Lucinda shuffled into the kitchen exhausted, the yeastiness of beer a paste on her furred tongue. She sipped a glass of water and slushed the water around in her mouth and spat it out in the sink.
She called Dale’s real estate office, but Dale hadn’t been in. She wondered if he would come home today. Or at all. She wondered if she’d come home if she were him. Suspicion was often worse than knowing. More painful. Jealousy’s dark imaginings. She lay on the couch, studying the drawings, trying to discern connections before she headed up to see Jonah.
The phone rang. Lucinda shouted, startled awake.
She’d fallen asleep. She felt drugged and addled.
“Hey,” she said, “where are you? I—”
“Wherever you want me to be.”
“Kirk?”
“Your one and only.”
Lucinda had thought it was Dale calling. She was going to say she wanted to apologize.
“Why are you calling my home number?” she said.
“Business,” Kirk said. “Come to the office. I’ll show you.”
She looked around the empty place. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:31.
“You and the beau have a spat?” Kirk said.
“No.”
“Why don’t you know where he is then?”
“I’m not his mother. He’s probably at work.”
“Come over. We’ve got business.”
“Business,” she said.
Outside, the tire tracks from Dale’s car where he’d backed up far earlier that day were wiped clean by newly falling snow.