Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, he cleared his throat, and Lois opened her eyes drowsily. She regarded him with an unfocused gaze that made him feel as if she were looking past him-or through him, as if he were a ghost. Her expression indicated neither recognition nor fear.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s put you to bed.”
“Yes,” she said, fighting through her mental cloudiness, the strain evident in her face. “That’s probably a good idea.”
Lois tried and failed to get off the couch. She could barely hold her head up, much less stand. She leaned heavily on Frank the whole way upstairs, Ella trailing close behind. Occasionally, Lois’s knees would buckle and she would stumble, then brace herself on the banister while Frank struggled to set her right once more. By the time he got her into bed, he was sweating, and his bum knee was on the verge of giving out. He took her slippers off and tucked her in.
Lois’s eyes focused briefly on Frank, lucidity sparking behind them, and then widened. “Wh-who are you? Where’s Cal?”
“Cal’s stuck in Reno, Lois,” Frank said gently. “Because of what happened, remember? I’m Max. You know me.”
“Max,” she echoed, eyes tearing up a little. “Of course. Will…will you stay the night?” Then she colored, her face a boozy caricature of embarrassment. “Not, uh, here…I didn’t mean…it’s just, the house is so quiet with my Calvin gone…”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. And it looks like Ella’s more than happy to steal Cal’s spot.” The tiny dog hopped in place, trying in vain to get on the bed. “Do you mind if I help her up?”
But Lois’s eyes drooped, her moment of clarity dissipating as her adrenaline waned. In seconds, she was unconscious. Frank shrugged and set Ella on the bed.
Just leave the lady be, Frank thought. She’s not your fucking problem. But he couldn’t shake the notion she was going to feel like hell tomorrow morning.
He sighed and picked up the empty glass on her nightstand. Then he ducked into her master bathroom to get her some water.
The bathroom was spacious and dramatic-white walls, ceiling, and vanity, with an original wood floor painted glossy black and a white shag rug. There was a freestanding shower in one corner, and a claw-foot tub tucked into an alcove at the far end of the room.
He started to cross the room to the vanity, then froze. A cell phone lay in the rug’s deep pile, where the edge of the rug came closest to the tub. It was one of those oversize Galaxy phones they advertised during ball games, as much a tablet as a smartphone. Water beaded on its glossy surface. In fact, half the rug was soaked, and water pooled in the cracks between the floorboards.
Frank approached the tub. It was still half full, a sopping towel draped over its rim. He remembered Lois’s hair was wet when she came to the door. Remembered that the cops had knocked for some time shortly before he tried to break in but had received no answer. She’d been up here in the tub, it seemed-and when she came down, she must have thought Frank was the one she’d heard knocking.
That’s when he spotted the side table.
It was black lacquered like the floor and partially hidden from view by the tub. On it was a Bose Bluetooth speaker, a sandalwood pillar candle on a small wrought-iron tray, and a toppled prescription bottle, its lid beside it, pills spilling to the floor.
Frank picked up the bottle. It wasn’t Xanax or Valium, as he’d initially suspected, but Flexeril. The label said to take it three times a day as needed for muscle spasms-and warned it didn’t play well with alcohol.
He gathered up the scattered pills and put them back in the bottle. A few had rolled under the tub, so he reached under and dragged a palm across the floorboards, trying to blindly sweep them out. His fingertips brushed against something larger and heavier than he’d expected, something about the size of a roll of quarters, but made of wood. He strained to reach it. Managed to grab it between his first and second fingers and tweeze it out.
It was an old-fashioned folding pocketknife with a single blade and a burl handle. At present, it was open-which made Frank grateful it was the handle, and not the blade, his fingers had grazed. Carved into the handle was a set of initials: CWB. Calvin Broussard, he assumed, and idly wondered: William? Walter? Wayne?
Frank closed the knife and slipped it into his pocket. Then he walked around the tub and picked the phone up off the floor. He fumbled with the thing a moment, trying to figure out how to turn it on or wake it up or whatever. Frank was no good with gadgets. He didn’t trust them, cell phones in particular. All that information floating around freaked him out. Seemed like it’d be way too easy to tap, track, or intercept.
Something he did worked. The phone lit up in his hand. He found himself looking at some kind of keypad without any numbers. Okay, he thought, let’s treat this like a break-in. Look for fingerprints. Guess the pattern. He tilted the phone a little and saw a streaked zigzag fingerprint overlaying the keypad. Lois didn’t seem the sneaky sort, so he tried the most obvious possible direction-top to bottom, left to right-first. The lock screen disappeared immediately, and Frank found himself in Lois’s voice mail.
The message that was queued to play was twenty-seven seconds long. Lois must’ve listened to it multiple times, because there were several fingerprints on the play button, their lines and whorls intersecting. Frank added another and held the phone up to his ear to listen.
“Hey, babe, it’s me. Where are you-out in the garden? If so, I hope you get this before I get home, so you have a chance to clean up. I know my flight’s not until this evening, but hanging out in Reno alone on a Saturday seemed like a waste, so I rented a car and booked us some massages for this afternoon, followed by dinner at Aziza. Had to call in a favor to score a table, so don’t you dare tell me you’re in the mood for takeout. I’m on the bridge now, so I’ll be home in a few. If you’ve got some handsome young thing keeping you company in my absence, you’d best tell hi-”
And then there was a roar of fire and static. An explosion of glass, oddly melodic. A sound like a lead weight tumbling in a clothes dryer as the car rolled, Cal screaming the whole time. A rapid series of snaps-the bridge’s vertical support ropes, Frank guessed-followed by a moment’s silence and then a splash. Cal’s screams ceased. The call ended.
Cal Broussard wasn’t stuck in Reno. Cal Broussard was dead.
And until the cops had come knocking, Frank realized, Lois had intended to join him.
18.
JAKE RESTON TRUDGED from the hospital cafeteria back to his family carrying a green plastic tray loaded precariously with food and drink. It was early Sunday morning. The world outside the hospital’s windows was bathed in cool predawn blue.
His head pounded, thanks to the tension in his neck and shoulders. His ears still rang from the explosion. His broken nose throbbed dully. A stink like burning plastic clung to his hair and clothes, although he’d gotten so used to it he barely noticed. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and now that blind panic had given way to boredom and exhaustion, he was starving, the kind of gnawing hunger that bordered on queasy.
The tray held an egg-and-cheese croissant for Emily. Cereal with almond milk for Hannah, who’d been going through a vegan phase ever since she turned thirteen. A pile of corned-beef hash for Aidan, who enjoyed taunting Hannah by scarfing down all the meat he could. A bagel with cream cheese for himself. A plate of home fries to share. Coffee for the grown-ups. OJ for the kids. And as much bottled water as he could carry because they were all dehydrated and hoarse from smoke inhalation.