how easily Hurley—and presumably someone else—has already managed to get past such locks. Then I remember the broken and opened basement window in my burned-down house and decide I should check to make sure all my windows are secure, too. There are two in the living room, one in the kitchen, and one in the bathroom, and I make quick work of checking them all, relieved to find each one firmly closed and locked. That leaves just my bedroom window, which is located on the back wall of the cottage. Since I sometimes find myself having to sleep during daytime hours after a night spent up answering calls, my bedroom doesn’t often see the light of day. Unlike the other windows, this one is mostly concealed by drapes for both darkness and privacy, though I notice a small gap up the middle where the two sides don’t quite meet. I walk over and push the drapes aside to check the lock. Instead I end up screaming because there is a face on the other side of the glass looking in.
Chapter 30
My scream is an instinctive one, brought on by the shock of my discovery. Unfortunately it precedes my awareness of who the face belongs to, so by the time I realize I don’t have to scream, I already have. Hoover reacts instantly, leaping from the bed and barking like crazy, turning around in circles because he isn’t sure exactly what it is he’s barking at.
On the other side of my window, looking in, is Hurley. Though my scream was a short one, it was enough to make him wince and now he’s holding a finger to his lips to shush me. But it’s too late. All the hullaballoo has spooked Rubbish, who is no longer on top of the bed, though I have no idea where he disappeared to. David has awakened, too, and I can hear him out in the living room behind me, cussing and thrashing about as he tries to get up from the couch. I turn away from the window for a few seconds and holler out to him, “I’m sorry David. I didn’t mean to startle you. I had a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”
When I turn back to the window, Hurley is gone. Letting the drapes fall back into place, I head out to the living room to make sure David is okay. I find him sitting on the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I had this nightmare and in it I was screaming, and then suddenly I was awake and I really
David looks up at me through sleepy eyes and he reaches up and takes the hand I have on his shoulder. He sandwiches it in between both of his and says, “In all the years we were together I never heard you yell out like that in your sleep.”
Not knowing what to say since technically I
“I think it’s this new job of yours,” David says. “You’re dealing with death every day, crimes half of the time, and I know from my med school experience that cutting on dead people isn’t much fun. Plus what you’re doing is dangerous. You’ve already been attacked by killers a couple of times and that’s got to leave you feeling rattled.”
“I like my new job,” I tell him.
David shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be working at all. You know my feelings on the matter.”
I do indeed. We had several discussions during our marriage about whether or not I should continue working and often as not they ended up in a standoff. But how he felt about it then has no bearing on the here and now since he no longer has a say in what I do. I pull my hand away from his, suddenly uncomfortable with where this conversation is headed.
“At least then you were working because you wanted to,” he says. “Now you’re working because you have to.”
“Well, I have rent to pay, and food to put on the table,” I tell him. “They can be powerful motivators.”
“You shouldn’t have to work at a job that makes you miserable. Why don’t you go back to the hospital? I hear there are a couple of positions open in the ER.”
“I can’t go back to the hospital because everyone there looks at me with pity and embarrassment, thanks to you,” I tell him, growing irritated. “And my current job does
“Bull.”
“It doesn’t,” I insist.
“The true test of love for a vocation is whether or not you’d do it if you didn’t have to. So are you telling me that if you had enough money that you didn’t have to work, you’d still keep this stupid job?”
“Don’t call my job stupid,” I snap. “And yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re just being arbitrary because you’re mad at me. You didn’t even give the question any serious thought.”
He’s right about one thing. I’m pretty pissed at him at the moment. And it couldn’t be better timing. All of my earlier waning on the topic of our marriage had blinded me to the harsh realities of our relationship. No matter how attracted I might be to David physically, our incompatibilities are simply too big to overcome. Skirmishes like the one we are having now occurred off and on throughout our marriage, a series of passive-aggressive battles as each of us tried to bring the other around to our own point of view. Despite the fact that these skirmishes escalated considerably during the latter months of our marriage, that in and of itself might not have been enough to destroy our relationship. But David’s affair and the fact that he got his girlfriend pregnant, definitely is. Yes, I still find David attractive physically and yes, I still care for him as a person. But that’s where it ends. In a flash of clarity I know our marriage is over, as dead as any client on my autopsy table.
And with this realization comes a stroke of brilliance, an idea so perfect I can’t believe it took me this long to think of it.
“I do love my job, David, and I’ll prove it to you. As I recall, that house next door is worth close to a million in today’s market, and that’s just the house alone, not the contents that were in it. I also know what it and the contents were insured for. And I can guarantee you that I’m going to take my half of that insurance money and keep it for myself. That should give me enough to live off of for a good while if I don’t have a job.
“But I will have a job, David, the same job I have now. And do you know why? Because I like it. I like the puzzle-solving aspects, I like the scientific aspects, and I like the people I work with.”
Whereas before he looked amused by our conversation, he now looks mad as hell. “You’re just being spiteful,” he says.
“I think I’m being practical.”
He shakes his head, his face tightening with anger. “I can’t believe you’ve become such a vindictive bitch,” he snarls. “I just don’t get you anymore, Mattie.”
“I know you don’t. David. You never have.”
I spin on my heel and march back to my bedroom, Hoover following close behind. As soon as we are both in the room, I slam the door closed. I walk over to the window and part the curtains again, but Hurley is no longer there. A small part of me wonders if he ever really was there, or if my mind just conjured up his image. But I don’t really believe that. He was there, and I want to know why.
That’s when I realize I could call him on the throwaway phone, but it’s in my purse, which is out in the living room. And after the very dramatic and emphatic exit I just made, I can’t go back out there; it would undermine the entire performance. Besides, the walls of this cottage aren’t that thick and I’m afraid David would be able to hear anything I say on the phone, even through a closed door. It’s not that I care if David knows I’m talking to Hurley, I just don’t want the aggravation I fear will come with it.
Resigned to waiting until morning, I crawl back in between the covers and I’m happily sandwiched between my furry partners minutes later. Apparently decisive anger is good for me because I’m asleep in no time.
When I awaken early the next morning to bright sunlight trying to slink its way around the corners of my drapes, it seems a good omen. At least until I try to get out of bed. That’s when I discover that I can barely move. My back muscles feel tighter than the sphincters of Green Bay residents during a Packers-Vikings game, and my legs are achy, tremulous, and shaky. I roll onto my side and push myself into a sitting position, groaning the entire time.
