THIRTEEN

      

       Angie walked back to the condo wondering about Donna’s appearance at the park. Was it simply to apologize for rude behavior? Or talk about Paul? Or maybe…follow up on a threatening note?

Most of their conversation had been about him. Not the complaints or rebukes exes frequently have for each other; he lived in Portland, he was happy in his new job, he’d taken up fishing. Not a single complaint, or anything that even remotely connected to the John Bloom case. So, why did Angie’s brain keep trying to do just that? Could John and Paul have any link? Paul had been a plumber by trade. John was a nurseryman. Could the two careers have crossed at some point? The greenhouses had plumbing.

But what difference could it make?

She reached the condominium complex slightly out of breath, and having made the decision to call Will once more. Before she could talk herself out of it, before the coat even came off, she dialed her old phone number. “Hi Will. Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not. I was just writing out an order for office supplies.”

“How’s your headache?”

“Pounding like a jackhammer.”

“Take two more of the painkillers I gave you and go lie down.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Angie laughed. “Don’t say it like that, you obviously didn’t listen when I said it earlier.”

“I had to return some phone calls.”

“And an order for office supplies that just couldn’t wait.”

Now Will laughed too.

“Hey, have you heard from Paul Zimmerman? What’s he doing now?” She picked up a pencil and twirled it between her fingers.

“He’s still a plumber. Some company in Portland offered him more than twice what he made from the place in Wolfeboro.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Let’s see. Man, it’s hard to think with my heading throbbing.” Same old Will. “Almost a year ago. Why?”

“He was in town yesterday. I wondered if he’d come to see you.”

“No. I went to Manchester all day…closing a deal.” There was a clicking sound on the other end then Will said, “Doesn’t look like he called here; nothing on the caller ID. Maybe he came to the office. Bummer. Would’ve liked to see him.”

“Eat a few crackers so the medication will settle better on your stomach. Then go rest a while. Talk to you soon.” Angie hung up and looked out the living room window. The parking lot was quiet.

Paul and Donna always seemed like such a well-matched couple. They were both quiet and unassuming, hardly noticed in a crowd. Their breakup had come as a surprise to even their closest friends. Donna said they’d just grown apart. Angie wondered if Paul’s explanation would be the same.

Why had he driven ninety miles back to Alton Bay? Ninety miles wasn’t so far these days, but people didn’t make a trip like that just for the scenery, especially in April when the scenery was slush, dirty snowbanks, and bare trees.

Angie put her elbows on the back of the sofa and lowered her head into her cupped hands. Something wasn’t right about the meeting with Donna. Angie rewound her mental recording of their conversation. Donna came to apologize for being rude. Her excuse was that Paul had just left, which insinuated his visit upset her, yet nothing in what she said revealed a reason for turmoil.

Angie took off her jacket and put it in the closet. Then she walked around the condo pulling down shades. She sat at the kitchen counter and dialed Paul’s number in Maine. No one answered, not even a machine. She reheated some stew Gloria made the other day and sat at the counter to eat. Yesterday’s newspaper lay atop the mail pile. Someone had read it, probably Jarvis. She wondered where he was right now. Probably investigating the case he’d been suspended from. She smiled. Nothing could keep him from business.

A twinge of anger surfaced. What to do about his jealousy? Though he’d said it was his problem, technically it was both their problems. If they were to have a serious relationship maybe she should be in counseling with him. She sighed and gave her attention to the newspaper. The headline was about a fire in Moultonboro. Two photos took up half the front page: one of the burning building, one of the landlord, a pudgy woman wearing a knitted cap.

The thought of photos rekindled the memory of Donna sweeping the sidewalk outside her shop. Angie retrieved her camera and downloaded the picture into the computer, then sent it to Mary Grayson with a note: do you recognize this woman? Afterward, Angie reheated the soup and took it to the living room to watch the news.

Why didn’t Donna ask about Angie taking her picture? She sighed. Why did she feel like the case was a lot simpler than she was making it? That the answer lay much closer to home than it appeared? She cleaned up the dinner mess, refolded the newspaper and took a glass of wine and a book to the living room.

Angie curled in the chair to read and relax. Nice that Bud had taken Mom away. Peace and quiet…just what the doctor ordered. She hoped Will’s headache was gone. A clunk, then a raspy sound brought her head up. Ears perked, head tilted, Angie listened. Another clunk: metal on metal.

At the sound of grating footsteps near the condo, she settled back in the chair and began breathing again. Just a neighbor coming home. She picked up the book, folded her legs underneath her and removed the bookmark.

A thump against the front door brought Angie out of the chair; book and glass toppled to the carpet. Had she locked it? The act was so automatic the memory was impossible to recover. She leaned around the corner. The security chain hung limp and worthless—like a used-up erection.

A shuffle like footsteps outside the door. Another thump. For several ticks of the wall clock, silence.

Movement though, as her fingers braced on the smooth painted wall between the living room and hall. Eyes riveted on the gold doorknob. It was moving!

Fingers probed the table behind her, seeking the figurine that had been there when she dusted, finding nothing. The knob continued moving, turning, turning. The door swung open.

Angie ducked back, tucking herself into the tiny space between the table and wall. Her thigh jostled the table and there was motion. Not movement really, just that indefinable sensation that something was about to tip over. She groped blindly to steady that stupid figurine, but too late. The crash of glass on wood revealed her hiding place.

Feet scuffed on the hallway carpet. Something rustled; that unidentifiable rasping sound she’d heard outside the door. Plastic shopping bags!

“Angie, come help me, will you?”

Head pounding with the unwarranted terror, she stepped from her hiding place.

“What the hell happened?” Jarvis asked.

“I dropped something.”

Angie took two of the bags to the kitchen. Jarvis set the remaining bags on the counter and then took the bags from her fingers where she stood dumbly frozen to the tile floor. He took hold of her shoulders and maneuvered her into a chair, then peered into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why didn’t you knock?” He had on that blue plaid shirt she liked. The top two buttons were undone, darkish hairs peeked out. A finger under the chin tilted her head up and she had to look at him. His usual early-evening stubble was scraped smooth. He smelled of Polo. She didn’t speak.

“Since you were expecting me, I didn’t think it was necessary.”

A glimmer of memory: as she’d left the station, he’d offered to come make dinner. Feeling like an idiot, she went to clean up the broken statuette, clearing away the broken pieces from the table and floor. She held the shards in her hand, recalling the day Will had bought the abstract artwork. They’d been at some museum in New York City. She couldn’t recall the name. Angie closed her eyes and concentrated. She could see the glass and marble entryway. She could hear the echoes in the lobby, smell the lacquer and oils in the main room, but she could not remember the name of the place.

A stab of pain in her hand made Angie look down. Manicured fingers were wrapped tightly around the shards. Blood formed a map in the palm of her hand. She plucked the pieces from the flesh and went to the kitchen. Jarvis saw her coming and held open the trash bin.

“You’re bleeding.” He washed and dried the wound, kissed it, and returned the hand as though it wasn’t attached to the rest of her.

“Thanks,” she said softly and went back to the living room. The snifter lay unbroken on its side, empty, its brown goodness absorbed by the white pages. Angie set the book on the table, open so it could dry.

Jarvis’s head poked around the corner. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Fine.” She couldn’t tell him about the note. He’d drag her to a safe place. She wouldn’t be allowed at the theater. Tomorrow, rehearsals began again. They planned to introduce the cast to Sally Pruit and Ring of Muddy Water. Thursday would be taken up with dress rehearsals for not only Checkmate: Love, but next month’s play Ruckus in New York. It wouldn’t be fair to leave Tyson to do it alone. No, for now she’d keep the note a secret. Probably only meant to scare her off anyway.

She followed the pungent scent of garlic and onions to the kitchen. “What can I do?”

He didn’t look up from the cutting board where the pile of onions and peppers grew with amazing speed. “You can make a salad. Lettuce is in one of those bags.”

“I have lettuce in the fridge.”

He laughed. “I couldn’t know that standing in the supermarket, could I?”

Angie prepared the salad. “What kind of dressing do you want?”

“I’ll make some in a minute.” He drew out a clear plastic bag of tomatoes and a long, suggestive looking sausage. “Sit.”

To busy herself, she took the rest of the things from the bags: angel hair spaghetti, a wedge of Romano, a box of frozen tiramisu.

Jarvis stirred the ingredients bubbling on the stove then took plates from the cabinet. He bent and kissed her cheek in passing.

After dinner, they sat on the couch, Angie’s head in that familiar, comfortable spot between his head and shoulder. “Did you get the tapes from Trynne’s safe?”

“We’re still waiting for the warrant. Should have it by morning.”

“I thought she said you could have them.”

“She did, but Blake won’t let us in the house.”

Angie peered up at him. “You had me worried for a while.”

“You mean about the warrant?” He lowered his head and gave her a sly grin and a peck on the temple.

“What made you suspect her?”

“Genetics.”

“Doing the same work as John was enough for a judge to give you a warrant?”

“’Course not. We have other stuff.”

“And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.” He gave a droll chuckle. “How about making some coffee. I’ll cut the dessert.”

They sat at the counter and ate tiramisu while the coffee maker gurgled and dripped. He rose to pour the hot vanilla-scented drink but instead pulled her into an embrace. “Again I apologize for today. The jealousy…”

“I know. We’ve got to talk about it.”

“I know.”

After dessert they ambled to the living room, arm in arm. He sat and she knelt, wedging herself between his legs. She stretched up and kissed the tip of his nose, his throat, the space between his nose and cheek. She feathered her lips against his, poking her tongue inside his mouth, tasting the garlic and tomatoes, and wine. While her lips worked, so did her fingers, undoing buttons, pulling shirttails free, unzipping Levis.

Later, Jarvis grunted and said, “Devil woman.”

He sat up and kissed her on the cheek, then stood and walked down the hall to the bathroom, dangling shirttails hiding the curve of his buttocks, but not the musculature of his thighs. Angie curled in a ball on the sofa.

She heard Jarvis scuffing from the bathroom to the kitchen where the sounds of pot lids and spoons rent the air. She didn’t open her eyes until he poked her with something. She sat up and forced her eyes to focus on the newspaper ad, and not the revived erection punching through his shirtfront.

The paper was a grainy photocopy of John’s opening day. New Nursery Opens in Alton Village, the headline said. Wearing neat new-looking jeans and a long sleeve shirt, and standing in front of the big sign at the head of his driveway…John. He stood beside the nursery sign, smiling, wide and prideful.

“Nice,” Angie said, not seeing his point.

“Look to the right.”

The photographer had set the angle to show John, the sign and long rows of plants and potted trees stretching from driveway to greenhouse—the same area that, just the other night, had been nearly impassable with frozen snow. People milled everywhere.

Angie examined the picture, squinting to catch every detail, afraid to admit she didn’t see what Jarvis wanted her to see. Suddenly, the words “Oh God” squeezed between her lips. Trynne half-hid near a lilac bush. Not browsing for plants, not selecting a tree. Watching John. Even with the ambiguousness of the photocopy, it was clear Trynne knew who he was. Angie picked up the photo again and held it under the light. “You think he knew she was there?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I realized something this afternoon. She has a blue car too.”

He nodded. “Wilson sent me the DMV report about an hour ago. It doesn’t look good for her. Sorry. I know you two are close.”

“Obviously not as close as I thought.”

“Now might be the time to tell you the rest of the news. She and Blake are having money troubles.”

She tilted her head to gaze at him. “That’s not unusual for someone in a new business.”

“We’re still checking on it, but it appears to be an escalating state of affairs not related to his business.”

“What are you thinking, that the money troubles happened because Trynne gave John three million dollars?”

“No. There’s no indication they ever had that kind of money.”

She handed him ad and leaned her head back on the cushion. She squeaked one eye open and said, “Trynne and I had a long talk this afternoon. She stressed she’d been to John’s only three times; all three times recently—to set the cameras. Twice she went at night and once during the day.”

He wiggled the newspaper ad in the air. “This could be the daytime trip.”

“No. First of all, that picture was taken the day the nursery opened in…in 2001, right? You said yourself the cameras are new. Secondly, Trynne said that while she was stringing the wires out behind the greenhouse, John was unloading trees from a truck in the driveway.”

“Damn, she’s got balls. Where’s your cell phone?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Have her picked back up.”

Angie pulled in a sad breath. “In my purse.”

He returned with the phone in one hand and the anonymous note in the other. “Where’s your phone anyway?” she said, in a vain and senseless attempt to distract him from the anger brewing.

“Home,” he said. Then, “Explain.”

“I found it tucked in a manuscript at the theater.” Then she told a whopper of a lie. “A few days ago.”

Jarvis eyed her for several seconds without speaking. She saw irritation building and thought it would be a good idea to squirt water on the blaze before the irritation became full-fledged anger. “The thing could’ve been there for ages, for all I know. Maybe it wasn’t even meant for me.” Angie stopped talking and waited for God to strike her down.

“Let me have it and go get an envelope.” She handed him the note and did as ordered. If ordering her around were the worst of the storm, she’d gladly take it.

He used just his fingertips to place the thing inside the envelope. “Probably destroyed any prints,” he grumbled. He left her sight a moment, ostensibly to store the envelope in his jacket, hanging in the hall closet, but returned holding the envelope, which he handed to her.

Up close, Angie realized it wasn’t the same one. She lifted the flap and drew out two airline tickets. To Philadelphia.

“The conference is this weekend,” Jarvis said. “Thought you might want to go with me.”

She set the tickets on the coffee table. “I can’t. Did you forget I have a theater to run?”

“No. Sorry I didn’t clarify. We’ll leave early Thursday morning and be back for dress rehearsal Friday afternoon.” She gave a slow nod. “Besides, it’ll get you out of the way for a while so Wilson can find that murderer.”

Unless he was in Pennsylvania.

Since her thoughts were too often visible on her face she looked away. “Do you believe furthering her career was the only reason Trynne set the cameras?” she asked.

“Originally yes, and I also think she rekindled the relationship for the same reason. Then I think one of two things happened. Either he told her what she needed to know. She knew that when Monsanto tried to patent the exact same process, he’d figure out what happened, so she killed him. Or secondly, maybe he found out what she’d been up to and threatened to blow the whistle. Faced with the ruin of her career, and marriage—”

“Which has happened, by the way. Blake moved out.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. Probably at his office.”

Jarvis got up and stretched again, arms high, back arched. “I have to get going.” He pulled Angie close and fluffed a kiss across her brow. “Marry me.”

What did he say? She lifted her head from the comforting scents on his shirt and looked into his eyes. He nodded, affirming she hadn’t been hearing things. She opened her mouth. He put two fingers to her lips. “Don’t answer now. Think about it. We could have a great life together.”

“I—”

“Think about it.” He kissed her once more, then whispered, “Oh yes. Don’t think you’re off the hook over that note.” With that he left.

Angie leaned against the doorframe and listened till she couldn’t hear his car any more. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She raced to the bathroom and threw up. After washing up and brushing her teeth, she went to bed, cuddled in the down comforter.

She didn’t want to be married right now. What was the big deal about marriage anyway? Look at the McCoys. They’d been married more than half their lives. Hiding secrets. Neither had enough faith in their love to just spit the stuff out and go on living. The delicate tendrils of their relationship were stretched out of proportion. How long before it stretched beyond endurance and exploded into millions of tiny pieces?

Look at her parents. No, better not look at them.

Look at she and Will. She’d thought they were happy. Then learned he’d been cheating. To her mind, cheating was the ultimate betrayal. Angie pounded her fists on the mattress to either side of her.

The telephone rang. Who could be calling at midnight? Had to be Jarvis. Probably couldn’t sleep either—for the anticipation of her reply to his question. She grinned. When he said take time to think, she expected hours, or days. The number on the Caller ID was unfamiliar.

Her head began to ache. The anonymous letter writer? Don’t answer.

She had to know. “Hello.”

“Good evening Mrs. Deacon, sorry to bother you so late. I’ve called several times and you haven’t been home. My name is Justin Masters. I’m a reporter for the—”

“No comment.” She hung up and walked away, ignoring the blinking light on the answering machine. The phone rang again. She waited till it stopped ringing then took the phone off the hook and started for the bedroom. A sound outside the door…just a scrape, like a footstep. She stopped, and listened. No other sound. No doorbell.

The sound came again. Not a scrape this time. A small thud. Except for the lamp on the hall table, the condo was dark. Slow and careful, she slid the security chain into the slot on the doorframe. The sound came again, like a pebble tossed against the glass to get a lover’s attention. She shut off the light and went to kneel on the couch, peering between the mini-blind slats. If kids were playing around her car…

Kids? This late? The parents should be flogged.

The single streetlight at the far end of the parking lot only accentuated the deep shadows between the vehicles. For a long time, she squinted into the darkness. Nothing moved. No kids playing hide & seek. No dogs chasing cats. Nothing.

Angie tiptoed to the kitchen for some wine, drawing the glass silently from the cupboard, uncorking the bottle in slow motion, all the while keeping her ears trained toward the front of the condo. The sound came again; this time at the kitchen window—not three feet away. Goosebumps jerked to attention.

The sound came again, a small tink against a window. Call the police. And look like a fool when it’s just kids playing a game? Kids should be asleep now. Very few children lived in this development; condos were rented mostly by people like Angie, halfway between one life and the next. Probably teens with nothing better to do than torment people. Her grandmother’s voice entered the back and forth discussion: “Better safe than sorry.”

“Oh shut up, all of you,” she growled, finished pouring the wine, grabbed a magazine and went to the bedroom. She set down the glass and shut the blinds as tight as they’d go. In the dark, she undressed and pulled down the comforter. Instead of climbing in nude, the way she always did, she dug through the dresser to find a baggy t-shirt. Prepared for an emergency dash outdoors.

Angie fluffed the pillows against the headboard, got into bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and anchored the comforter under her arms. She took a long swig of wine and opened the magazine, listening hard before beginning to read.

Something woke her. The bleary face of the clock said 3:12 a.m. Damned kids. Not kids. She tiptoed to the living room and parted the blinds a quarter inch. God, it was cold in here. Dawn hadn’t yet oozed over the mountains. Frost-coated cars dotted the parking lot like giant marshmallows in a mug of hot chocolate. She pressed her forehead against the window, squinting, but the shadows remained constant, unmoving.

Probably cats. Frequently they yowled in the middle of the night: the high-pitched squabbles continuing until someone heaved water on them. She listened until her ears grew numb, then finally scurried back to bed. Shivering and tugging the comforter up tight, Angie heard nothing else.

At 3:57 she sat up with an annoyed slap to the feather pillow. No sleep tonight obviously. Blue dawn squirted between the slats of the blinds, making arrows on the carpet. No sense trying to sleep now. A jog would clear the cobwebs. She untangled the unwieldy t-shirt and made the bed. The room was cold. Goosebumps ran sentry duty up her arms, the chill centering in her nipples, so taut the shirt scratched painfully. Angie ducked into her heavy chenille bathrobe and pulled the belt tight. Why was it so cold? The baseboard wafted nice, cozy heat. Probably leftover nerves from last night.

She dressed in a gray sweatsuit and headed out the back door off the kitchen. The smell of spring laced the air. Morning light filtered between the mountains. The dusky gray sky made foretelling the weather impossible. Angie strode around to the parking lot. Gloria’s car sat in the visitor’s lot, covered in ice. A feeling of guilt halted Angie’s first jogging steps—she hadn’t thought of her mother since they left for Boston. Hopefully they had a good time. Angie really liked Bud. Not because he diverted Gloria’s clinging, not because he’d encouraged Angie’s involvement in John’s case. He was gentle and sensible; Jarvis was so much like him. Immediately Angie erased thoughts of Jarvis for now. If she allowed herself to think of him, she might have to think about the question that loomed so close.

Time to get the blood pumping.

Angie slipped in the back door at 4:38 sweat cold against her skin. A hot shower chased away any lingering nerves. At five o’clock, hair still wet, she climbed back into bed. The alarm blared at 7:00. Angie got up feeling only marginally better than before the jog and shower. The room was still freezing. She opened the blinds and morning flooded the room. Heat from the register oozed up under the robe, and felt great. Outside, bumps of snow and dead grass stretched endlessly across a field that, in summer, grew thick with wildflowers and timothy. Not a footprint marred the surface of the field. Angie raised the blinds halfway and locked them in place. Directly below, the snow wasn’t so even, or unmarked. Angie opened the window and screen and peered out. A set of fresh footprints traced a path from left to right, stopped below her condo, then turned and tracked around the building. She shivered, unable to take her eyes from the oval cavities.

Kids playing.

Sure. Leaving one set of not-at-all-kid-sized footprints.

Her body screamed for caffeine. The hallway was colder than the bedroom. The furnace must be out, she thought, then realized stupidly that she had electric heat—and it was working in the bedroom. Maybe a blockage of some sort. How did one check these things? Jarvis would know. The thermostat setting said 69º, the same as always. As in the bedroom, the baseboard was warm. Passing the hallway table, she replaced the phone in the cradle. Then she punched the answering machine button, expecting to hear the voice of that reporter, Justin somebody. But the first caller was Mary Grayson: “Hi Angie. I received your e-mail photo of the Marks woman. Sorry to say she doesn’t look familiar. I’ve forwarded it to the conference steward. Perhaps he’ll recognize her. If I can be of further help, please let me know.”

Then Will’s voice. “Ange. I was sorting through some boxes and found a few things you might want.” She hit the delete button.

In the kitchen she started the coffeemaker. The phone rang. She leaped toward it, hoping to hear Jarvis’ voice. Come for coffee, she’d urge. Can you figure out what’s wrong with my heat?

“Hello…Hello?” No one there. She scowled, then hung up and watched the coffeemaker until the drip drip into the carafe stopped. She poured the hazelnut scented brew into the largest mug from the cabinet. She started for the living room, to savor coffee from the big, comfortable chair, and stopped short—

The front door was open, the gold security chain stretched to the max.

Angie ran to it, sloshing coffee everywhere. She pushed the door shut, twisted the lock and waited for the familiar click as it shot home. She’d done that last night. Right?

Locking the door, such an automatic thing. Like turning off the coffeepot or unplugging the curling iron—mindless actions, that, once done, couldn’t be recalled.

Maybe the door hadn’t clicked all the way shut. A breeze or something popped it open—one of the noises she’d heard.

But, she’d locked it, she was sure. Almost sure.

Angie concentrated, trying to feel the smooth roundness of the little gold knob between her fingers. To recall turning it into place. To remember that little click. And finally did. At the first of the noises, she’d slipped the security chain quietly in place. The door had been shut at that time. She hadn’t double-checked the latch—Jarvis always made sure to lock behind himself—but the door had definitely been closed.

Call Jarvis. He’d just say it was kids playing. But at least he’d come over. She dialed four numbers before hanging up.

What if it wasn’t kids playing around? What if the anonymous letter writer loitered out there? She ran to the kitchen and dumped the coffee into the sink. Shut off the coffeemaker. Without washing out the pot, Angie shrugged into her coat, grabbed purse and manuscript, slid back the chain lock and twisted the knob lock. A thin skin of frost covered the automobiles. She’d made two steps toward her car when the breath expelled all in one whoosh. She didn’t have to bend down to see the front drivers’ side tire was flat. Angie reached for her cell phone. She’d stuck a finger on the speed dial button for AAA when she spotted the second tire. Stomach shriveling, she walked around the vehicle.

Fifteen steps later, she was seething. An insistent voice called from inside the phone and she put it to her ear. “Yes, yes I’m here. I have four flat tires…Yes, I said four.” Angie gave her name and address then slapped the phone shut. By now, her hands were trembling.

Fear replaced anger. Suddenly the morning didn’t seem so bright. Spring didn’t seem so near. Life didn’t seem so wonderful. She strode back inside her condo and called Jarvis. His voice wore the unused quality that invades vocal chords during the night.

“I need you,” she said. The line went dead.

The blinds were still shut and she spun the knob till they opened enough for her to see out without being seen. No movement, even in the deepest shadows. Whoever did this must still be out there, gloating.

She laughed. How could they know four flat tires were nothing compared to the other things going on?

Perhaps this was a continuation. First, noises and an open front door. Second, flat tires. Would Step Three be in the form of another prank, or would someone—namely, her—actually be hurt?

In the parking lot, each car looked familiar. All bore the same layer of frost. No footprints etched a path through the whiteness on the ground. Angie hammered the arm of the chair with both fists.

A car pulled in with a whoosh of unrestrained urgency, tires stopping too quickly, cold engine racing, door slamming as its occupant launched himself out. Jarvis’s breath puffed in clouds. He’d already noticed her tires, and knelt beside the left rear. He wore the same jacket as last night, but had thrown it over striped pajamas.

The AAA truck arrived. Jarvis spoke with the driver who nodded and sped away.

Jarvis came in the condo. The baseball cap did little to disguise the tousled sprouts poking from underneath. He strode toward her, folding his arms around her, enveloping her in security. He talked into her hair, “He’ll get tires when the shop opens, then come back and check the car mechanically, too.”

She leaned into him, smelling his house, yesterday’s aftershave, and morning breath—and liking it. As if reading her thoughts, he pulled her tighter. Was this what it would be like, he as her protector? Maybe protection and security were the most important things at their age. To be able to care for each other.

She stepped back. His arms loosened, but didn’t release her. She looked him in the eye. “This isn’t the first thing that’s happened.”

Anxiety appeared first as a slight hollow below his cheekbones, then in a trio of wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. Jarvis took hold of her arms and backed her into a chair. He knelt between her legs, enfolding strong arms around her waist. She felt his fingers intertwine behind her. Angie told him of the odd noises and footprints.

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

“You would’ve said it was just kids playing around the building.”

He remained quiet, peering from under the brim of his baseball cap. He leaned his head against her abdomen, dislodging the cap. She combed her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. He rose and took her hands, pulling her up. “Come on.”