moments before going on into the kitchen to brew some coffee. When she returned to the living room, two mugs in hand, Alan was sitting up, blinking sleep from his eyes. She didn’t know the details of the dreams he’d been having just before he woke up, but judging from how his penis lifted the sheet up between his legs, they hadn’t been chaste.
Were they about Isabelle or me? Marisa found herself wondering.
He bunched up the bedclothes onto his lap and blushed, but he didn’t look away.
Me, she realized. He’s been dreaming about me.
The realization both excited and scared her. She sat down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and placed the two mugs beside her. Alan reached for her hands and she wasn’t sure if he was simply comforting her as he had last night, or if he was about to draw her to him on the sofa.
What about Isabelle? she wanted to ask him, not sure she even wanted to know.
But before she could speak, before he could reveal his intentions, before she could find out if this impulse toward intimacy came from his heart or from what had sprung up between his legs when he woke, the doorbell rang. They both jumped, starting with a guilt she knew neither of them should be feeling. Alan let go of her hands.
“I, uh, I’m not wearing anything,” he said.
Marisa couldn’t resist making a small joke. “Not even a bow tie?” she asked. The small grin he returned helped diffuse the awkwardness of the moment. “Do you want me to answer that?” she added.
“If you don’t mind.”
As she went to get the door, Alan fled into his bedroom, trailing a sheet. Marisa hoped whoever this was wouldn’t take long. Last night’s indecision had fled and she was determined to grasp the moment as it arose. But when she opened the door it was to find two strangers in waiting in the hall. They both wore dark suits that seemed to have been bought off the same rack. The smaller man had dark hair combed back from his forehead and a thin mustache that followed the contour of his upper lip, giving him the outdated air of a forties ladies’ man. His companion had short brown hair and broad, placid features that seemed at odds with the sharp intensity of his gaze. The smaller man, standing to her right, held up a billfold to show his identification.
“Detective Michael Thompson, ma’am,” he said, “of the Newford Police Department.” He nodded to his companion. “This is Detective Roger Davis. We’re looking for a Mr. Alan Grant of this address.
Would he be available?”
“What’s going on?” Marisa asked. “What do you want with Alan?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the detective assured her. “We have a few questions for Mr. Grant, that’s all.”
“Questions about what?” Alan asked, coming up behind Marisa. He’d changed into jeans and a shirt, but was still barefoot.
“Just a few routine questions concerning an ongoing investigation,” Thompson said. “If you’d like to finish getting dressed, sir, we’ll drive you down to the precinct.”
“Can’t you tell me what this is all about?”
“We’d prefer to deal with this at the precinct, sir.”
“I’m coming with you,” Marisa said.
When Alan gave her a grateful look, she realized that he didn’t want to be alone on this, whatever it was about. It gave her a good feeling that she could be here for him.
“Would that be a problem, officers?” Alan asked.
Both men shook their head.
“Not at all, sir,” Thompson said. “Do you mind if we wait inside while you get ready?”
“Please, come in.”
The smaller detective made his way to the sofa and sat down while his companion drifted across the room to stand by the window. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, but Marisa got the definite impression that he wasn’t missing a thing. Pillow on the sofa. The sheet Alan hadn’t wrapped himself in bunched up on the floor. The open bedroom door through which he could see the bed with its rumpled bedclothes. She wished she’d taken the time to put some clothes on herself, rather than be standing here in Alan’s shirt.
“We won’t be long,” Alan said.
“No problem,” Thompson assured him.
Marisa followed Alan into the bedroom, where she collected her clothes. She paused at the doorway to look at Alan where he sat on the edge of the bed putting on a pair of socks. She held the bundle tight against her chest, wishing it were Alan she was holding, that Alan was hugging her back.
“What do you think it’s about?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But it can’t be good. They don’t take you in for questioning when it’s only an unpaid parking ticket or something else as innocuous as that. Still we should take comfort in the fact that they obviously don’t think we’re dangerous or they’d never have let us out of their sight, even to get dressed.”
“But you haven’t
Alan shook his head. “Not that I know.”
“Then why—”
“We’re keeping them waiting. You should go get dressed.”
“I know,” Marisa said. “But this whole business is giving me the creeps. Why can’t they just tell us what it’s all about?” She hesitated, then asked, “You don’t think it’s got anything to do with my leaving George, do you?”
Alan gave her a thin smile. “There’s no law against leaving your husband—not unless you killed him first.”
“Ha ha.”
“Just get dressed, Marisa. We’ll find out what’s going on when we get down to the precinct.”
“I don’t see how you can be so calm.”
Alan shrugged. “I’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”
But maybe that won’t make any difference, Marisa thought. As she stood there looking at him, every miscarriage of justice that she’d ever heard about reared up in her mind, tormenting her with the possibilities of what might be waiting for them at the precinct. Just last week she’d read about a man accused of molesting his niece. He’d been proven innocent—the girl had admitted that she’d made the story up to get some attention from her own parents—but according to the article, the stigma of the accusation still clung to the man and the whole sorry affair had opened a breach in the family that showed no signs of being diminished. But now wasn’t the time to bring anything like that up, she realized.
“I guess I’ll go get dressed” was all she said.
“Things will work out,” Alan told her.
She nodded.
“But if anything does happen when we’re at the precinct—I mean, if they decide to hold me or whatever—I don’t want you to think that it changes anything. You’re still welcome to stay here. You’ll have to get someone else to help you pick up your things, that’s all.”
“I don’t even want to think along those lines.”
“But just in case.”
Marisa sighed. “Fine. Just in case. But that’s not going to happen.”
“I sure as hell hope not.”
He might look calm, Marisa realized, but inside he was feeling just as worried as she was. She straightened her back, determined to put on as good a face herself. If he could do it, when he was the one the police wanted to question, then she could do it too.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” she said.
She went into the bathroom to get dressed herself and was out again in record time, having paused only long enough to put on a touch of lipstick.
Come midmorning, Rolanda was still sitting beside her bed, watching Cosette sleep. She’d left once to go downstairs to cancel her morning’s appointments and get herself a coffee. That had been over an hour ago. The coffee was long finished and Cosette still slept—if what she was doing was sleeping.
