spoken to him softly. “I sometimes feel as though I’m nothing more than a creation of your mind, that all of the things you used to like about me were things that you made in me, that I’m nothing more than a shell that you filled with your expectations.”
It struck him as strange that it was only in this crisis that they should be having the kinds of conversations he had always wanted to have with her, the kinds of conversations he imagined people like Sweeney St. George had all the time, profound, intellectual conversations that mattered. The times he’d tried to start those kinds of conversations with her she had looked at him strangely and said, “You okay, hon? Why do you want to talk about all this heavy stuff ?”
He flipped through the mail, made sure she was warm on the couch, and went upstairs to bed, stopping to look in on Megan. She was sleeping, on her back as the doctor had told them she should sleep, and her tiny fists were curled up against her face as though she were protecting herself from some dreamworld demon. He wanted to pick her up, wake her, and look into her eyes, to make her feel safe again, but he knew that there’d be hell to pay if Debbie had to get out of bed because she heard the baby crying. Instead, he put a hand on her head,still dented, the soft, wispy hair so pale it could barely be seen, and felt himself start to choke up, then turned away and closed the door.
Their bedroom was a mess, clothes draped over the end of the bed and the bureaus. He started to separate the clean things from the dirty, but got frustrated and dumped everything into the basket they used as a hamper. Then he stripped down and took a quick shower before getting into bed alone.
He lay there in the dark and thought about the Putnam kid. Quinn and Maura’s bed was a low four-poster, about the same height as the bed the kid had died on. He flipped over onto his stomach and stretched his arms out, grasping each post. How long would it take to secure one of his hands? A minute at least, to make sure it was really tight. But it hadn’t been that tight. In fact, if Brad Putnam had really tried, Quinn thought he could have gotten his hands untied. So why hadn’t he tried? Why, while his assailant was tying the other hand, hadn’t he slipped his other hand free and tried to escape?
There were two possibilities. One was that he had wanted to be tied up and the other was that he had been unconscious. Quinn remembered the reek of tequila. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps he had invited someone back for a little S&M and then gotten so drunk he’d passed out. They had asked the roommate if he knew of anyone Brad was seeing who might have done this to him and the roommate had just looked horrified and said that he knew all of Brad’s friends.
As he drifted off to sleep he started awake, sure he had heard Megan crying. But when he sat up in bed, he realized it was only the wind.
SEVEN
THE WARBLER DIDN’T KNOW she was there. The small form sat atop the branch, the head perfectly still. His feathers were very slightly blurry through her binoculars and she adjusted the focus before they came into crystal-clear view. She watched him for a few minutes, delighting—for a single, miraculous instant—in the way he bobbed on his branch before she lowered the binoculars and turned to check on the dogs.
She had trained them to wait at the top of the cliff for her so they wouldn’t disturb the birds. They were quite good at it now—only Bella sometimes broke the stay, though it was usually just to nose around in the bushes and then lie down again next to Rufus and Ollie.
Now she looked up and saw the three golden heads, watching her, waiting for the release. She climbed back up the path a ways in the early morning light and called, “Okay,” and they came running toward her.
Suddenly, Kitty remembered Brad running toward her down the very same hill. It was as though she’d found a picture, so clear was the memory in
It struck him as strange that it was only in this crisis that they should be having the kinds of conversations he had always wanted to have with her, the kinds of conversations he imagined people like Sweeney St. George had all the time, profound, intellectual conversations that mattered. The times he’d tried to start those kinds of conversations with her she had looked at him strangely and said, “You okay, hon? Why do you want to talk about all this heavy stuff ?”
He flipped through the mail, made sure she was warm on the couch, and went upstairs to bed, stopping to look in on Megan. She was sleeping, on her back as the doctor had told them she should sleep, and her tiny fists were curled up against her face as though she were protecting herself from some dreamworld demon. He wanted to pick her up, wake her, and look into her eyes, to make her feel safe again, but he knew that there’d be hell to pay if Debbie had to get out of bed because she heard the baby crying. Instead, he put a hand on her head,still dented, the soft, wispy hair so pale it could barely be seen, and felt himself start to choke up, then turned away and closed the door.
Their bedroom was a mess, clothes draped over the end of the bed and the bureaus. He started to separate the clean things from the dirty, but got frustrated and dumped everything into the basket they used as a hamper. Then he stripped down and took a quick shower before getting into bed alone.
He lay there in the dark and thought about the Putnam kid. Quinn and Maura’s bed was a low four-poster, about the same height as the bed the kid had died on. He flipped over onto his stomach and stretched his arms out, grasping each post. How long would it take to secure one of his hands? A minute at least, to make sure it was really tight. But it hadn’t been that tight. In fact, if Brad Putnam had really tried, Quinn thought he could have gotten his hands untied. So why hadn’t he tried? Why, while his assailant was tying the other hand, hadn’t he slipped his other hand free and tried to escape?
There were two possibilities. One was that he had wanted to be tied up and the other was that he had been unconscious. Quinn remembered the reek of tequila. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps he had invited someone back for a little S&M and then gotten so drunk he’d passed out. They had asked the roommate if he knew of anyone Brad was seeing who might have done this to him and the roommate had just looked horrified and said that he knew all of Brad’s friends.
As he drifted off to sleep he started awake, sure he had heard Megan crying. But when he sat up in bed, he realized it was only the wind.
SEVEN
THE WARBLER DIDN’T KNOW she was there. The small form sat atop the branch, the head perfectly still. His feathers were very slightly blurry through her binoculars and she adjusted the focus before they came into crystal-clear view. She watched him for a few minutes, delighting—for a single, miraculous instant—in the way he bobbed on his branch before she lowered the binoculars and turned to check on the dogs.
She had trained them to wait at the top of the cliff for her so they wouldn’t disturb the birds. They were quite good at it now—only Bella sometimes broke the stay, though it was usually just to nose around in the bushes and then lie down again next to Rufus and Ollie.
Now she looked up and saw the three golden heads, watching her, waiting for the release. She climbed back up the path a ways in the early morning light and called, “Okay,” and they came running toward her.
Suddenly, Kitty remembered Brad running toward her down the very same hill. It was as though she’d found a picture, so clear was the memory in
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