Charlotte said nothing.
“You think I should do that?” Paul asked.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said.
Paul shrugged. “He mentioned the word ghost. Well, actually, he mentioned the Ghostbusters.”
“Jesus. He can be such an asshole.” Charlotte rolled her eyes, threw up her hands, and said, “Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Do it. Roll in a sheet of paper. If you think you hear something again in the middle of the night, and there’s nothing on it, then you’ll know.”
“Know what?”
She touched her index finger to her temple. “That it really is a dream.”
Paul’s jaw hardened. He met his wife’s eyes for several seconds before breaking away, stepping over to the printer, and taking out one sheet of paper from the tray. He set it into the typewriter carriage and rolled it in, bringing an inch of paper above where the keys would strike.
“Great,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
She turned and walked out.
Paul stayed another moment and stared at the typewriter. He ran his fingers along the middle row of letters, depressing the occasional key just enough to see the metal arms bend toward the paper, as if with anticipation.
Nineteen
Later that week, Anna White was at her desk, adding a few notes to a patient’s file in her computer before Paul Davis arrived for his weekly session, when she thought she heard a noise from upstairs. The only one up there was her father.
She worried he might have fallen.
She bolted from her chair, ran from the office wing on her house to the living area, and up the stairs as quickly as she could. She rapped on her father’s closed bedroom door.
“Dad?”
There was no answer.
She tried the door and was surprised to find she could open it only an inch. Through the crack she could see that a piece of furniture was blocking the door. It was her father’s dresser. That was what she had heard. Her father dragging his dresser across the room.
“Dad!”
Frank’s face appeared in the sliver. “Yes, honey?”
“What are you doing?”
“Can’t be too careful.”
“Dad, the police are not coming back. That’s not going to happen again.”
“They’re not getting in here, that’s for damn sure.”
Anna, her voice calm, said, “You can’t stay in there forever, Dad. What are you going to do when you have to go to the bathroom?”
He disappeared, only to reappear five seconds later with a wastepaper basket in one hand, and a roll of toilet paper in the other. “Thought of everything,” he said.
“Okay,” Anna said. “And when you get hungry?”
“You can bring something up for me.”
“And who do you think’s going to empty that pail for you? Because I can tell you, it’s not going to be me.”
“Window,” he said.
Jesus, she thought, picturing it. She had one last card to play, and knew she’d hate herself for it. “And what about when it’s time to go to the home to visit Joanie?”
Frank stopped and puzzled over that. He clearly hadn’t thought through every eventuality.
“Oh,” he said. “You’ve got me there.”
“Why don’t you put the dresser back where it was, Dad? And put on the TV. Maybe they’re running some Bugs Bunny cartoons now.”
She heard the dresser squeak as he pushed it back. Anna opened the door wide and watched him move it across the room. She didn’t offer to help him. All those hours he spent on the rowing machine, he could probably get a job with the Mayflower furniture movers.
Dresser back in place, he grabbed the remote and turned on the television. He propped himself on the corner of the bed, as if nothing had happened.
Anna, wearily, went back downstairs.
The moment she entered her office, she let out a short scream.
Gavin Hitchens was sitting in his usual chair, waiting for her.
“Jesus Christ,” she said.
He made an innocent face. “I never canceled. This is when I come.”
“Leave.”
He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender but did not get out of the chair. “I came here to tell you I forgive you.”
Anna blinked. “You what?”
“Forgive you. For thinking I had something to do with that woman and that dead dog, and with whatever happened here a couple of days ago that made you send the police to see me. I know you probably violated some kind of doctor-patient privilege when you did that, but I’m willing to overlook it.”
“I mean it, Gavin. You need to leave.”
“Because, you see, I think maybe I deserved that. When you’ve done the kinds of things I’ve done, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself when you find yourself facing false accusations. You’ve set yourself up. I appreciate that now.”
“I’m calling the police.”
Gavin’s look of innocence morphed into one of hurt. “Does this mean you’re not going to be counseling me anymore?”
“You could have gotten my father killed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Well, yes, I do, because the police told me. It must have been awful, a SWAT team coming into the house like that.”
“You’re sick, Gavin. I hope someone can help you, but it’s not going to be me. Honestly, I don’t know that anyone can.”
He stood. “If you want to know what I think, I think it’s some kind of a copycat. Someone who knows I’m seeing you and wants to frame me. You might want to look at your other patients and see who might be capable of something like that.”
Anna strode into the room, past Gavin, and went behind her desk. She reached for the phone. Before she could lift the receiver, Gavin put his hand atop hers, pinning it there.
She looked into his smiling face.
He said, “Did you know, when you sleep, you don’t snore, but when you exhale, your lips do this adorable little dance?”
Anna felt a chill run the length of her body. She wanted to scream but couldn’t find her voice.
Gavin released her hand and grinned. “Just kidding.” He walked to the door but turned one last time before leaving. “Good thing you don’t have any pets,” he said.
Anna slowly dropped into her chair and gripped the arms to stop her hands from shaking.
Twenty
The first thing Paul did when he got up was head straight to his office. Charlotte was still under the covers when he slipped out of bed and trotted barefoot down to the kitchen in his boxers.
He hadn’t heard any more typing noises in the night, but it was possible, he told himself, that he’d slept through them. If the keys of the typewriter had — somehow — been touched in the remaining hours of the night, the evidence would be on that sheet of paper he had rolled into it.
This is crazy, Paul told himself. Why am I even doing this?
He swallowed and felt his heart flutter as he slowly pushed open his office door.
The Underwood sat there.
The page was blank.
Paul put a hand on the jamb for support and took a breath. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved, or disappointed.
“I really am losing it,” he whispered.
In the light of day, the events of the night seemed clearer. As much as he had fought Charlotte’s conclusion that he’d been dreaming, what other possible explanation was there?
Think about it. Does it make any sense at all that someone would sneak into your house in the dead of night to tap on the keys of an old typewriter?