Every once in a while, you attain perfection. Water the correct temperature, lavender-scented bubbles gently brushing your chin, inflatable pillow tucked behind your neck at precisely the correct angle, sea salt and orchid candle flickering aromatically on top of the vanity. I adjusted the hot water tap to drizzle directly on the mosquito bite blossoming on my ankle – wondering what any self-respecting mosquito would be doing out in mid-November, anyway – ooched down a bit more and closed my eyes.
Someone tapped lightly on the bathroom door.
Keeping my eyes shut, I called out, ‘You better be Paul.’
The doorknob rattled. A breath of cool air brushed my cheek as my husband eased into the room and closed the door behind him. ‘So, do we believe Peter or not?’ Paul asked from his seat on top of the toilet lid.
‘Shhhh,’ I said. ‘Turn on the bathroom fan.’
‘Peter’s not going to hear you,’ Paul said as he reached out and did as he was told. ‘Passed his door just now. He’s snoring like a freight train.’
Nevertheless, I waited while the vintage exhaust fan revved up to jet plane decibel level before answering. ‘Peter certainly has an answer for everything. So either it’s the most carefully constructed alibi in the history of the world, or he’s telling the truth.’
‘Or a mixture of the two,’ Paul said. ‘We always assumed both Peter and Trish’s parents were dead. That neither of them had any living relatives. I can see why they bonded, but I’m finding it hard to believe that Peter knows so little about Trish’s life before they met in Santa Fe.
‘I know where you went to first grade, how you once got sick eating watermelon, and even about the time your dad took away the car keys when he caught you smoking Marlboros in the bathroom.’
‘Yeah,’ I said with a grin. ‘I still can’t believe I thought he couldn’t smell the smoke if I stood in the bathtub and blew it out the window. But I had a fairly happy childhood. Nothing to run away from. Nothing that I’m struggling to forget.’ I eased the half-drawn shower curtain aside, peeked around it and smiled up at my husband. ‘Besides, I’m a chatterbox.’
‘There is that,’ he said. After a moment’s thought, he added, ‘You know Trish better than I do, but she always seemed to keep herself to herself.’
‘I do,’ I agreed, glancing at him sideways from my semi-submerged position. ‘And if she’s keeping secrets from Peter, too, it must be because she’s afraid that knowing about them would put his life in danger, as well as hers.’ I paused to turn off the tap with my foot. ‘She’d been hiding out for years, so the stress must have been unbearable. Remember what she said to me on the phone?’
‘“I just can’t do this any more.”’
I nodded. ‘And until you so rudely interrupted, I was lying here racking my brain, trying to remember something – anything – she might have mentioned about her early life. Until last Monday in the car, there was practically nothing, except a casual mention of having attended a Fleetwood Mac concert at the Hollywood Bowl when’ – I drew wet quote marks in the air – ‘Stevie still had her voice.’
‘But now we know’ – Paul ticked them off on his fingers – ‘that up until at least August of 1997 Trish had a father, mother and sister and that they lived in the Syracuse, New York area. That six years earlier, when she was fourteen, she quarreled with her mother and ran away to New York City where she worked for a time. And we can also assume she must have gone back home at some point, if only long enough to fake a jump off a bridge into Onondaga Creek.’
‘Hmmmm,’ I said, dreamily. ‘New York City has no lack of bridges for jumping-off purposes. I’ll bet she was living at home then.’
‘Or visiting, maybe,’ Paul said.
‘I wish I could talk to her,’ I said.
‘Everyone does, sweetheart. Especially the police, I imagine.’
‘Peter told me Trish was wriggling her toes, responding to commands. Maybe there’s some way we can communicate,’ I said, trying to sound more upbeat than I felt.
‘Early days yet, Hannah. Early days. Injured brains can’t be rushed.’
‘If only she hadn’t encrypted the files on that damn flash drive.’ I smacked my hand against the surface of the water, causing a mini tidal wave.
‘Whatever it is – and it has to be serious if the Feds are involved – it’ll all come out eventually,’ Paul said reasonably. ‘Either when the case is filed in federal court, like Trish expected, or after you turn the flash drive over to that New York Times reporter.’ He paused to brush water droplets off his chinos. ‘You are going to do that, aren’t you, Hannah?’
‘Hey! I’ve done my homework, buster. I have David Reingold’s work address, home address, phone number, email address and Twitter handle all written down. His shoe size, too. If the Feds don’t come through, I’m ready to rock and roll. I keep my promises.’ I made a shooing motion with my hand, smiling up at him so he’d know I wasn’t just being bitchy. ‘Now go away and let me think.’
Paul got to his feet. ‘Are you going to need the car tomorrow?’
I nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. I’m planning to visit Trish in the hospital. Peter made sure I got added to her visitors’ list.’
‘No problem.’ He leaned over to caress my shoulder. ‘I’m going to bed. Are you coming?’
‘As soon as I work a couple of things out,’ I said dreamily. ‘Ruth believes that hot baths increase the flow of dopamine to your brain, helping you relax and make insightful connections.’
‘Your sister is sometimes full of bologna,’ he said with a grin.
I studied my fingertips, waggled them in his direction. ‘They’re not even pruney yet. See?’
Paul twisted the doorknob and stepped halfway out into the hallway. ‘I shall leave you to your insightful connections, then. But don’t take too long.’
‘Why Professor Ives,’ I drawled, eyelashes fluttering. ‘Someone might assume you have ulterior motives.’
He waggled his eyebrows. ‘You might very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment.’