He rose, grabbed the afghan from the back of the worn sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders. He stared at the small television set, knowing there was no sense in even trying. There were only two stations and the last time he tried, all he got was “Hogan’s Heroes” reruns and a curling tournament out of Canada.
A book, maybe a book. He went to the box in the corner and started sifting through the volumes, mainly college books and a bunch of paperbacks he had already read. He picked up The Golden Apples. He ran his fingers across the gold letters, thinking about Grace Lillihouse, the woman who had given him Eudora Welty’s book. Now don’t forget to return it to me. He felt bad that he would probably not make good on his promise. Hell would freeze over before he returned to Mississippi — or he would.
He went back to the sofa, tried to find a comfortable place amid the broken springs and opened the book. He read a paragraph and read it again. Finally, he put it aside. It was no use. His mind was spinning too fast.
His thoughts drifted to Thomas Pryce’s filing cabinet. After returning from Flint, he and Jesse had spent two hours going through its contents, but they had found nothing useful in the paper-crammed drawers. Thomas Pryce had been a pack rat, keeping every bank statement and phone bill he’d ever been issued. But there was nothing about work, and finally, Louis and Jesse had given up, too tired to continue. It seemed like the only thing left to do now was pack up the cabinet’s contents and ship them back to Stephanie Pryce.
Louis stared in to the dying fire. Stephanie Pryce’s face had stayed with him all day. Her expression when she first saw him, as though she had seen a ghost. And the other look, that look of defeat. He had seen it before at the cop’s funeral back in Ann Arbor, on the face of the widow. I give up. You win. I lost. He’s yours.
He wondered sometimes what kind of women married cops, what kind of women could put up with the life. Sometimes, in locker rooms or in bars after shift, he would listen to the married men talk about their wives. The words were often wrapped in dark humor but he could sense in them the chasm the job created between a man and woman. He remembered one guy telling about the time he took his wife out for their twentieth anniversary dinner. He spotted a weirdo at the 7-Eleven and jumped out of the car, drawing his gun. She started to cry, yelling that she was tired of being married to John Wayne.
And he had heard the divorced cops talk. It was always the same, about how no one could really understand what it was like. About wives who finally gave up trying to dance in a world of positives when their husbands walked in a world of negatives.
He himself was only twenty-five and had never been with one woman longer than weeks. The women he had dated had no idea what his job was like and he felt no compulsion to share it with them.
Cop’s wife. For the first time, he had a picture of what that meant. The picture was Stephanie Pryce’s sad face.
Louis pulled the afghan tighter. He couldn’t delay any longer. Time to go out for logs.
He rose and went to the door. He slipped his feet into a pair of old loafers and stepped outside. The air was cold and still, and when he pulled in a breath, it sent knives into his lungs. Quickly, he shuffled around the side of the cabin, retrieved the last three logs and started back to the porch.
He was about to go in when he heard a muffled sound. It sounded like a cat, a soft mewing sound. His eyes searched the darkness. A second sound came to him.
“Shit…shit…”
Someone was out there, down by the shoreline. The moon emerged from the clouds and he saw her. She was down on one knee, her silhouette clear against the moonlit white lake. She was rubbing her left leg. It was the teenage girl he had seen jogging on other nights. And from the looks of it, something was wrong.
Louis let the logs drop to the porch. Wrapping the afghan tighter around his shoulders, he gingerly waded out through the snow toward her. She heard him and looked up.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, fine. I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I fell. I’m fine.”
“Here. Watch it.” He held out his hand.
Her dark eyes glistened up at him from her round face. Her dark hair was wet, plastered to her head like a sleek helmet. Her long ponytail hung limply behind. She hesitated then took his hand. Louis gently pulled her to her feet and she winced.
“You’re not fine,” Louis said.
“Yes, I am.” She took a step away and winced again. “Shit.” Her eyes swept over the lake, off into the distant pines.
Louis stood, shivering. His loafers were soaked. “Look, you’re hurt. Come on inside and we’ll take a look.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I have to get home.”
Louis studied her. She wasn’t a girl, as he had thought, but a young woman. She was small, only about five-foot-two, with a boyish body, plainly visible in the runner’s leggings and close-knit jacket. But her legs and ass were tightly muscled, like a marathon runner’s. “How far is home?” he asked.
She frowned. “The other side of the lake.”
“Right. You’re going to run five miles on one leg? Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I’ll walk,” she said crisply.
Louis shrugged. “Suit yourself, lady. But I’m freezing my ass off here. I’m going in. You can stay out here or come inside.” He cocked a head toward the cabin and smiled. “Got a fire going. Or at least I did.”
She stared at him for several seconds then wiped a wet strand of hair off her face. “Okay. Thanks.”
He offered his hand but she ignored it, limping ahead of him toward the cabin. He gathered up the logs and followed her inside. She stood by the door watching him as he slipped out of his loafers and went to throw a log on the embers. He poked at the fire until it reignited. When he turned, she was still standing in the shadows by the door.
“Let me warm up a minute and then I’ll drive you home,” he said.
She nodded.
He wondered how old she was. She looked to be maybe twenty or so. He suppressed a sigh, thinking suddenly of Abby Lillihouse. The last thing he needed was another messy liaison with a starry-eyed young woman like he had experienced in Mississippi. The small surge of anticipation he had felt outside when he first saw the girl was fading fast now. Jesus, protect me from crazy girls.
He glanced back at her. She was shivering. “Here, come over by the fire,” he said.
Warily, like a cat in a strange place, she came across the room. As she did, the fire illuminated her face. It was strangely exotic and olive-complected. Her strong brow and jawline were a contrast to her high delicate cheekbones. Her mouth was large, too large for her small face. Her nose was small but with a slight flare to the nostrils. And her eyes…they were almond-shaped and there were a few lines at the corners and a vigilance inside. Louis stared at her. This was no twenty-year-old. She was at least as old as he was.
She came close to the fire and held out her hands. They were small with short fingers and close-cropped nails, like a boy’s hands.
“Feels good,” she said.
“I’m Louis,” he said, extending a hand. “Louis Kincaid.”
She slipped her hand into his. Her hand was soft, warmed from the fire, but the grip was firm. He could feel callouses.
“Zoe,” she said. “Zoe Devereaux.”
She pulled her hand away and ran it over her hair, down to the end of the ponytail. She looked back into the fire.
“I’ve seen you jog by before,” Louis said.
“I run almost every night,” she said.
“In the snow?”
She nodded. “I’ve been doing it for years. This is the first time I fell.”
“Well, I’m glad it happened outside my place.”
She looked up at him then offered a cautious smile. “You’re new here,” she said. “This place has been deserted for years.”
“Yes, just moved here.”
“From where?”