I watch for the steady rise and fall of Cole’s small body, which means that he is finally asleep. Through the bare window, the white moon glows against the purple-black sky. The days are shorter. We haven’t bought curtains yet, or to be precise, we haven’t bought curtain rods yet. The curtains are sitting in a box in the attic. I wonder if we will ever put them up. Maybe we’ll move out of this house twenty years from now when Cole graduates from college, with the curtains still sitting in the attic.
Finally, Cole is asleep. I can’t get downstairs fast enough, and I am disappointed to see that Mark is dozing on the sofa, short, gasping snores escaping from his open mouth.
“Mark,” I whisper in a loud voice. “Mark, you awake?”
He opens his eyes groggily. “What’s up?”
I hold up the T-shirt. “Did you buy this shirt?”
He blinks at the shirt and then at me. “What? No, Allie, I didn’t buy that shirt.” His words are deliberate and slow, and I am impatient. I want him to be as upset as I am.
“Who did?”
“Umm, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m going to bed. You coming?”
“This is a big deal. I need to know where this came from.”
“First of all, please stop yelling.”
“I didn’t yell.” But he’s right. My voice is loud, my tone strident. “How did this get here?” I shake the shirt at him.
He bats it away and stands up. “I have no clue, Allie. I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I want you to be concerned.”
“About a T-shirt? I was asleep.” He starts to leave the room. “Why don’t you ask Susan? It probably came in the mail or something.”
I don’t answer, just watch him leave. The energy between us isn’t good at the precipice of an argument. I know that when Mark is this tired, the only thing I’ll get by pushing him is a massive fight.
I need to calm down. I sit in the empty room for a minute trying to inventory my thoughts. I wish I had a best friend whom I could tell everything to, someone who would help me sort out what are legitimate feelings and what are overreactions.
But maybe that person doesn’t exist, it’s just a trope from cheesy movies, as clichéd as true love. Mark and Krystle are the closest people to me. I know they love me, but I don’t dare tell them everything, show them everything, about me.
I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down in front of the computer. Within moments, I am looking at the picture of Rob and me on the Eastbrook Neighborhood Facebook page. Someone named Barb McLaren posted it. I click on her profile. She looks to be in her early fifties, with a gray-streaked blond bob and a lot of pink-and-green resort wear.
I don’t remember seeing her at Daisy’s party, but clearly, she saw me.
Can anyone identify this woman talking with Rob?
I think her name is Allie Ross. Lives on Worthington. Husband Mark. New to the neighborhood.
Looks very chummy to me. Wouldn’t want my wife talking to a man like that.
STOP GOSSIPING!!!
I shut down the page. I should never have opened it. What did I expect? Of course tongues would be wagging. I had the bad luck of being the last woman Rob Avery hit on before he was killed. As much as I do not wish Rob’s boorish behavior on anyone else, I would love for some other women in the neighborhood to step up and share similar experiences.
But I’m not about to put any feelers out.
Instead, I take a brief look at the online calendar—tomorrow night is Mark’s mom’s birthday, which means dinner in downtown Bethesda with Mark’s whole family.
As for work, tomorrow I have Heather’s referral—Sarah Ramirez—on the schedule. Like Heather, Sarah also works for Senator Fielding from Rhode Island—Heather as the communications director and Sarah as a caseworker. But Sarah doesn’t want a headshot. Sarah wants something romantic for her fiancé who is about to leave for Africa.
I can’t help myself. I go back to Facebook and do a search for Robert Avery. I find his page easily, covered in condolence posts. From his photos, he looks like the perfect suburban dad who hadn’t lost his youthful edge. A photo of him kayaking the Potomac in a Fugazi T-shirt. Another of him with a lithe blonde, hoisting beers at the Bluejacket microbrewery in D.C.
Good-looking, mid-forties. Not a monster.
Why did he pick me? And why did someone kill him?
I need to talk to someone, but who?
My computer, phone, and laptop are all Apple and linked through my Apple ID. That means photos, texts, almost anything I do on one appears on all the devices. I text Krystle from the computer: Sorry about before.
Krystle’s reply is immediate: NP. You know I love you, Allie.
Have you had a chance to check for my fake Tinder account?
Will check Tinder tonight.
I hover over a photo of Rob and then click on it, saving it to the computer. Then I copy it into a message for Krystle.
Does the guy I am talking to in this pic look familiar? I pause and then take a chance. Also, does the name Robert Avery ring any bells? From back home?
Nope. Any yearbooks you want me to check?
For a while, my entire childhood and adolescence were condensed into three banker’s boxes that sat in the house in Westport, Connecticut, about five miles from where I grew up in Norwalk.
But when I transferred my mother into assisted living three years ago, I discarded those boxes, though I hadn’t told Krystle. I was married, had a child. My past had no hold on me anymore.
Or so I’d thought. But for the first time in
