under his breath, he said, “What the hell are you talking about?” He scrolled up to look at the previous message.
Charlotte had the refrigerator open and was saying, “Did you get the vodka?”
Hillary’s text had clearly been a reply to a message from him that read: Can we talk sometime about my return in September?
Paul stared at the message. He had no memory of sending it.
“Earth to Paul,” Charlotte said. “I asked you to pick up a couple of bottles of vodka? The mandarin flavor? I mentioned it last night?”
Paul looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Charlotte said. “Beer’s fine. You want a beer?”
The drive home. The man in the car. Vodka. A text message to the dean.
Paul wondered what else might have slipped his mind he didn’t even know about yet.
Seven
Gavin was breathing so shallowly he was hardly breathing at all.
He didn’t want to wake her.
She was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Her name was Eleanor Snyder and, according to Dr. White’s notes, she was sixty-six, widowed, and retired from her job as an X-ray technician.
Gavin had very little trouble getting into her Westfield Road home. It was a small, story-and-a-half place shaped something like a barn. He’d waited in the bushes across the street for the upstairs lights to be killed, then gave Eleanor another half hour to nod off.
He crossed the darkened street and peered through the window next to the front door, looking for the telltale red glow of a security system panel. He saw none. He then tried the front door, but Eleanor had at least been cautious enough to lock it before she retired for the night. Gavin walked around the house until he found an accessible basement window.
Gavin crawled through and dropped down to the floor. He’d brought along a half-filled garbage bag, knotted at the top with a red, plastic drawstring. He worked his way quietly to the first floor, then found the stairs to the second. He took each step carefully. There was always one that creaked.
And sure enough, one did.
That was when he froze, held his breath, and listened. If Eleanor Snyder heard that creaky step, she’d get up and check it out. But Gavin heard no rustling of covers, no footsteps. What he could make out was soft, rhythmic snoring.
He followed the snores.
And now here he was, standing next to Eleanor Snyder’s bed, looking down at her. There was enough light filtering in through the blinds to make out her flowered nightie, a copy of the latest Grisham on the bedside table. If only all the people whose homes he snuck into wore eye masks and stuffed those little plugs into their ears.
Could she be dreaming? And if so, was she dreaming about Bixby?
Bixby was not her late husband. Aaron had been her husband’s name. Bixby had been her little schnauzer.
According to Dr. White’s notes, after Aaron died, Eleanor funneled all her love — and grief — into that pooch. Bixby got her through those difficult times. It was Bixby who got her back out into the world.
Eleanor walked him around the neighborhood three or four times a day. Bixby didn’t just keep her sane. He kept her in shape. She’d bought one of those extra long leashes that extended and retracted with the push of a button. That gave Bixby freedom to run in short bursts, which Eleanor was no longer up to.
She blamed herself for what happened. It wasn’t really the driver’s fault.
There was no way the driver of the Honda Accord could see that slender leash running horizontally out into the street, or that tiny dog that didn’t even come up to her front bumper.
That had been six months ago.
Eleanor, so said the notes, could not forgive herself.
Gavin watched Eleanor breathe in and out. He’d tied the drawstring on the garbage bag too tight to loosen it, so he made an opening by ripping apart the plastic. Once he’d made a large enough hole, he reached in and took something out. He wadded up the empty bag and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Gavin looked about the room for what he needed. It occurred to him to check the back of the bedroom door.
With a gloved hand, he moved the door three-quarters of the way closed. A bathrobe hung from a simple coat hook.
Perfect.
Gavin removed the robe from the hook, let it fall noiselessly to the floor, then replaced it with the item he had brought.
He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him, thereby ensuring that the first thing Eleanor Snyder would see when she woke up was the surprise he’d left for her.
A small, dead dog. Hanging by its collar.
Eight
Anna White woke to a repetitive mechanical sound, something metallic sliding back and forth, as well as a television at very low volume. She threw back the covers, slipped on a robe, and went out into the second-floor hallway. She pushed open the door two down from hers, not worried about disturbing anyone.
“Morning, Dad,” Anna said.
Her father, wearing blue pajamas and slippers, glanced her way and nodded. He was on a rowing machine, his hands firmly gripping the handles, sliding back, pulling his arms, gliding forward, then repeating the motion. Before him, atop the dresser, was a flat-screen television on which Wile E. Coyote was trying, once again, to catch the Road Runner.
Frank White’s eyes were glued to the screen. He grinned. “It’s coming. Where the truck comes out of the tunnel that the coyote painted. It’s simply surreal. Ha! There it is!”
The coyote was flattened.
He cackled, looked Anna’s way again. “Wish to hell I’d worked on that one.” He saw something in her eyes and said, “Did I wake you?”