Page 25

Thursday

Thursday crawls in on its hands and knees. My head aches, but I get up early to make banana pancakes and thick-cut bacon.

My kitchen is the nicest room in the house, with its warm wooden floors and cozy dining table. When Natalie was a kindergartner, I redesigned the space for the two of us. This was our refuge.

But now it feels as though our sanctuary is being invaded.

Whenever people ask me about Harrison, I say “I was young and dumb.” As if falling for a felon is just a thing teenagers do. But the truth is we had several good years together, starting with that first summer at Docksiders. I was so obsessed with him. And when fall came, and I had to return to school, I cried in his arms when he said goodbye to me.

“You’re something else, Gallagher,” he’d whispered to me. “I’m going to miss the hell out of you.”

I didn’t believe him. I thought he’d move on and find another nerdy girl to worship him.

But then he didn’t. I went back to school, and we spent the next eight months on the phone together or texting. Or sneaking away to be together on the weekends. I used to borrow my roommate’s car to meet Harrison halfway between Ithaca and Maine. There’s a little motel off 190 in Massachusetts that became our hookup spot.

Our second summer together in Portland went by in a flash. But then we were facing a new kind of separation—my semester abroad in Rome. And since architecture is a five-year program, I’d have another year in Ithaca after that.

I couldn’t bear the idea, so I was looking for architecture programs in New England when Harrison made a startling offer. “What if I found an apartment in Ithaca while you’re in Italy? I can’t afford to fly to Rome, but I don’t want us to be apart forever. I can find a job in upstate New York while you’re gone.”

It had never occurred to me that he’d leave Maine for me. “But what about your band?”

“That’s a hobby, baby. You’re my whole life. I’d follow you anywhere.”

Then he did. He got a job in an Ithaca café. When I came back from Italy, I moved in with him. We had a cramped little one-bedroom with creaky floors, but I loved everything about it. Coming home to Harrison felt like winning the lottery.

My parents were appalled. He’s not good enough for you was my mother’s constant chorus. He’s not the kind of man you marry.

But I believed in us. I had faith in Harrison. Then he destroyed what we had, just like my mother said he would. Now he’s back, knocking on our door.

I’ll follow you anywhere, he once said.

I shiver.

The electric griddle beeps to tell me it’s hot. I pour the first pancakes and then call up the stairs to wake Natalie.

The hot breakfast is an olive branch. I have a little speech ready when she stumbles into the kitchen. She gives me a wary glance as I set her plate on the table.

“Listen,” I begin. “I reacted very strongly last night to a man I haven’t seen in fifteen years. Seeing him was a shock, but I feel calmer now.”

She yanks her chair out and sits down. “You acted like a stone-cold bitch.”

I have to take a slow breath and swallow down the retort that’s rising in my throat. I’m the adult in the room , I remind myself.

“I’m trying to get my head around this. For your sake. So maybe help me out, here?”

She sulks all the way through her gourmet breakfast and feeds bacon to Lickie even after I ask her to stop. But at least she answers the handful of questions I have for her.

“Do you know where he lives, exactly?”

“No clue.”

“But it’s in Portland?”

“I think so. Or close by.”

“Where does he work?”

“At Docksiders. In the kitchen.”

My heart spasms again. He’s been right down the hill—full time? Part of me doesn’t believe it. Like I should have sensed a disturbance in the Force.

We stumble through a couple more questions. Then Natalie says, “Don’t forget, you’re supposed to contact him. He said it was important.”

“Yes. I’ll do that when I’m ready.”

She gives me a dark look. Then she gets up from the table—leaving her sticky plate as if the dirty-dish fairies were swinging by later to pick it up—and leaves for her American Government exam.

After cleaning up, I call Detective Riley, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t answer. Voicemail is so much easier. “Good morning. Natalie doesn’t know where her father is staying. He didn’t tell her. She says he works in the kitchen at Docksiders most nights and plays occasional gigs wherever the band can get a slot. The band members are new people—not the same ones he had when I met him. Um...” I try to remember what else Natalie told me. “The first time they met in person was on Tuesday. They were supposed to meet last week, but the gig he was playing was twenty-one and up, and he had to tell her not to come. She says she didn’t ask him how long he’s been in town, but to her ear it didn’t sound like very long. Whatever that means. And that’s all we know. Sorry we couldn’t be more helpful.”

I hang up before the system cuts me off, tuck away my phone, and get ready for work.

As I leave, I notice the peonies on the coffee table. Harrison knew they were my favorite. He sent them to me once when we were long distance. My dorm room wasn’t stocked with vases, so I had to put the flowers in a Brita water jug. I cried over them.

My mother was right all those years ago. We were doomed as a couple from the start. At twenty, though, I didn’t care. I lived for his calls and his visits. I paid for Skype so I could see his face on my computer screen. That warm smile. The soft look in his eyes when he glanced at me. The deep sound of his laughter when I said something witty. No man had ever made me feel like a treasure.

Just like an actual drug, it was both intoxicating and dangerous. Natalie and I both paid the price.

***

Beatrice is at her desk when I arrive in the office. “How are you?” she asks. “You look tired. Isn’t it my turn to run out for coffee?” She smiles. “I feel a cappuccino coming on.”

“I wouldn’t turn it down.”

She departs, and I settle down to work. It doesn’t provide its usual welcome distraction, though. I’ve got too many questions on my mind. I wonder if Detective Riley is going to question Harrison.

And then there’s Jules the journalist. Her phone number is still in my pocketbook, while the fact of Tim’s adoption—and his connection to this house—is still rattling around in my head like loose change.

My life is either full of strange coincidences or liars.

I open my inbox to find Harrison’s message from earlier this week. We have to talk about Natalie .

Reluctantly, I open it. If he really has medical information concerning Natalie, of course I need to hear that. But if it’s just a ploy for sympathy, or an excuse to toy with my daughter’s affections, then he’s underestimated me.

Hi Rowan,

I understand why you don’t want contact with me. But Natalie wants to meet me and I’ve been stalling her until you weighed in. I want to hear any concerns you have.

And it’s important that we talk—just once. I have some medical information that affects Natalie as she grows older. It has to do with my history with substances, and how to protect her going forward.

Please write back or call.

Love for you both,

H

Love? Please .

The message makes me grind my teeth, mostly because it’s so aboveboard. He tried to tell me he’d been in contact with Natalie.

Damn this message. Damn everything.

He also leaves a number, and I save it to my contacts before drafting a reply.

I will, of course, hear you out about the medical information. But not right this minute. There is too much turmoil in our lives. Natalie lied to me about seeing you, and that’s unusual. We need some time to work on what happened before I can consider letting her see you again.

Please respect my wishes and steer clear for now.

R .

I read it back and feel like chucking my computer across the room. I sound uptight and sanctimonious—especially the point about Natalie usually telling the truth.

That’s just wishful thinking, isn’t it?

But I shouldn’t care what Harrison thinks, should I? So I press send.

Beatrice arrives a half hour later with two coffees in a cardboard holder, plus the day’s mail.

I pop out of my chair to unburden her.

She puts a cup of coffee on my desk, while I sort through several slippery catalogs for lighting and hardware. I also find a manila envelope addressed to me at the mansion’s address in blocky writing. I slit open the envelope with my thumb and extract a single sheet of paper.

There are only four words hand-lettered in Sharpie marker. HE HAD TO DIE

Beatrice gasps. “Oh God. Don’t touch it!”

I drop it like a hot potato onto the floor.

***

After Beatrice calls the police, it takes twenty minutes for Detective Fry to arrive.

He collects both the envelope and its contents and carefully bags them. Then he asks us a dozen questions.

How often do we get the mail?

Every workday, because the mailman drops it through the front door.

Did both of us touch the envelope?

Probably.

“Do you happen to have a sample of your ex’s handwriting?” Fry asks me.

“Why?” Beatrice demands. “A dead man didn’t write that.”

My head throbs. “He means my other ex. Natalie’s father is back in town.”

“ Oh ,” Beatrice says softly.

I think about it for a second. “No, I can’t think of anything I kept that he wrote. Except...” I feel the first hint of relief since opening the envelope. “He never made many written notes. Harrison is severely dyslexic.”

“Huh,” says the cop with a frown. “All right. You’ll tell us if anything else turns up?”

“Of course,” Beatrice says.

Then Fry takes his leave, wearing a grim expression. Although I think the scowl is standard on that model.

“Unhelpful as usual,” Beatrice grumbles after she shows him out. “This is a damn disaster. I was still holding out hope that the killing was just a robbery gone wrong.”

I put my head in my hands. “So was I.”

“Is Natalie’s dad really back? How do you know?”

I drain my coffee. “Now there’s a story.”