Chapter 18

Peter puts Clare to bed once the police have left with their report. He’s wired, whereas Clare is exhausted. He lets her sleep and decides to take a long walk, having locked the door and checked it three times. The rain has subsided, and the night is humid. He needs to walk off the adrenaline. He runs through scenarios where he might have disarmed the thie, but returns to his original conclusion, that the gun may have gone off and struck Clare.

He shakes his arms out at his sides as the anxiety of the event continues to play on his nervous system. More of the same, he thinks. PTSD. He hasn’t had a gun pulled on him since he was in the service, and that was just during training exercises. This was real life, and he feared he’d frozen. Fight or flight and all that. Is this who he is? Is he the type that takes flight? Not exactly; he’d calmly done what the thief had asked. He hadn’t fled. But he hadn’t fought either. Jesus, he thinks, this will haunt me.

The police told them they’d done everything exactly right. Maybe that was his training? He can’t remember. His mind is racing. The more he considers what he’d done and what the police had explained, the less anxious he feels over his actions. He’d assessed the situation and acted accordingly. No one was hurt save his pride and Clare’s mental health. He may yet pull out of this encounter without further emotional damage.

Peter’s thoughts move to Theresa next. She had warned him against inviting this man into his life, and his gut told him not to open that door. Clare had surprised him, letting Ted in like that. This could have been avoided.

Sanderson’s ex-wife would hear about the robbery, he surmises. It’s her store. He’s never met the woman, but he imagines she’s not a tyrant after divorcing Sanderson.

A shadow slips into the cover of an alleyway, and Peter once again feels the familiar surge of adrenaline. It’s after one in the morning. It’s stupid to be out like this right now. The streets are mostly dead. There is a single bar emptying. He moves past a straggler walking home, witnesses a cab pull away from the sidewalk, and studies a pair of eyes staring blankly from a passing bus. His pace quickens.

Peter decides to cross the street, avoiding the alley. Should he turn back now? The adrenaline wasn’t easing off nearly fast enough, and exercise is what Peter finds works best. If he doesn’t burn it off, he’ll never sleep. But being out was beginning to feel wrong. Next, a tall man with wild hair exits a 24-hour pawn shop just two shops ahead of him. Peter feels a wave of recognition wash over him. The man is tall and skinny. Paired with his gait, Peter thinks of Ted. His palms sweat, and his eyesight narrows, focusing on the man. He’ll follow him, he decides. If it’s Ted, what will he say? Rather, what will he do? Had he just pawned the stolen books? It had been hours since he’d robbed the store. Still, Peter feels empowered by the rush of possibilities and keeps on him.

The man turns, and Peter flinches at his profile. He descends a cement staircase, and Peter gulps in the humid air of the city.