He shrugged. “I used to know all that, but I’ve, uh, kinda lost weight since then.” Before meeting her, he’d gone hungry a lot. “I do remember my sleeve length is thirty-three. I guess that doesn’t change.” He chuckled, but there was wistfulness in the laughter. “Funny, the things you remember.”
“I’ve got a measuring tape!” she blurted out. “I could measure you!” Too late, she thought better of her offer. Measuring someone required getting close. Touching them. “I mean,” she said, “I could let you use it to, you know, measure yourself.”
Seemingly unfazed, he nodded in agreement. “I guess I could do that.”
She nodded along. “Measure your waist and your neck, I guess?”
He continued nodding.
“And I’ll get you some, what, khaki pants? An oxford shirt maybe? For interviews?”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said. He grimaced. “I hate to keep taking your charity.”
She waved her hand in the air, dismissing his gratefulness. “I like doing it. It makes me feel good to help other people.”
He started to say something but stopped. The look on his face told her it was something she both wanted to hear and didn’t.
“What?” she asked, and felt her heart rate increase.
He gave her a rueful grin and shook his head. “Nothing.”
She was about to press, to insist he tell her what he was going to say. But something told her to leave it alone. Instead she said, “I’ll go find that measuring tape.”
She rose from her chair and went off to find it, coming back a few minutes later to hand it to him. She went to drop it into his hand and walk away clean. But when she reached out, he wrapped his fingers around her hand, holding her in place. Alarm bells went off inside her. He’d never gone so far as to make physical contact with her before. Eating in front of her was the most intimate thing he’d ever done. She met his eyes, and her elevated heart rate turned into a full-fledged pound. Had she made a mistake letting this stranger into her house? Was he going to do something to her? She tried, and failed, to remember the move they’d learned in class. What to do to throw off someone who has hold of your hand?
They blinked at each other, her breath gone thready in her throat. She felt the warmth of his hand holding hers, and realized that, though he was still touching her, he had relaxed his grip. He was not holding her in place; she could freely move away. But she stayed.
“You’re the only friend I have,” he said. “The only friend in the world.”
She thought about this. Their encounter in the spring, her resolve to help him, the conversations that resulted, each of them lingering longer and longer just to keep talking. Hers was the only number in his phone, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like that. Sometimes he called her just to talk. Sometimes she called him for the same reason. There was something about talking to her secret friend on her secret phone that made her feel more alive, her blood pounding in her veins with new fervor.
“Yes,” she said back to him. What she meant was, You are that for me as well. But she didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. He nodded his understanding, as if a bridge had been crossed over in that moment, but a bridge taking them to where, she couldn’t say. She didn’t dare try to guess.
Polly
She pulled into the driveway, noting that the number on the mailbox at the curb matched the house number that the detective had given her. He’d been here earlier to officially release the house so they could return. He’d left the back door open and a key on the kitchen table for her, he’d said so in a voicemail he’d left her when she had somehow missed his call. From the sound of his voice, he could just as well have been ordering a pizza instead of explaining how to get back into her daughter’s home after it had been cleared. Polly wasn’t sure that leaving the door to a potential crime scene unlocked was very wise. But she wasn’t one to question authority. And this cop in particular considered himself an authority. She could tell.
She let Barney out of the car and waited in the backyard as he sniffed around, then peed. She took a moment to orient herself, her eyes scanning the decent-size backyard, looking for a swing set, a playhouse, something that her granddaughter might’ve played with. But the yard was devoid of evidence that anyone lived there at all, save a half-empty water bottle that likely had fallen out of someone’s bag and been forgotten. There was an ornate cement bench that looked better suited to a cemetery than a yard, and several manicured areas, giving it a parklike feel. But a park no one ever came to. Completely encircled by woods, it was peaceful and secluded. Which was, Polly guessed, the draw for Norah. Barney flopped down in front of her, and she reached down and gave his ears a quick scratch. “Come on,” she said, and moved to the back door with her dog by her side.
She turned the knob and, sure enough, the door swung open. She let herself into her daughter’s kitchen and stood for a moment, looking around. Instead of a home kitchen, the room looked more like a set for a cooking show. Polly searched for something familiar, something that said her daughter lived there. She scanned the large austere kitchen once, then again, but nothing emerged. There was nothing homey or quaint or sentimental. Not a cookbook with a title she recognized, not a framed painting she’d seen in Norah’s old house, not even a name-brand food item that was familiar. It was as if her daughter had completely replaced the past with all new things, things that had nothing to do with her.
She resolved not to take any of this personally, not to make this about her. She was here for Violet. Her falling out with Norah long ago had nothing to do with her granddaughter’s need for her now. This was a new thing. That was old and best forgotten. And besides, Norah wasn’t there, so it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to think of her at all. Norah could deal with her own poor choices. And Polly would help Violet deal with what those choices had meant for her.
But first she had to hide the money she’d withdrawn on her way out of town. “Wait here,” she instructed the dog, then darted back out to her car. She rooted around in the back seat for the bag of cash she’d stowed out of sight, just in case. She couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that nagged at her for taking the money and leaving town, but it was her money. She’d done nothing wrong, though she doubted Calvin would see it that way. Calvin, when he discovered she’d nearly cleaned out their bank account, would be unhappy. He’d be furious. She braced herself for that call and wondered how long it would be until he figured out he was dangerously close to being broke.
She’d considered turning off her phone, putting it into one of Norah’s drawers, and forgetting about it entirely. Letting this stay with Violet be a fresh start, hiding out here at this suspected crime scene. She could leave her old life behind, use the bag of money to start a new one. Hire an attorney to sort out a divorce from Calvin. Once her other money—the account she was pretty sure Calvin didn’t know about—was safely moved to a new and even more secure account, she might just do that.
She walked quickly through the house holding the bag, feeling the weight of the cash growing heavier with each room she passed through. In each room, she contemplated hiding places, somewhere nondescript, somewhere Calvin—if he ever found her, God forbid—would not look. In the den, her eyes came to rest on the fireplace, a massive stone-tiled display that took up most of the wall and looked like it belonged in some Tuscan vineyard, not a suburban McMansion. On the mantel were two gigantic urns meant to look like wine casks. Polly set down the bag and walked over to the front windows to make sure that Violet’s stepmother had not arrived to drop her off early. She saw no cars in the driveway and none approaching the house.