off, a stop at the bank and the grocery store. Erik would be another hour and a half at least. He’d asked that she be there when he returned, had something he needed to discuss. She told him she needed to focus on Isabel and could it wait? No, he said. It couldn’t.
“You have to leave. Right now,” she said. Even in her anger, in her fear, there was a snaking pleasure, a guilty desire. She shot Brown a look and he stopped barking and walked away, went back to the couch. She didn’t bother reprimanding him.
“Please, Linda. I need to see you.”
She thought about having him up, making love to him hard and fast in the shower. She thought about releasing all her tension with an earthquake of an orgasm. But no, she wasn’t that low, that stupid.
“I’ll meet you,” she said. “There’s a coffee shop on the corner. Go there. Ten minutes.”
“Let me up,” he said, moving close to the lens. She could feel her whole body go hot.
“No,” she said. “You’re crazy.”
“I told you. I’m desperate.”
She leaned her head against the wall, fought the awful waves of temptation. The thought of him walking through the door, those hands roaming her body, his desperation like a rocket through her, made her weak and ashamed. How could she be having an affair, her of all people? The good girl, the woman with the perfect marriage, the perfect life. It was disgusting. She hated herself. But she couldn’t give him up.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Linda.”
“Go.”
He groaned and disappeared from the screen.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she said, moving toward the shower. She tied her hair up so that it wouldn’t get wet, showered, and dressed quickly. She grabbed her coat and her bag and headed out the door. She’d stop and see him quickly, then go straight to Izzy’s. Erik would have to wait.
“Be a good boy,” she called to the dog who was fast asleep.
9
It felt oddly right that the apartment I shared with Marcus was in tatters. As I walked through the detritus of our life together-an oil painting we bought in Paris slashed and knocked to the floor, a crystal vase we’d received as a wedding gift in big jagged pieces, our bedding cut with scissors-I wasn’t outraged in the way one would expect. I recognized the poetry of it. We’d built a life, collected memories, had things to show for that journey. As I walked through the rooms crowded by my memories, somehow it seemed appropriate in this moment that those things should be in pieces. The air hummed with malice. It didn’t even seem like the place where I’d lived for the last five years of my life.
Detective Crowe was my shadow. He was kind enough to offer his silence as he followed me from room to room, but I could feel his energy-anxious, agitated by the million questions buzzing around his brain. Grit and bits of glass crunched beneath my feet as I made my way, lifting a photo of my sister, touching a spot of red nail polish someone had poured on the bathroom countertop. It had taken on the shape of a heart.
Finally, in the small office off our bedroom where I did most of my writing, I sank into the chair in front of my desk and stared at the large blank monitor. It was huge, like a wall. When I wrote, my words were giant, swimming in a bright white sea. It helped me to see them so large, as though they had more meaning, the power to keep my attention, my focus if it threatened to wander. The dark screen seemed like a hole I could fall into.
I had all my files backed up and stored at Jacks office; I wasn’t worried about lost work. That was the least of my worries, and it would be hours yet before I started thinking about personal files, journals, calendars, account numbers, e-mail correspondence. Just two days before I had been sitting in this chair, Googling myself on the Internet, answering fan e-mail, visiting the Web sites of other authors-doing everything but what I should have been doing, working on my pages. I was annoyed at myself then, frustrated by my lack of focus and productivity. Today it seemed like a state of bliss. I’d have paid any sum to be back there.
“Mrs. Raine, did your husband have a history of violence or mental illness?”
I swiveled around to see that a petite woman had followed us into the room, stood behind and to the left of Detective Crowe.
“My partner, Detective Jesamyn Breslow,” he said with a nod.
“No,” I answered her, surprised by the question. “You think my husband did this?”
She cocked her head at me. There was a pixyish look to her, the features of her face small and perfect-a lovely upturned nose and perfect valentine of a mouth, almond-shaped eyes. She was bright, electric, as if she might glow with the force of her own coiled energy if we turned off the lights. She had short, clean fingernails, wore her hair in a neat bob. Her clothes were good quality but I could see a shine to her black blazer from too many trips to the dry cleaner. Her microfiber wedges were a bit worn at the toe. The two cops seemed striking opposites: She was a saver, he was a spender. He was cool, slow, dark; she was white hot, action first, regrets later. And yet she seemed more centered, more mature.
“There’s so much rage evidenced here,” she said. “The way personal things have been destroyed, photographs defaced.”
“The kind of rage only a husband could manage for his wife?” I asked. Detective Breslow shrugged. I saw her eyes dart; she was thinking of something in her own life, went internal for a minute.
“Or vice versa,” Detective Crowe chimed in. I remembered his true confessions from the night before, the wife who left him, his bitterness.
“There is no one cooler than Marcus,” I found myself saying. My tone was harsh, even hostile. They both noticed it, exchanged a look. “He rarely raises his voice. Anger makes him silent-colder, harder. He’d never do anything like this. He wouldn’t have it in him. A waste of energy, not fuel-efficient.”
I said too much, realized it too late. Looking at both of them standing there, it dawned on me that I’d made a mistake giving them permission to access and search my apartment. I’d only been thinking of Marcus as a victim, someone who needed help. I had nothing to hide. It never occurred to me that
“Mrs. Raine,” said Detective Breslow. Her tone was tactful, respectful, but just ever so slightly condescending. “If you know anything about what’s going on here, now would be the time to tell us.”
“My brother-in-law gave him money,” I said. “A lot of money they don’t have.”
Detective Crowe nodded. “Did you know anything about that? I mean before he disappeared.”
“Erik just told me. My sister doesn’t even know.” I wasn’t really talking to them; I was thinking aloud, still in that stunned place where my inner world and outer world were confused with each other.
“Mrs. Raine, have you checked
The question sliced me, its edge so sharp it didn’t hurt at first. Then I felt the slow, radiating throb of dread. I moved closer to the monitor, hands poised over the keyboard, but then I stopped myself. The computer, of course, was gone. The dark screen was connected to nothing. I turned back to him.
“I have been with Marcus for six years, married for five,” I said. “What you’re implying with all your questions. It’s just not possible.”
“What do you think I’m implying?” Detective Crowe asked. He’d taken that stance again, the spreading of the legs, the folding of the arms. Detective Breslow lowered her eyes, then turned and left the room. They had a routine, roles they played. I could see that already.
“I’m asking the questions I need to ask,” he went on when I didn’t answer him. “If your answers are painting a disturbing picture, you need to think about that, Mrs. Raine.”
