Page 38

Dinah

I wake up on my side, and it takes a moment for me to place where I’m at. The ranch bedroom comes into focus in the dark. I roll over onto my back and wait, listening.

There is no sound from Joe’s side of the room, and I prop myself up on my elbows, looking over at his bed. My eyes adjust, and I can see that his white sheets are pulled back, his bed empty.

The bathroom off our room is dark, the door cracked. I consider using it but lie back down and close my eyes, willing myself to return to sleep.

It’s not going to happen. My legs are starting to twitch, and I’ll need a glass of milk to fall back asleep.

I sit upright, swinging my bare legs over the side and tapping my feet along the floor, looking for my slippers.

They are lined up by the bedside table, and I slip into them while holding on to the edge for balance.

I’m in cotton underwear and a big shirt of Joe’s, one that advertises a seaside town in Washington we visited a few years ago.

It’s chilly in the room, thanks to the window air-conditioner Joe installed out of fear of our central system going out.

It was intended for emergencies, but it gives the room an extra kick that he likes.

I grab my big, fluffy white robe off the hook on the back of the door and shrug into it, then quietly make my way out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.

The ranch house was built in the ’50s and is a typical low-ceiling box, one devoid of any character or frills.

The original owners were farmers, hence the slaughterhouse, chicken coops, barns, and paddocks.

This farm didn’t include the surrounding acreage, which was all timber and hunting land that Joe bought up, parcel by parcel, until we owned almost two square miles.

My family isn’t aware of Joe’s money. If my mother knew how much is in our investment accounts, she’d faint. Joe’s father was the majority shareholder of the country’s biggest hot sauce company, a fact I didn’t know myself until he gave me an unlimited budget for our wedding.

My mother and family think our bills are paid from my job and Joe’s positions at the college and the clinic.

My mom would faint a second time if she realized how little he brings home—which is one of the reasons why I would never tell her.

I like his titles and the important work he’s doing.

Hundreds of students thrive under his tutelage each semester, and in the future, he’ll be known worldwide for his research and papers on the effects and effectiveness of thought reform and coercive persuasion.

It doesn’t matter if he works pro bono. That doesn’t indicate his worth or his contribution to so many lives.

I know that better than anyone. Had I been assigned a different mental health counselor during my struggle with the Blythe Howard situation, I probably would have quit the LAPD by now.

Definitely wouldn’t have stayed on homicide.

I shuffle into the kitchen, which is a galley setup with two counters separated by an eight-foot gap.

The floor in this part of the house is all original wood planks that are as uneven as a four-year-old’s teeth.

I open the fridge and take out the half gallon of milk, checking the date on it before pouring a tall glass.

We’ll need to do a grocery run before next weekend, so I open the junk drawer and remove the notepad and pen to make a list of what to buy.

Joe has already written down a few items: bleach, garbage bags, bagels, lighter fluid, and sea salt.

He also wrote down charcoal, but I saw a bunch of bags in the back of the Excursion, so I cross that off.

I add milk, as well as a few of Mom’s favorite items while they are top of mind. I’ll ask Marci to send me a list, too, so I’ll know what to get but also what to avoid. I can’t keep track of her allergies, which seem to multiply each year.

The window above the sink is dark, and I glance at the stove to see what time it is.

2:48 a.m. Another four hours until sunrise.

This sink is the best spot in the house to see it rise.

I spend most weekend mornings standing here, a warm mug of coffee in hand, watching as it peeks over the tree line and paints the back fields and barns in a warm glow.

We don’t use the barns close to the house; they are all empty—future projects if we ever move here full-time and can support animals.

I want a pig and some goats and maybe one of those little furry mini Highland cows.

For now, we only use the old slaughterhouse and the larger barns on the edge of the farm.

I’ll head out there after breakfast to check on things, but for now I turn away from the window and pause, listening to the sounds of the house.

There is no movement, only the soft click of the grandfather clock in the hall. The living room, with its big heavy couch and recliner, is quiet, any potential sounds muffled by the rug and the wall of bookshelves and paperbacks.

I know, even without checking the other two bedrooms or the laundry room, that Joe isn’t there.

I carry my glass to the door off the kitchen and slide it open, stepping out on the wooden deck, but he is not out here either.

The outdoor dining table is empty, as is the seating cluster by the small firepit.

I sniff the air to see if he is burning anything out by the barns, but the air is clean and quiet.

The parking spots by the house are empty, which means he’s likely taken the Excursion down to the clinic, if not off on an errand.

I turn and close the door behind me, leaving it unlocked. I tilt back the glass, finishing off the milk, then rinse the glass out and put it in the dishwasher. Padding back down the hall, I enter the bedroom, slip out of the slippers and robe, and return to bed.

It’s not my business where Joe is. He knows where our bedroom is. If he needs me, he can call—but he won’t.