'What did he say?'
'He said it was his wife's idea. He said he would have been a hell of a lot happier if the baby had never been born at all.'
'Never been born? He used those words?'
'Yeah, he did. Honestly, for me, that was the end. Next time he was in town, I ducked him. As far as cheating goes, boys will be boys, OK? But any man says that about his own kid, I don't want him in my bed.'
Blair hit the stop button on the machine and ejected the disk. 'That's it. Does that freeze your blood or what? I told you Glenn was a cold character.'
'Are you going to run that?' Stride asked.
'You bet. Tomorrow morning. I tried to get one or both of the Glenns on camera too, but they won't talk.'
'I'd like a copy of the disk,' Stride told her.
'Sure. How about a quote for my story? Or better yet, a live interview?'
'Not yet.'
Blair's face wrinkled in frustration. 'Seems like this source stuff is all one-way, Lieutenant. I'm giving you dirt, you're giving me squat.'
'When I have something, you're first in line,' Stride said.
'Yeah, promises, promises. So what do you think, anyway? Does this change your mind about Marcus Glenn?'
'Off the record?'
'If it has to be.'
Stride stuck a hand in the cookie tin and pulled out a peanut butter blossom, which he ate in two bites, saving the chocolate kiss for last. 'You're right, these are good cookies,' he said. Then he added, 'Off the record, Marcus Glenn has been lying since day one. I'd like to know why. I'd like to know what he's hiding.'
Chapter Nineteen
Stride removed his clothes silently in the bedroom of the cabin. He saw the moonlit glow of Serena's bare shoulder above the blanket, but he wasn't sure if she was asleep. When he was naked, he slid under the blanket and lay on his back with his hands laced behind his head. On the night-time drive along Highway 2, he'd struggled to keep his eyes open, but now he was wide awake. He stared at the rounded log beams lining the ceiling. Outside, snow hissed and pricked at the window, and he could hear the wind, which had been calm during the daylight hours, roar back to life.
Beside him, Serena turned over on to her back. The blanket drew down, exposing most of the cream-colored slopes of her breasts. Her black hair fell in loose strands across her face. He could see that her eyes were open. They lay next to each other for long minutes, not speaking. He wanted to talk, but it felt like a momentous effort to say anything at all. Talking about his panic attacks, his depression, his hopelessness, his fear, was impossible. So he said nothing.
Under the blanket, Serena's hand slid closer until their fingers touched. He didn't move his hand away, but he didn't reach over to lace their fingers together, as he usually would. He closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but after a while, he gave up and opened them again. On Serena's cheek, he thought he saw a wet trail of silver. Tears. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, get inside her head, let her back inside his life. All he could do, though, was lie motionless on the bed. Paralyzed.
Serena turned on her side. She stared at him in the darkness, but they still didn't say a word. She lifted his arm and stretched it out behind her, and then she folded herself into the crook of his neck. Her bare skin bonded with his own body; she was soft and smooth against his muscles. He was conscious of the touch of her nipples, hardened by the cool air. Her left leg draped over his, and the warmth of her mound pressed against his hip. Her face was damp on his shoulder. She laid her arm across his chest and made circles on his breastbone with her thumb, but her warmth and pressure against him felt sterile. His nerve ends were dead. His mind and body drifted apart, as if they were separate and unconnected things.
She kissed his cheek, which was rough with stubble. Her lips traveled along his face in a soft line of kisses, until she reached his ear lobe, which she sucked between her teeth and bit tenderly. Her tongue flicked at his neck. She pressed her body firmly against him; he felt her need, and she was moist between her legs. Her fingernails scraped along his stomach. She flattened her hand there, undulating her fingers like waves. At his ear, her mouth whispered, 'I want you.'
Serena pushed her hand across his middle to the inside of his thigh and alternated between a penetrating massage and feathery caresses. From there, he felt her fingertips glide on to his shaft. Rubbing. Touching. Trying to arouse him. He wanted more than anything to feel his body react, but despite her attentions, he remained unresponsive. She didn't give up, but instead redoubled her energy, her hands alive and busy. She straddled him, her full breasts dangling over his chest. Her hips sank lower over his waist, and she caressed him with her body. She cupped his face, bent down, and kissed him full on, exploring his mouth with her tongue.
He stroked along the curve of her spine, and his touch felt clumsy. His mouth closed over each of her breasts in turn, and he felt her respond, but he knew it was artificial for both of them. The easy grace of their lovemaking had vanished and left them like strangers, unfamiliar with the other's body. He knew every inch of her skin and the touch she liked and how her t — s curled as she came to the edge and spilled over it. It wasn't that he had forgotten. He simply had nothing to give her.
'Serena,' he murmured.
She refused to give up, but her intensity felt forced. Her face grew flushed with frustration and humiliation, as if it were somehow her failure, not his. Eventually, she rolled off him. She faced the other way, toward the window. Her shoulders shook as she cried. He put a hand on her back, but when she didn't react, he pulled it away. He stared at the ceiling for a while longer, and then he turned to face the wall. When he put his head on his arm, he smelled her perfume on his fingers. He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep.
Maggie arrived early at City Hall on Monday morning. It was dark, and the roads were slick with an inch of snow. The old stone building took forever to heat up after the weekend, and the Detective Bureau felt frosty. She took off her ankle-length burgundy leather coat and replaced it with a wool pullover that Stride had left behind. The baggy sweater reached to the middle of her thighs, and she had to roll up six inches on the sleeves.
Even after three months, it didn't feel like her office. It would always be Stride's. She'd left his photographs on the bureau as a reminder that he was coming back. Standing under the harsh fluorescent light, she picked up each of the frames, which gave her a tour of his life. She saw Stride and Cindy, ten years younger, before the cancer stole her away. Maggie had liked Cindy a lot. Those were the old days, when Maggie was a kid, a Chinese immigrant slowly shedding her starchy upbringing and awakening to a new personality. Cindy had known all about Maggie's crush on Stride, but she had never shown even a glimmer of jealousy. Maggie wondered how Cindy would have felt about her slipping into Stride's bed six months after she died, only to be rejected by a man who didn't want to hurt her.
Maggie picked up the next picture, which was of Stride and Serena in Las Vegas, then just as quickly put it down, rather than stare at the two of them. The last picture on the bureau was of herself. She was on the beach behind Stride's cottage, her sunglasses pushed to the end of her bottle-cap nose, her bowl haircut windblown by the lake, her grin lopsided and sarcastic. She thought it was a terrible picture, but Stride had refused to let her replace it. He had taken it himself.
She sat down and propped her heels on the desk. Guppo had prepared his typically thorough report of the crime scene forensics near the Lester River, and she reread it, looking for details she had previously missed. Some connection among the victims. Some strange motive in the man's actions that night. She read it twice without finding anything, and the words blurred on the page.