Mayhew flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Okay. We’ve got a basic time frame for the break-in based on when the caterers called 911.” He pecked at some keys and Helen disappeared from the monitor. The catering van went from making a sharp turn to pulling into the motorcourt. Mayhew skipped back the footage until he found what he wanted. Three individuals at the bottom of the driveway. They were far enough away to be indistinct, just dark, menacing blurs making their way toward the house.
Claire felt every hair on the back of her neck rise up. This was actually something that had taken place at her home.
She noted the time on the video. While the burglars were passing the parking pad in front of the house, Claire had been standing by the small, non-denominational chapel in the cemetery wondering why she hadn’t died in that alley with her husband.
“Here we go,” Mayhew said.
Claire felt a sharp pain in her chest as the blurs turned into men. Seeing it made it real, something she had to deal with. It was just as she had been told: three African American males in ski masks and gloves jogged up the driveway. They were all dressed in black. Their heads scanned left and right in a coordinated pattern. One of them held a crowbar in his hand. Another had a gun.
Nolan said, “Looks pretty professional to me.”
Mayhew agreed. “This ain’t their first rodeo.”
Claire studied the men walking so confidently toward her mudroom door. Paul had ordered all the doors and windows from Belgium. They were solid mahogany with four-point locks that were easily bypassed when a crowbar smashed the leaded glass and one of the burglars stuck his arm through the window and turned the thumb latch.
Her mouth went dry. She felt tears come into her eyes. This was her mudroom. This was her door, the same door she used countless times every day. The same door Paul came through when he got home from work.
Used to come through.
She said, “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Claire walked up the stairs. She wiped her eyes. Her mouth opened. She forced herself to draw in breath, to let it go, to fight the hysteria living in the pit of her stomach.
Paul’s stairs. Paul’s workbench. Paul’s cars.
She went through the garage. She kept going to the stairs in the back and climbed them as quickly as her heels would allow. She didn’t realize where she was going until she found herself standing in the middle of Paul’s office.
There was the couch he napped on. There was the chair he sat in to read or watch TV. There was the painting she’d given him for their third wedding anniversary. There was his drafting table. There was his desk, which he’d designed so that no cords were hanging down. The blotter was pristine. The outbox held neatly stacked papers with Paul’s angular handwriting. There was his computer. There was his pencil set. There was a framed photograph of Claire from more years ago than she could count. Paul had taken it with a Nikon that had belonged to his mother.
Claire picked up the picture. They were at a football game. Paul’s jacket was wrapped around her shoulders. She could recall thinking how warm it felt, how reassuring. The camera had captured her laughing, mouth open, head tilted back. Ecstatically, irrevocably happy.
They’d both gone to Auburn University in Alabama, Paul because it had one of the top architectural programs in the country, Claire because it was far enough away from home to be meaningful. That she ended up with a boy who had grown up less than twenty miles from her childhood home was just further proof that no matter how far you ran, you always ended up back where you started.
Paul had been a breath of fresh air compared to the other boys Claire dated in college. He was so sure of himself, so sure of what he wanted to do and where he was going. His undergrad had been paid by a full ride scholarship and graduate school was taken care of by the money he inherited when his parents died. Between a small life insurance policy, proceeds from the sale of the farm, and the out-of-court settlement from the trucking company that had owned the eighteen-wheeler that killed the Scotts, there was more than enough money for tuition and living expenses.
Still, Paul had worked the entire time he was in school. He had grown up on a working farm, where he was expected to do chores at the crack of dawn. In ninth grade, he’d won a scholarship to a military boarding school in southeast Alabama. Between the two home lives, routine had been drilled into his system. He was incapable of being idle. One of his jobs during college was at Tiger Rags, a university bookstore. The other was as a tutor in the math lab.
Claire was an art history major. She had never been good at math. Or at least she’d never tried to be, which was the same thing. She could vividly remember the first time she’d sat down with Paul and gone over one of her assignments.
“Everyone knows you’re beautiful,” he’d told her, “but no one knows that you’re clever.”
Clever.
Anybody could be smart. It took a special somebody to be clever.
Claire returned the photograph to its spot. She sat down at Paul’s desk. She rested her arms where his arms used to rest. She closed her eyes and tried to find a trace of his scent. She took a deep breath until her lungs ached, then slowly sighed it out. She was almost forty years old. She didn’t have any children. Her husband was dead. Her best friends were probably drinking margaritas at the bar down the street and gossiping about how washed out she had looked at the funeral.
Claire shook her head. She had the rest of her life to think about how lonely she was. What she needed to do right now was get through today. Or at least the next hour.
She picked up the telephone and dialed Adam Quinn’s cell phone number. Paul had known Adam longer than he’d known Claire. They’d been dorm-mates their first year at Auburn. They’d gotten their architectural degrees together. Adam had been best man at their wedding. More importantly, Adam and Paul tended to use the same people to manage their lives.
He picked up on the first ring. “Claire? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she told him, but only now that she had something concrete to do did she feel that way. “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know who our insurance agent is?”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.” He sounded confused, probably because this was the last question he expected from Claire on the day of her husband’s funeral. “Her name is Pia Lorite.” He spelled the last name. “I can text you her info.”
“I don’t have a cell phone,” Claire realized. “The Snake Man took it. I mean, the guy who—”
“I’ll email it to you.”
Claire was about to tell him she couldn’t access her email, either, but then she remembered her iPad. It was an older model. Paul kept threatening to replace it with a laptop and she kept saying it was fine and now she would probably pack it up to take with her in thirty-odd years when she went into a nursing home.
“Claire?” Adam’s voice was muffled. She gathered he was walking into another room. How many phone calls had there been between them where Adam had gone into another room? Half a dozen, maybe.
So meaningless. So stupid.
He said, “Listen, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Thank you.” She felt tearful again, and she hated herself for it because Adam was the last person she should be tearful with.