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Janelle’s face was flushed and glistening. A strand of sweat-darkened hair stuck to her temple. Her features dimmed when she noticed Joe was also in the kitchen, and she looked from him to Quincy and back again.
“There you are!” she said to Joe, greeting him like a long-lost friend. “I’ve been looking for you!”
She guided him to one of the worn easy chairs in the great room, squeezing into it with him, legs pulled up so that her knees were on his lap.
“Having a good time?” she asked him.
Quincy looked away, focusing on Craig walking toward her. He too was drunk and high. But he wasn’t a giggly drunk, like Betz, or a hyper one, like Janelle. There was a mellowness about him, an ease with his toned body that Quincy found seductive. He pressed against her, heat leaping off his skin, and whispered, “Up for a little fun tonight?”
“Sure,” Quincy whispered back.
She felt herself being whisked toward the hall, unable to ignore the judgmental way Betz stared at her as they passed. When she turned to the great room, she noticed Janelle still squeezed into the chair and stroking Joe’s hair, only pretending to pay attention to him. In reality, her eyes were locked on Quincy’s departing form, glinting darkly with either satisfaction or jealousy.
Quincy couldn’t tell.
23.
Exhaustion catches up to me as soon as I return home. I get as far as the living room before collapsing face-first onto the sofa and plummeting into sleep. I awaken hours later, with Jeff kneeling beside me, nudging my shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, concern writ large on his face. “You okay?”
I sit up, eyes bleary, squinting at the late-afternoon sun pouring through the window. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Out,” I say.
“Out?”
“Exploring the city. I think she’s getting tired of being cooped up here.”
Jeff gives me a peck on the lips. “A sentiment I know well. Which means we should go out too.”
He tries hard to act like he came up with the idea on the spot, although I can easily detect his rehearsed eagerness. He’s been waiting for a Sam-free moment for days.
I agree, even though I don’t really want to go. Exhaustion and anxiety have caused my back, shoulders, and neck to ache. Then there’s the matter of my website, which is perilously close to careening off schedule. Responsible me would take an Advil and spend the evening doing some catch-up baking. But irresponsible me needs a diversion from the fact that I actually know nothing about Sam. Why she’s here. What she’s up to. Even who she really is.
I’ve invited a complete stranger into our home.
In the process, I’ve become a stranger myself. One who can beat someone to a pulp in Central Park and then lie to the police about it. One who used to be so content with Jeff but now itches to be alone.
Outside, the setting sun is at our backs. My shadow stretches before me on the sidewalk, slender and dark. It occurs to me that I have more in common with that shadow than the woman creating it. I feel just as insubstantial. As if, once darkness arrives, I’ll dissolve until I vanish completely.
We end up walking a few blocks to a French bistro we claim to love but seldom patronize. And even though it’s chilly, we huddle at an outside table, Jeff in a secondhand Members Only jacket he bought during a brief ’80s phase and me wrapped in a shawl-collared cardigan.
We refuse to talk about Sam. We refuse to talk about his case. That leaves little else to discuss as we pick at our ratatouille and cassoulet. I have no appetite to speak of. What little I eat has to be forced down. Each minuscule bite seems to lodge in my throat until I wash it down with wine. My glass is emptied at record speed.
When I reach for the carafe of house red, Jeff finally notices my hand.
“Whoa,” he says. “What happened there?”
Now would be the perfect time to tell Jeff everything. How I almost killed a man. How scared I am of getting caught. How I’m even more afraid of having another memory of Pine Cottage. How I know Sam was in Indiana around the time of Lisa’s death.
Instead, I plaster a smile on my face and do my best imitation of my mother. Nothing is wrong. I’m completely normal. If I believe it enough, it’ll come true.
“Oh, it’s just a silly burn,” I say, giving the words an airy spin. “I was so stupid this morning and accidentally touched a baking sheet that was still hot.”
I try to jerk my hand away but Jeff catches it, studying the topography of the scabs across my knuckles.