25

Gus sits again with the book. He tries to focus not on the story, but rather on the leftover vibes of a woman who once traversed these pages. The lights are out in the house but for the one lamp over the couch where he sits. He just finished the tofu rice bowl he picked up on the way home from work. Maybe too much soy sauce. There’s a salty taste in his glands. He hears the collective whir of the neighborhood’s air conditioning outside. He hears Ivy breathing at the other end of the couch. He listens for more, but hears not even another heartbeat— inside or out. He’d like to hear the heartbeat of Viveca Canning. He touches the lines of The Secret Garden, grazing the words with his fingertips. He sees the woman. She’s a familiar face, this most social of socialites. Her face has appeared on the covers of glossy magazines. She’s that woman on the news, the one who’s always raising money for good causes, the one with the pastel voice who enunciates her words with hope and an almost inaccessible grace. Almost. But she’s accessible. People adored her. Gus can access her somehow. There she is, her hair as white as clouds. Gray streaks at her temples. Her greenish-hazel eyes stare back at him, happy, beneficent. This is not a vision, per se, just her face as he has seen it before.

A light breeze stirs. But not a door or window is open. And yet the breeze persists, softly circling him, and the pages turn. Or feel like they’re turning. The wind rises, first a whisper at his neck, and then a whip, a storm, a monsoon. The pages flip furiously in his hands. There’s an urgency to escape, to outrun the danger. And she’s running in the shadows. But she can’t outrun the storm, and there’s nothing Gus can do to help her. Instead, she turns to a wall of rock, braces herself, brings her shawl to her face, and waits for the ruin to pass. She hides there behind the gossamer shield, and then she’s a shadow, herself, a silhouette on the mountain. She must leave and she must leave soon. This is she and her endurance. This is she and her intensity. This is she who survives and transcends and makes this a beautiful afternoon.

Her kids are coming home from school. They’re young. She’s young. She throws her arms open to both of them, and they rush in for an embrace, and they stay there, holding each other close, and Viveca Canning’s smile is on fire. In the house, she and her husband sit at opposite ends of the table, the children between them. And they talk about school. And about church. And they say a blessing. Gus strains to listen but can’t hear the words. He sees lips moving in unison, and he hears a ring of whispers rise from the table, but nothing else of the prayer. Finally, Gus hears “Amen,” and then the slamming of a door that echoes from the end of a long, dark tunnel. Again, a tunnel. Gus knows, even in this trance, that the tunnel is most likely his own, mostly represents his own uncertainty about this murder and the vast ground he must cover between the known and the unknown. He watches the family. The children exchange mischievous glances. The boy launches a pea at his sister. She kicks him under the table and he laughs. The parents barely acknowledge each other, Viveca absorbing the sight of her children, seeing them as her own salvation, her husband only looking at the food on his plate. Then the windows explode.

Gus recoils. He slams the book shut.

That man. Her husband.

Gus picks up a vibe right now as his fingers linger on the book cover. The message is ringing in his ears. Viveca Canning’s husband paid for something with his life.

Mills picks up the phone.

“Your girl never showed,” Powell says, sidestepping hello.

“What girl?”

“You know, the reporter . . .”

He puts a hand to his forehead. “Aw, Jesus Fucking Christ,” he groans. “You gotta be kidding me. How long have you been waiting?” “About thirty minutes.”

“Shit. She should be there. Let me call her. Stand down for a few minutes.”

He can’t reach Aaliyah Jones. He dials her several times and gets sent to voice mail each time. Kelly is clearing the dishes. She points to the coffee maker and he nods. He calls Powell back. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Run by her house and—oh, shit, I don’t have her address . . .” “Never mind. I’ll run her DL,” Powell says. “Spell her first name.” “Man, I owe you.” He spells Aaliyah. “You sure you don’t mind doing this?”

“I said I’d run her DL and find her address. I didn’t say I’d go over there.”

“Come on, I’ll make it up to you, Jan.”

She scoffs. “What’s wrong with you, Dude?”

“Nothing. It’s something . . . with Kelly.”

“Something?”

“Yeah, I can’t talk about it.”

“Uh-huh. Is she okay?”

“I said I can’t talk about it.”

“OK, Alex. Forget it. I’m already fifteen minutes late for my date. A girl needs to get laid. I’ll enlist Preston for this little reconnaissance mission.”

He can hear her car peeling out. “Thanks,” he tells her.

When he’s off the phone, he pours himself a cup of decaf and turns to Kelly. She’s asleep on the couch. He doesn’t know whether to throw a blanket over her and leave her there, or to gently carry her to the bedroom. He stares at his resting wife, his masterpiece, and he doesn’t know what to do.