he didn’t want to worry her, either. Surely, if he’d been wandering around the backyard stark naked, he’d remember it, wouldn’t he?
But the last thing he remembered of the morning was being in the bathroom, naked. He’d showered, and was about to shave, and then—
The black hole in the day, as if lightning had come out of nowhere and struck him unconscious.
Glen’s mind was churning. Why was he even thinking of lying to Anne? Why not just tell her he was missing part of the day?
The answer came to him as quickly as the question: because she would insist he go right back to the hospital, despite what Gordy Farber had told him this afternoon. Besides, nothing had happened anyway.
Or had it? What if he really had gone outside, and Joyce Cottrell had seen him? Why on earth would he have done something like that? He’d been asleep on the bathroom floor.
Then he spotted his razor, still lying in the sink, exactly where he’d left it this morning. Except now he could see that it wasn’t his razor at all; his had been five years old, its plastic case scratched and stained.
The Norelco he was staring at now was brand-new.
Where could it have come from?
Could he have been sleepwalking? Could he have actually gone out and bought a new one? But surely he couldn’t have done that naked, could he? He would have wound up in jail! So he must have gotten dressed, gone out, and bought a new razor. But that was nuts, too! He’d been naked when he woke up!
A sharp terror closed in on him. He was losing his mind! Maybe he should call Gordy Farber again. But there wasn’t anything wrong with him — the doctor had already told him so!
“Glen?”
Anne was at the door now; he could feel her watching him, and when he glanced into the mirror, he could see the worry in her eyes. Making up his mind, he picked up the gleaming new shaver and turned around.
“I’ll bet Joyce has been fantasizing about me for years,” he began, improvising a story even as he spoke. “I suspect she saw me out there chucking my razor, poured herself another gin, and mentally stripped me naked. The wish is often father to the thought, isn’t it?”
“Your razor?” Anne asked, confused. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Now the words came more quickly. “I dropped mine. So I took it out and threw it in the garbage.” He held up the new shaver. “And I went out and bought myself a new one.”
“Stark naked?” Anne demanded. “You took it out stark naked and threw it in the trash? Then what did you do, head out shopping with no clothes on?”
“I was wearing a bathrobe,” Glen insisted. What the hell was happening? How had he gotten himself into this? And what if she went out and looked in the trash barrel? “I mean, I was wearing a bathrobe out in the yard. I was dressed when I went down to Freddy Meyer’s.” At least that part wasn’t made up! He had been dressed when he’d gone to the Broadway Market that afternoon. As Anne continued to stare at him as if he were speaking in some strange, incomprehensible tongue, he offered her the shaver. “See? New shaver.”
Anne felt totally disoriented. When she’d first told him about Joyce’s call, she knew something was wrong, and the story he’d just told sounded totally far-fetched! In the years she and Glen had been married, plenty of electric shavers had given out on Glen. And she knew what Glen did with them.
He dropped them in the wastebasket. He did not take them out to the backyard and throw them directly into one of the garbage barrels!
Saying nothing, Anne went down the back stairs of the house, out the back door, and across the yard to the trash containers. Lifting the lid of the first one, she peered down into the depths of the barrel. And there it was.
Shattered — broken into a dozen pieces — but unmistakably the remains of a ruined electric shaver. A shaver that could not possibly have been that badly broken simply from having been dropped into a sink. What was going on?
She headed back to the house, entering the kitchen just in time to hear her son’s excited voice.
“Hey, Dad,” Kevin was shouting up the front stairs. “Where’d this come from? Is it for me?”
Moving quickly through the kitchen and dining room, she found Kevin standing in the foyer, holding a fishing pole in his hand.
“Where did that come from?” she asked.
Kevin grinned mischievously. “Down in the basement,” he said. “I was stickin’ my gym clothes in the wash and I found it. Where’d it come from?”
Anne was still gazing at the fishing pole when she heard Glen speak from the head of the stairs.
“I bought it,” he said.
Anne turned to stare up at him. There was something strange in his voice, just as there had been when he told her about the razor. “You bought a fishing rod? But you—”
Glen started down the stairs, determined not to let Anne see his confusion, the panic that was creeping up on him as he searched his memory for some clue as to where the fishing rod might have come from. But there was nothing — no more memory of the new fishing rod than of the new shaver. It will come back to me, he told himself. Sooner or later, it will come back to me. Forcing a grin as he came to the bottom of the stairs, he slipped an arm around his wife and held her close. “Don’t you remember?” he asked. “Gordy Farber said I have to get a hobby. So I chose one today. I’m going to go fishing.”
Fishing. The word echoed eerily in Anne’s mind. Only a few hours ago Sheila Harrar had been telling her how her son had disappeared after setting out to go fishing.
Fishing with Richard Kraven.
And now here was Glen, saying he was taking it up as a hobby. Of course, it was nothing more than a coincidence, but even so, the thought made her shudder. It would probably be only a passing fancy, something Glen would lose interest in within a week or so. And if he didn’t, so what? Despite her perfectly rational arguments, she knew that her first instinct when she came into the house a few minutes ago had been right.
Something in this house was different.
Her husband was different.
CHAPTER 30
Joyce Cottrell’s life had not gone exactly as she planned it. By the time she was looking at her fiftieth birthday from the wrong direction, she had given up all hope of a lasting marriage and a family of her own. Her few relatives were all gone. Her phone almost never rang, and she rarely spoke to anyone save the people she worked with at Group Health on Capitol Hill. Her parents had left her the house she’d grown up in, but not quite enough money to get by on, and a career beyond making a home for the husband and children she’d expected to have had never been among the few plans she’d laid out for herself. She’d been married briefly but when she’d come home to her parents after Jim Cottrell left her six months after the wedding, a job hadn’t been high on Joyce’s priority list.
She had returned home to lick her wounds and pick up the broken pieces of her emotional life.
Now, almost thirty years later, she was still at it. Her parents, who had provided refuge during the long months when she was too ashamed of her failure even to leave the house, had finally died. Joyce’s few friends had long ago tired of her woeful tale of betrayal, and stopped calling her.
The years had stretched into decades, and though she eventually secured a job as a receptionist on the swing shift at Group Health, she had also turned slowly into a strange kind of recluse. While she rarely left her house except to go to work, trash did not build up in Joyce Cottrell’s house as it did in those of older recluses, nor did paint begin to peel, or furniture grow stained and threadbare. Joyce Cottrell kept her house meticulously clean, immediately redecorating any room in which paint began to fade, choosing colors and fabrics from catalogs, finally venturing forth to make her purchases only when the newly redecorated room was complete in her mind down to the last detail.
Over the years, she had become expert in stripping paint from old wood, paper from old plaster, and worn fabric from the excellent frames with which her parents had furnished the house. She had become even more expert
