When I stand and try to walk, it feels like the year my mother made me wear my Halloween costume over my snowsuit because we got ten inches of snow the night before. I can hardly move.
I waddle my way to the bedroom door, open it with a grimace because reaching for the knob makes my upper back scream with pain, and look out at the couch. It’s empty and the sheets have been folded up atop the pillow and left in a neat little pile at one end. I shuffle out and look in the kitchen and bathroom, but they are empty too. Apparently David is up and gone, and I wonder if he’s already over at Izzy’s for breakfast. Then I remember that I never told him about the invite. I look out the window and see the hearse is still parked outside so I know he couldn’t have gone far.
I hobble over to the front door and let Hoover out for his morning ablutions, watching him from the porch and admiring his ability to squat and hunch. The warming trend we had is definitely gone and despite a bright, sunny sky, the air has a bitter bite to it. I glance through the trees toward my old house, wondering if David is over there, but all I can see are bits and pieces of the few charred parts of the structure that are still standing. When Hoover comes back inside, I head for the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower and a handful of ibuprofen will make things better.
They do, but only minimally.
When I arrive at Izzy and Dom’s for breakfast. Dom is putting a delicious-smelling quiche on the table along with hot cinnamon bread and fresh coffee.
“Where’s David?” Izzy asks.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” I say, easing into a chair at the table.
Izzy raises his eyebrows. “I take it the night didn’t go so well?”
“Actually it was quite enlightening,” I tell him. “It made me realize two things: that David’s and my differences go much deeper than I thought, and that I need to get laid soon.” Dom, who is putting coffee mugs on the table, drops one with a clatter. I see him and Izzy exchange looks. “To be honest,” I add as Dom carefully rights the dropped cup, “I’m surprised David and I lasted as long as we did. But we are definitely done and it’s time for me to move on. Shall we eat?”
The two men stare at me for a moment, clearly surprised by my outburst, but they recover quickly. Dom takes his seat and says, “By all means, dig in.”
I start to reach for the spatula in the quiche dish but my back muscles seize up with a ferocity that makes me gasp.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Izzy asks. “You’re moving like my mother.”
Given that his mother is in her eighties and has severe spinal kyphosis and more artificial joints than a robot, his comment doesn’t paint a very pretty picture.
“I worked out at a gym yesterday and I’m paying dearly for it now. I always knew exercise could kill you.”
“You went to a gym?” Izzy says, clearly shocked. Dom quietly takes my plate and serves me up a huge slice of quiche and some cinnamon bread.
“Why does that fact surprise everyone so much?” I say, picking up my fork as Dom sets the plate down in front of me. “I’m not above trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Plus I figure if I’m going to get back into the dating scene, I need to get into better shape.”
Izzy digests this answer for a few seconds and then says, “What’s the real reason?”
“Bob Richmond basically blackmailed me into going with him.” I stab a piece of quiche onto my fork and wince with pain as I raise it to my mouth, but my efforts are rewarded when it melts on my tongue with a delightful burst of flavors.
Dom, who is naturally slender—a trait that would make me hate him if he wasn’t such a damned good cook —serves up Izzy’s breakfast and says, “I think it’s a great idea. You should go with them, Izzy.”
Izzy gives Dom a look that makes it clear what he thinks of this suggestion.
We spend the rest of the breakfast discussing the recent murders and the burning of my old house.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Izzy says. “The most likely culprit for the arson is a past patient of David’s who was unhappy with his surgical outcome. Has David had any malpractice incidents recently?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I say, pretty sure this theory is wrong. Reminded of the secrets I’m keeping, I focus on the food on my plate and avoid looking at Izzy. Fortunately this task is made immeasurably easier when Izzy’s cell phone rings and he gets up to answer it.
He stands in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, taking the call, and both Dom and I remain quiet, hoping to eavesdrop. Though Izzy says little beyond the occasional “No” and “Really?” I can tell from the expression on his face that the news isn’t good. When he hangs up and returns to the table, he looks seriously troubled.
“That was Bob Richmond,” he says. “He wanted to know if I’d seen or heard from Hurley recently. He’s going to be calling you next.”
“Why?” I ask with what I hope seems like innocent curiosity, even though I have a pretty good idea of the answer.
“Richmond says they processed the gas can that was found in your house and they got some fingerprints off it. They ran them through AFIS and got a match.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to look relieved even as my gut tries to tie itself into knots. I can tell from Izzy’s scrutinizing stare that he isn’t totally buying my feigned reaction.
“No, it’s not so great,” he says, “because the prints belong to Hurley.”
“Hurley? That’s odd,” I say, frowning. Then I pretend to hit on an idea. “Or maybe not. He told me he was there the night of the fire, so maybe he handled the can then.”
“Maybe,” Izzy says, unconvinced. “But there’s more. Richmond said he has several witnesses who overheard Hurley and David having a rather heated discussion at the grocery store the other day. The topic was you.”
“Me?” I ask, all innocence.
“Yes, you. Apparently David gave Hurley an ultimatum, saying that if he didn’t stay away and give you and David a chance to save your marriage, there would be hell to pay.”
“David had no business doing that,” I say, irritated all over again by my ex’s chutzpah. “He’s assuming I want to save our marriage, and I don’t.”
“A minor point,” Izzy says, still looking troubled, “because there’s more. There’s the fact that Hurley is a neighbor of Harold Minniver’s and had this property dispute going on.”
“Yes, but Hurley said he’d already decided to move the fence, making the whole thing a nonissue.”
“How about the fact that Hurley used to date Callie Dunkirk?” Izzy spits this latest revelation out like a piece of used-up chewing gum.
“Oh, my,” Dom says.
Shocked that this fact has been found out already, I say nothing because I’m pretty sure my surprise shows on my face. Better to stay quiet and let Izzy think I’m taken aback by the fact itself rather than because it’s now common knowledge.
“No one knows where Hurley is and attempts to reach him have been unsuccessful,” Izzy says. “Do you know where he is?”
“No,” I say without a hint of hesitation or guile, glad that this, at least, is the truth.
“Well, Richmond has obtained a search warrant for Hurley’s house and I’ve been invited to attend, in case they find any evidence to suggest that Callie was killed there.”
“That’s just ridiculous,” I say, feeling my breakfast congeal in my stomach. “Hurley wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You seem awfully defensive.”
“I’m just being realistic. I know Hurley and he wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Look, I know you like the guy, Mattie, but we have to face the facts here. He has ties to two murders and one attempted murder. What’s the likelihood that it’s mere coincidence?”
I sigh, because I know it’s not a coincidence. “I want to go with you,” I tell him.
Izzy shakes his head and frowns. “I gave you some time off so you can recover from the fire incident,” he says. “And you’re obviously not moving very well this morning.”
“I’ll be fine as soon as my ibuprofen kicks in.”
Izzy’s frown deepens. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be a part of this.”
“Why?”
