“Let’s test it,” Officer Mike says, turning to Jill and Maddie. “Girls, go outside and try to sneak up on the house.”
Jill checks with her mother, who nods, and the two girls run off, Officer Mike leering as they cut through the dining room and disappear.
We all hover around the laptop, even Kelly, and wait for the cameras to come alive.
“There are six quadrants,” Clyde says.
“That’s impossible,” I say. “A quadrant, by definition, is one of four. The root word quad …”
“Oh, you’re still awake?” Clyde says, cutting me off mid-sentence, and everyone chuckles, even Kelly. “Six cameras, six quadrants, and any motion in any of the quadrants will trigger all six cameras.”
We wait for the girls to appear on the screen.
“Okay, Shakespeare, so what’s the right word for six?” Clyde asks.
“In music, it’s a sextet,” Kelly says.
“Sextet? I like how that sounds.” He counts out the adults in the room. “One more and we can do some sextet-ing right here. Or maybe Shakespeare will nod off and we can make it a quad.”
“A ménage a quad,” Kelly says, because I deserve it.
“Hey look, the cameras are working.”
Amy points to the top left of the screen, where we see Jill and Maddie, on all fours, crawling across the lawn toward the house. The black and white image is sharp enough to capture the goofy grins on their faces, their eyes geared toward the lens as Maddie waves her arms and Jill flips a middle finger.
“I told you: any movement and those babies switch on,” Clyde says. Officer Mike clicks the mouse, catching an image of Jill in her slinky prom dress moving toward the camera, Maddie close behind.
“The batteries are charged for at least a week,” Clyde says. “If your stalker doesn’t show up by then…”
“He will.”
Amy reaches for the wine at the center of the table, but Clyde blocks her, grabbing her arm before she can snatch the bottle.
“You’re on medication. Don’t drink.”
“It’s a Riesling. It pairs well with anti-depressants.”
“Doctor’s orders,” he says. Officer Mike scoops away the bottle the moment Clyde releases her arm.
“Jesus, Alex, you’re not my father. One glass won’t…”
“No, it won’t, because you’re not drinking it.”
She throws him a pouty face but opens a Diet Coke instead. Had I said anything, she would have chased down the Riesling with a shot of Jack Daniels and a glass of peppermint Schnapps, and perhaps therein lay the inscrutable attraction—Clyde offered boundaries. Recast the role of the boyfriend on the day that Sarah Carpenter disappeared, Clyde beside her on the blanket instead of narcoleptic me, and Amy would have been alert, not wasted at ten in the morning; she would have kept her eyes on Sarah’s every move; she would have kept her safe.
Later that night I’m sleeping when Amy crawls in bed beside me, the acrid scent of smoke and gasoline waking me as she rests her arm on my shoulder, her face pressed against my mine as she whispers, “It’s over.”
I turn, but she pulls her body closer, drapes her leg over my hip; her hands cover my eyes, her breath rum and Listerine.
I manage a single word: “Why?”
She kisses the back of my head.
“You don’t understand, but that’s how I want it.”
“Understand what?”
She kisses my ear and rolls away from me.
“Just go to sleep,” Amy says. “It’s over.”
. . . . .
The rain against the roof sounds like microwave popcorn starting to heat, the windows shaking from the thunder, the floorboards rattling while the curtains flutter from Atlantic gusts. In Holman Beach thunderstorms jab and retreat, the black clouds rolling off the ocean in violent flurries before fading, rarely lasting beyond ten minutes but prone to encores, the thunder always weak and distant, teasing before reappearing for sharp, sudden blasts. An immense crack rocks the house, and we all look up, as if the thunder had emerged from the ceiling beams, and the lights flicker twice as a one-two punch of lightning hisses outside.
“My, oh my! That was close!” Jill says, in her mock Southern drawl. “The gods are certainly angry tonight, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Marcino, our most esteemed gentleman caller?”
She touches my arm, and I try not to think about that prom dress.
“Knock it off,” Amy tells her. “This isn’t an audition. Go get the dishes so we can break out this lasagna.”
“Oh yes, Mother, of course; the dishes!” She curtsies, and grabs Maddie’s hand. “We’re just two poor Cockney girls who live to serve the lady of the manor. Lasagna, it shall be!”
Blowing us each a kiss, the girls skip into the kitchen, Jill waving to the imaginary crowd, pausing for a final bow before her grand exit.
“You should have listened to me,” Clyde tells Amy. “If we’d sent her to softball camp like I wanted…”
“She hates softball.”
“…the coaches might have knocked this acting garbage out of her system.”
The lights flicker again as the thunder cracks. I find Kelly’s hand and give it a squeeze.
“I’m glad you remembered that I’m in this scene,” she says. “I thought I’d be off-stage until the third act.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though by now my apologies feel worthless, good for, at best, a pitiful smile and a brief grant of clemency.
The thunder bursts again, and this time the lights stay off for ten seconds, maybe longer, the lightning flashing across the lawn as the house rattles and shakes.
“Shit,” Amy says. “I’ve got some extra flashlights in the basement, just in case. Alex, can you get them before you leave?”
“I’ll get them,” Officer Mike says.
“No, I’ve got it,” Clyde tells him, and for a moment something passes between him and Amy, a sudden communion of eyes before he turns and punches my shoulder. “Give me a hand, okay?”
It seems strange—why does he need my help to grab a few flashlights? But I don’t object. The loudest thunder-crack yet explodes over the roof, the windows shaking in their frames as we all gaze up at the ceiling, as
