"I was dead to the world last night," he said. "What time did we end up going to bed?"
"Maybe ten?" she answered. She put the coffee beside his empty glass. "It wasn't late. You've been working hard and I know you've been tired."
His eyes were bloodshot. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean it. I've just been under a lot of pressure lately. Since Terry's heart attack, I've been having to do the work of two people, and the Preston case starts this week."
"It's okay," she said. She could still smell the alcohol on his breath. "Your breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."
At the stove, she turned the bacon with a fork and a splash of grease scalded her arm, making her temporarily forget the pain in her back.
When the bacon was crispy, she put four pieces on Kevin's plate and two on hers. She drained the grease into a soup can, wiped the frying pan with a paper towel, and oiled it again with cooking spray. She had to move fast, so the bacon wouldn't get cold. She started the toaster and cracked the eggs. He liked his over medium, with the yolk intact, and she'd grown adept at the process. The pan was still hot and the eggs cooked quickly. She turned them once before sliding two onto his plate and one onto hers. The toast came up and she placed both slices on his plate.
She sat across from him at the table because he liked them to have breakfast together. He buttered his toast and added grape jelly before using his fork to break the eggs. The yolk pooled like yellow blood and he used his toast to sop it up.
"What are you going to do today?" he asked. He used his fork to cut another piece of egg. Chewing.
"I was going to do the windows and the laundry," she said.
"The sheets probably need a wash, too, huh? After our fun last night?" he said, waggling his eyebrows. His hair was pointing in different directions and there was a piece of egg at the corner of his mouth.
She tried not to show her revulsion. Instead, she changed the subject.
"Do you think you'll get a conviction in the Preston case?" she asked.
He leaned back and rolled his shoulders before hunching over his plate again.
"That's up to the DA. Higgins is good, but you never know. Preston has a shyster lawyer and he's going to try to twist all the facts around."
"I'm sure you'll do fine. You're smarter than he is."
"We'll see. I just hate that it's in Marlborough. Higgins wants to prep me Tuesday night, after court finishes for the day."
Erin knew all of this already and she nodded. The Preston case had been widely publicized and the trial was due to start on Monday in Marlborough, not Boston. Lorraine Preston had supposedly hired a man to kill her husband. Not only was Douglass Preston a billionaire hedge-fund manager, but his wife was a scion of society, involved in charities ranging from art museums and the symphony to inner-city schools. The pretrial publicity had been staggering; a day hadn't gone by in weeks without one or two articles on the front page and a top story on the evening news. Megamoney, lurid sex, drugs, betrayal, infidelity, assassination, and an illegitimate child. Because of the endless publicity, the trial had been moved to Marlborough. Kevin had been one of several detectives assigned to the investigation and all were scheduled to testify Wednesday. Like everyone else, Erin had been following the news but she'd been asking Kevin questions every now and then about the case.
"You know what you need after you're finished in court?" she asked. "A night out. We should get dressed up and go out to dinner. You're off on Friday, right?"
"We just did that on New Year's," Kevin grumbled, sopping up more yolk on his plate. There were smears of jelly on his fingers.
"If you don't want to go out, I can make you something special here. Whatever you want. We can have wine and maybe start a fire and I could wear something sexy. It could be really romantic." He looked up from his plate and she went on. "The point is, I'm open to whatever," she purred, "and you need a break. I don't like it when you work so hard. It's like they expect you to solve every case out there."
He tapped his fork against his plate, studying her. "Why are you acting all lovey-dovey? What's going on?"
Telling herself to stick to the script, she pushed back from the table.
"Just forget it, okay?" She grabbed her plate and the fork clattered off it, hitting the table and then the floor. "I was trying to be supportive since you're going out of town, but if you don't like it, fine. I'll tell you what--you figure out what you want to do and let me know sometime, okay?"
She stormed over to the sink and turned the faucet on hard. She knew she'd surprised him, could feel him vacillating between anger and confusion. She ran her hands under the water then brought them to her face. She drew a series of rapid breaths, hiding her face, and made a choking sound. She let her shoulders heave a little.
"Are you crying?" he asked. She heard his chair slide back. "Why the hell are you crying?"
She choked out the words, doing her best to make them sound broken. "I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what you want. I know how big this case is and how important it is and how much pressure you're under..."
She choked off the final words, sensing his approach. When she felt him touch her, she shuddered.
"Hey, it's okay," he said grudgingly. "You don't have to cry."
She turned toward him, squeezing her eyes shut, putting her face against his chest. "I just want to make you happy," she stammered. She wiped her wet face on his shirt.
"We'll figure it out, okay? We'll have a nice weekend. I promise. To make up for last night."
She put her arms around him, pulling him close, sniffling. She drew another rasping inhale. "I'm really sorry. I know you didn't need that today. Me getting all blubbery for nothing. You've got so much on your plate already."
"I can handle it," he said. He tilted his head and she leaned up to kiss him, her eyes still shut. When she pulled back, she wiped her face with her fingers and pulled close to him again. As he pressed against her, she could feel him getting excited. She knew how her vulnerability turned him on.
"We've got a little time before I have to head into work," he said.
"I should clean the kitchen first."
"You can do it later," he said.
Minutes later, with Kevin moving atop her, she made the sounds he wanted while staring out the window of the bedroom and thinking of other things.
She had learned to hate winter, with the endless cold and a yard half-buried in snow, because she couldn't go outside. Kevin didn't like her to walk around the neighborhood but he let her garden in the backyard because of the privacy fence. In the spring, she always planted flowers in pots and vegetables in a small plot near the back of the garage, where the sun was full and strong, unshaded by the maple trees. In the fall, she would pull on a sweater and read books from the library as fallen leaves, brown and crinkly, drifted around the yard.
But winter made her life a prison, cold and gray and gloomy. Misery. Most days were spent without setting foot outside the door because she never knew when Kevin would show up unexpectedly. She knew the names of a single neighbor, the Feldmans, who lived across the street. In her first year of marriage, Kevin rarely hit her and sometimes she went for walks without him. The Feldmans, an older couple, liked to work in their garden, and in the first year she'd lived here, she'd often stopped to talk to them for a while. Kevin gradually tried to put an end to those friendly visits. Now she saw the Feldmans only when she knew Kevin was busy at work, when she knew he couldn't call. She would make sure no other neighbors were watching before darting across the street to their front door. She felt like a spy when she visited with them. They showed her photos of their daughters growing up. One had died and the other had moved away and she had the sense that they were as lonely as she was. In the summer, she made them blueberry pies and would spend the rest of the afternoon mopping up the flour in the kitchen so Kevin wouldn't know.
After Kevin went to work, she cleaned the windows and put fresh sheets on the bed. She vacuumed, dusted, a
nd cleaned the kitchen. As she worked, she practiced lowering her voice so she could sound like a man. She tried not to think about the cell phone she had charged overnight and put under the sink. Even though she knew that she might never get a better chance, she was terrified because there was still so much that could go wrong.
She made Kevin breakfast on Monday morning, just as she always did. Four slices of bacon, eggs over medium, and two pieces of toast. He was grumpy and distracted and he read the paper without saying much to her. When he was about to leave, he put a coat on over his suit and she told him she was going to hop into the shower.
"Must be nice," he grunted, "to wake up every day knowing you can do whatever the hell you want to do whenever you want to do it."
"Is there anything special you want for dinner?" she asked, pretending not to have heard him.
He thought about it. "Lasagna and garlic bread. And a salad," he said.
When he left, she stood at the window watching as his car reached the corner. As soon as he turned, she walked to the phone, dizzy at the thought of what was to come next.
When she called the phone company, she was directed to customer service. Five minutes passed, then six. It would take Kevin twenty minutes to get to work, and no doubt he would call as soon as he arrived. She still had time. Finally, a rep got on the line and asked her name and the billing address and, for purposes of identification, Kevin's mother's maiden name. The account was in Kevin's name, and she spoke in a low voice as she recited the information, in the voice she'd been practicing. She didn't sound like Kevin, maybe not even masculine, but the representative was harried and didn't notice.
"Is it possible to get call forwarding on my line?" she asked.
"It's an extra charge, but with that, you also get call waiting and voice mail. It's only--"
"That's fine. But is it possible to have it turned on today?"
"Yes," the representative said. She heard him beginning to type. It was a long time before he spoke again. He told her the extra charge would show up on the next bill, which would be sent out next week, but that it would still reflect the full monthly amount, even though she activated the service today. She told him it was fine. He took some more information and then told her it was done and that she would be able to use the service right away. She hung up and glanced at the clock. The whole transaction had taken eighteen minutes.
Kevin called from the precinct three minutes later.
As soon as she got off the phone with Kevin, she called Super Shuttle, a van service that transported people to the airport and bus station. She made a reservation for the following day. Then, after retrieving the cell phone, she finally activated it. She called a local movie theater, one that had a recording, to make sure it worked. Next, she activated the landline's call-forwarding service, sending incoming calls to the number of the movie theater. As a test, she dialed the home number from her cell phone. Her heart was pounding as the landline rang. On the second ring, the ring cut off and she heard the recording from the movie theater. Something broke free inside her and her hands were shaking as she powered off the cell phone and replaced it in the box of SOS pads. She reset the landline.
Kevin called again forty minutes later.
She spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, working steadily to keep from worrying. She ironed two of his shirts and brought the suit bag and suitcase in from the garage. She set out clean socks and she polished his other pair of black shoes. She ran the lint brush over his suit, the black one he wore to court, and laid out three ties. She scrubbed the bathroom until the floor was shiny, and scrubbed the baseboards with vinegar. She dusted every item in the china cabinet and then started preparing the lasagna. She boiled the pasta and made a meat sauce and layered all of it with cheese. She brushed four pieces of sourdough bread with butter, garlic, and oregano and diced everything she needed for the salad. She showered and dressed sexy, and at five o'clock, she put the lasagna in the oven.
When he got home, dinner was ready. He ate the lasagna and talked about his day. When he asked for a second serving, she rose from the table and brought it to him. After dinner, he drank vodka as they watched reruns of Seinfeld and The King of Queens. Afterward, the Celtics were playing the Timberwolves and she sat beside him, her head on his shoulder, watching the game. He fell asleep in front of the television and she wandered to the bedroom. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until he finally woke and staggered in, flopping onto the mattress. He fell asleep immediately, one arm draped over her, and his snores sounded like a warning.
She made him breakfast on Tuesday morning. He packed his clothes and toiletries and was finally ready to head to Marlborough. He loaded his things into the car, then went back to the front door, where she was standing. He kissed her.
"I'll be home tomorrow night," he said.
"I'll miss you," she said, leaning into him, putting her arms around his neck.
"I should be home around eight."
"I'll make something that I can reheat when you get home," she said. "How about chili?"
"I'll probably eat on the way home."
"Are you sure? Do you really want to eat fast food? It's so bad for you."
"We'll see," he said.
"I'll make it anyway," she said. "Just in case."
He kissed her as she leaned into him. "I'll call you," he said, his hands drifting downward. Caressing her.
"I know," she answered.
In the bathroom, she took off her clothes and set them on the toilet, then rolled up the rug. She'd placed a garbage bag in the sink, and naked, she stared at herself in the mirror. She fingered the bruises on her ribs and on her wrist. All of her ribs stood out, and dark circles beneath her eyes gave her face a hollowed-out look. She was engulfed by a wave of fury mixed with sadness as she imagined the way he'd call for her when he walked through the house upon his return. He'd call her name and walk to the kitchen. He'd look for her in the bedroom. He'd check the garage and the back porch and the cellar. Where are you? he'd call out. What's for dinner?
With the scissors, she began to chop savagely at her hair. Four inches of blond hair fell onto the garbage bag. She seized another chunk, using her fingers to pull it tight, telling herself to measure, and snipped. Her chest felt constricted and tight.
"I hate you!" she hissed, her voice trembling. "Degraded me all the time!" She lopped off more hair, her eyes flooding with rage-fueled tears. "Hit me because I had to go shopping!" More hair gone. She tried to slow down, even out the ends. "Made me steal money from your wallet and kicked me because you were drunk!"
She was shaking now, her hands unsteady. Uneven lengths of hair collected at her feet. "Made me hide from you! Hit me so hard that I vomit!"
She snapped the scissors. "I loved you!" She sobbed. "You promised me you'd never hit me again and I believed you! I wanted to believe you!" She cut and cried, and when her hair was all the same length, she pulled out the hair dye from its hiding place behind the sink. Dark Brown. Then she got in the shower and wet her hair. She tilted the bottle and began massaging the dye into her hair. She stood at the mirror and sobbed uncontrollably while it set. When it was done, she climbed into the shower again and rinsed it out. She shampooed and conditioned and stood before the mirror. Carefully, she applied mascara to her eyebrows, darkening them. She added bronzer to her skin, darkening it. She dressed in jeans and a sweater and stared at herself.
A dark, short-haired stranger looked back at her.
She cleaned the bathroom scrupulously, making sure no hair remained in the shower or on the floor. Extra strands went into the garbage bag, along with the box of hair dye. She wiped the sink and counter down and tied up the garbage bag. Last, she put eyedrops in, trying to erase the evidence of her tears.
She had to hurry now. She packed her things in a duffel bag. Three pairs of jeans, two sweatshirts, shirts. Panties and bras. Socks. Toothbrush and toothpaste. A brush. Mascara for her eyebrows. The little jewelry she owned. Cheese and crackers
and nuts and raisins. A fork and a knife. She went to the back porch and dug out the money from beneath the flowerpot. The cell phone from the kitchen. And finally, the identification she needed to start a new life, identification she'd stolen from people who trusted her. She'd hated herself for stealing and knew it was wrong, but she'd had no other choice and she'd prayed to God for forgiveness. It was too late to turn back now.
She had rehearsed the scenario in her head a thousand times, and she moved fast. Most of the neighbors were off at work: she'd watched them in the mornings and knew their routines. She didn't want anyone to see her leave, didn't want anyone to recognize her.
She threw on a hat and her jacket, along with a scarf and gloves. She rounded the duffel bag and stuffed it beneath her sweatshirt, kneading and working it until it was round. Until she looked pregnant. She put on her long coat, one that was roomy enough to cover the bump.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Short, dark hair. Skin the color of copper. Pregnant. She put on a pair of sunglasses, and on her way out the door, she turned on her cell phone and set the landline on call forwarding. She left the house through the gate at the side. She walked between her house and the neighbors', following the fence line, and deposited the garbage bag in their garbage can. She knew that both of them worked, that neither was at home. Same thing for the house behind hers. She walked through their yard and past the side of the house, finally emerging onto the icy sidewalk.
Snow had begun to fall again. By tomorrow, she knew, her footprints would be gone.
She had six blocks to go but she was going to make it. She kept her head down and walked, trying to ignore the biting wind, feeling dazed and free and terrified, all at the same time. Tomorrow night, she knew, Kevin would walk through the house, calling for her, and he wouldn't find her because she wasn't there. And tomorrow night, he would begin his hunt.