Page 35

The sound of the shower sputtering to life jolts me awake. It’s pitch-black and quiet, save for the running water. The numbers on the alarm clock glow red with the time: 3:06 a.m. My hands search the other side of the bed, sliding along the twisted sheets and comforter. It’s empty. Where’s Brian? A streak of light glows beneath the bathroom door. Why would he be showering right now? I flick on the bedside lamp as I get to my feet and slip on my housecoat. I stare at the bathroom door for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I push it open. Brian stands on the other side of the fogged-up shower door. His head is tilted forward while the stream of water splats against the back of his neck, running down the sides of his face.

“Brian,” I say.

His shoulders jump, and he slowly lifts his head. “Yeah, Laura.”

“What are you doing?”

He hesitates before he responds, so I know whatever he says won’t be the truth.

“I think I’m getting sick. I woke up sweating, thought it’d help to take a cold shower.”

The steam fogging the mirror and shower door tells another story. I glance down at the floor, spotting his clothes crumpled in a pile. Bending down, I pick each one up and examine it.

“Laura,” he says. “You can go back to bed. I’ll be out in a minute.”

I don’t respond and continue inspecting the damp clothes. His winter jacket has several dark spots. I press my fingertips against one and pull away, noticing the red stain it leaves on my skin. Bringing my fingers to my nose, I sniff the smell of iron. I know exactly what it is, because only one thing smells like that.

“Laura,” Brian says, poking his head out of the shower.

My gaze meets his, and he practically deflates.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

He shakes his head and grabs a towel hanging from a hook on the wall. “It’s not my blood.” He dries himself off quickly.

I stare back at him, narrowing my eyes, but all I can see is a shadow. A looming black figure, floating through the steam toward me. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Brian says, wrapping the towel around his waist. “You did this.”

“What?!” The word comes out as two syllables, the first sharp and angry, the second a forced whisper, realizing the time and that the kids are asleep. “How did I do this?”

Brian walks to the mirror and swipes his hand over it, clearing the condensation. He finger combs his hair while his reflected eyes lock onto me. “When you staged Emma Harper’s bicycle at the Dead End.”

I clench my jaw and fold my arms across my chest. “Yeah, so? I wasn’t going to sit around and let an innocent man rot in prison for something he didn’t do.”

Brian turns to face me. He wears a look of frustration mixed with disappointment. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore... because Charles Gallagher is dead.”