Joe fell asleep fast and slept silently and still, his mind and body resting after a long run of worry and wakefulness.
I couldn’t sleep for thinking about Joe’s theory, that Dave had killed his father out of resentment and then felt so much regret, shame, and guilt that he wanted to be punished.
Eventually, I slept—a light, dream-tossed state in which I envisioned shooters lining up shots at moving targets. I saw Paul and Ramona in their office, making morning small talk. And then the sound of broken glass, Paul sprawling across his desk, blood sheeting over the edge, soaking into the carpet. Ramona standing, another shot. My eyes opened and I pictured the cabochon ruby pendant on a gold chain hanging an inch above the bullet hole through her chest.
I must have fallen back asleep, because when my eyes opened again, I was thinking about Claire. Had she been drugged into a dreamless sleep? Was she in pain, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her precious young daughter? Had her doctor given her good news or bad? I needed to know.
It wasn’t yet six when I slipped out of bed without waking my husband. I padded softly into the main room and then peeked in on our sleeping, curly-haired cowgirl. I watched her for a little while, wondering what kind of woman she would grow up to be.
Martha mouthed my hand. I assured her that I was on it, and quickly dressed in jeans and sweatshirt to take my good dog for a walk. I remembered something told to me by a stranger on a train. She was holding her baby, and she jerked on her dog’s leash to pull it under the seat.
She saw me looking at her, I guess with judgment in my eyes. She said, “Before you have a baby, your dog is your baby. When you have a baby, your dog is a dog.”
I stooped down to look Martha in the eyes.
“You know I still love you, don’t you?”
She wagged her tail, whined, and licked my face. I leashed my old friend, and we rode the elevator to street level.
It was still early morning. Other people walked their dogs, crossing the nearly empty street against the light. Martha wanted to play, but I gave her the next-best thing, a sprint to the corner of Lake and Eleventh and back.
All night my mind had flopped like a beached tuna. Claire. Dave Channing. Dead bodies in cold boxes awaiting burial and justice. My job.
We took the elevator up, and once inside our home, Martha cocked her head and whined, Feed me.
In the kitchen I filled a bowl for my fluffy old girl, brewed my morning joe, and flicked on the small under-cabinet TV to keep me company. The first morning show was in full swing when a bright-red breaking-news banner streaked across the screen.
What now? What the hell is it now?