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Sam gives a tiny shake of her head. “I haven’t gotten mail in a long time. One of the perks of no one knowing where you are.”
“Well, they know now,” I say. “It was on the front page.”
A fresh wave of anger crashes over me as I think about JonahThompson and what he’s done. My hands ball into fists against my will, clenching and unclenching, aching for the sensation of smashing against his jaw.
“Did Lisa get any threats?” Coop says, leaning into the phone to address Nancy.
“A few,” she answers. “Some more worrisome than others. We treated all of them seriously, even managing to track down some of the guys who wrote them. They were lonely cranks. Nothing more. Certainly not killers.”
“So you don’t think Sam and I could be targets?” I say.
“I don’t know what to tell you, hon,” Nancy says. “There’s nothing to indicate that’s the case here, but it’s better to err on the side of caution.”
Not what I want to hear, which keeps the anger rising. I long for an answer, good or bad. Something definitive and tangible I can use to guide me going forward. Without it, everything is as murky as the fog that shrouded Central Park last night.
“Isn’t anyone else upset about this?” I say.
“Of course we’re upset,” Coop says. “And if we had answers, we’d give them to you.”
I turn away, unable to see the earnest way his blue eyes try to offer comfort but reveal only uncertainty. Until today, Coop has always been something solid and strong that I could rely on, even when the rest of my world was tilting into oblivion. Now not even he can make sense of the situation.
“You’re angry,” he says.
“I am.”
“That’s understandable. But you shouldn’t worry that what happened to Lisa is going to happen to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if that was a possibility, Nancy would have told us,” Coop says. “And if I truly thought someone was trying to hurt you, we’d already be on our way out of the city by now. I’d take you so far away from here that not even Jeff would be able to find you.”
He would too. Of that I have no doubt. It’s finally the answer I’vebeen looking for, and for a moment it’s almost enough to snuff out the anger burning in my chest. But then Coop looks across the table and fixes Sam with a blue-eyed stare.
“You too, Sam,” he says. “I want you to know that.”
Sam nods. Then she starts to cry. Or maybe she’s been crying for a while and Coop and I just haven’t noticed it. But now she makes sure we notice. When she sweeps her hair off her face it’s impossible to miss the tears slanting down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “This—the whole situation—is really getting to me.”
I stay where I am, trying to discern if Sam’s tears are real, which makes me feel awful for even thinking they might not be. Coop, though, stands and rounds the table, edging toward her.
“It’s okay to be upset,” he says. “This is a bad situation all around.”
Sam nods and wipes her eyes. She stands. She holds out her arms, seeking comfort in the form of an embrace.
Coop obliges. I watch him wrap his bulky arms around Sam and pull her against his chest, giving her the hug I’ve been denied for the past ten years.
I look away. I march into the kitchen. I take another Xanax and begin to bake.
17.
I’m preparing the dough for apple dumplings when Coop finally makes his way to the kitchen. Bowls of ingredients line the counter in front of me. Flour and salt, baking powder and shortening, a bit of milk to mix them with. Coop leans against the doorframe, silently watching me combine the dry ingredients, then the shortening, then the milk. Soon a large ball of dough sits on the countertop, malleable and glistening. I form a fist and give the dough several rough punches, mashing it into an uneven heap.
“Gets the air out,” I say.
“I see,” Coop says.
I continue to punch, the dough bulging under my knuckles. It’s only after I feel the smack of countertop beneath it that I stop and wipe my hands.