We say good night, and as I turn to leave, my eye catches on the shirt. And the fluttering thought I couldn’t quite snag at the dinner is finally in my grasp. The shirt Marcus was wearing tonight is white, not blue. It was Nick who was wearing a pale blue shirt. And that means it was Nick whom Keira was confronting in the side yard before we all sat down for dinner.
What would they have had to discuss in such a heated way? Was she sharing her suspicions about Marcus and Hannah? I’m losing the ability to make sense of things.
Outside, the beautiful day has turned into an overcast evening, and despite the walkway lights on, the area along the path is mostly shrouded in darkness.
I’m halfway to the cottage when I see it—a large form, low to the ground and darting behind a shrub on the side of the path where the main lawn is. My heart jumps. Is it one of the dogs?
“Ginger,” I call out weakly, and then stronger a second time. How did she get out of the house?
But it can’t be her. I heard Gabe urging the dogs up to Ash’s room fifteen minutes ago.
And then it’s there again, shooting out from behind the shrub and across the lawn. It’s almost as big as Ginger but more lithe, with an extra-long snout. In a flash it disappears into the darkness.
It must be the coyote. I gulp for air and tear up the rest of the path. By the time I reach the cottage, my lungs are on fire. Before grasping the doorknob, I spin around and stare into the night, checking all around me. There’s no sign of any animal now, and all I can hear are the usual insect sounds from the treetops: katydid; she didn’t; she did; she didn’t.
Maybe it wasn’t a coywolf. Maybe only a possum or raccoon. Or it was nothing at all, simply all my fears metamorphosing into a darting shadow. But I can’t shake it from my mind—the fast dash across the grass, the ominous shape of the snout.
It feels like an omen. Telling me that in this serene, lovely place, a place I’ve always loved, more terrible things are in store for us.
20
Once I thrust open the door to the cottage, I find Gabe sitting in the middle of the couch, lost in his thoughts.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, reading the distress on my face.
“I think I saw the coyote near one of the shrubs. Or the coywolf—or whatever it’s called.”
“You’re kidding.” He makes a move for the door.
“Please, Gabe, don’t go out there. And besides, it’s gone now. It ran across the lawn toward the woods after it spotted me.”
“Damn, that must be what Marcus has been hearing. I’ll let my father know first thing in the morning.”
“Henry’s in bed, I take it?”
“Yeah, he barely stirred when I laid him down.”
“The movie seemed to cheer him up a little.”
“For now. Amanda called me this afternoon and said he’s been sounding morose when they talk, and she’s lobbying to drive out and pick him up before the week is out.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m partly tempted to say yes and that we’ll make up the vacation time with him later in the summer. It might actually be a good idea for him to skip the burial.”
“I think you’re right. He asked me earlier if Gee would be scared in the woods, so it’s clearly causing a lot of anxiety.”
“I’ll call her in the morning, then, and suggest she pick him up early Thursday.”
We’re communicating at least. Navigating regular parenting stuff. But there’s still a wall between us that’s hard to ignore.
“You going up now?” I ask.
“I might sit here for a minute, try to decompress from the day.”
What I want is for him to decompress with me. Spoon me in bed, stroke my hair, let me sleep in his arms.
“Okay, see you up there,” I say.
Swiveling back toward the door, I turn the lock.
“When you left the house, did you think to lock that door behind you?” Gabe asks.
“Yup. And that reminds me. I ran into Keira, who said Marcus was looking for you earlier.”
“Thanks.”
Upstairs, I dress for bed and dig out my phone from my purse, looking for news about the rest of my life. There’s a missed call from my mom, and a voice mail asking how the memorial service went. I wish I’d had time to check in with her today. But how do I even begin to explain—about the poem, about Hannah, about the poisoning?
As for work, my agent’s booked me for a voice-over job at the end of next week, which I appreciate, but I can’t help but note there’s nothing from Shawna, no Hey, sorry that other job turned into a shitshow, but we’d love you to record the next Liane Moriarty novel.
There are also a couple of texts from friends, who want to know how my vacation is going, and I’m reminded that I haven’t had a chance to tell any of them yet about Claire. Finally, I see a text from Billy Dean asking if I’ve bumped into Hannah again. It doesn’t surprise me—the guy never met a piece of gossip he didn’t love. But maybe there’s a chance he could be of help.
Yeah, unfortunately she turned up AGAIN, I text back. You have friends from USC, right? Anyone know her when she was there?
I’m thinking again of Claire’s comment—Our little USC graduate. Wendy learned Hannah had actually attended the school, but maybe Claire meant something else by her remark, that perhaps Hannah did something at college that wasn’t on the up-and-up.
On it, he replies.
Of course, I’ll end up having to pay Billy back somehow, probably in Moscow Mules. And that’s regardless of whether or not he manages to produce information. But at least I’m not sitting here doing nothing.
Before crawling between the sheets, I make a final run to the bathroom and as I cross the hall, I hear Gabe on his phone downstairs. I pick up the word vineyard, which makes me think it’s Marcus on the other end.
“Right, right,” Gabe says, his voice low.
There’s a long pause, Marcus clearly elaborating on a point. Twice Gabe attempts to interrupt him to no avail.
“Look,” he says finally. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The bottom line is that we now have the cushion we need.”
As relieved as I am that the sudden influx of cash will enable Gabe to deal with his work crisis, the idea leaves me slightly queasy. The newfound safety net exists only because Claire is dead.
Once I’m back in bed, sleep overtakes me quickly. But at around four, I’m woken by a nightmare in which a huge dog chews through not only my suitcase but also all the clothes packed inside, so I’m left naked, and then finally the animal bares its vicious teeth at me. And that’s when I bolt awake.
With my pulse racing, I yank the covers up to my chin and force my breaths to slow. Gabe’s snoring lightly beside me. After a moment I start to make out the shapes in the room: the dresser with the carved mirror above it, the slipper chair, the filmy white curtains fluttering a little in the breeze. There’s no Hound of the Baskervilles after me or my luggage.
I finally manage to fall back to sleep and wake again at close to seven. Leaving Gabe in bed, I dress quietly and creep down the stairs. Before heading into the kitchen, I tug back a curtain on one of the sitting room windows to see that it’s utterly gloomy out, the early morning sky gray and distended.