The Hidden by Bill Pronzini Page A

other male. She was resilient, more than capable of taking care of herself. She’d been taking care of people all her life. Mom, after Dad all of a sudden decided he preferred the bosom of somebody else’s family to his own—first because of Mom’s drinking, then full-time when the breast cancer was diagnosed, forcing her to quit school and alter her plans for a career as a health care worker. Jay the past few years. All the victims she’d had brief contact with on her job. And she’d come through all of that without too many scars, too many neuroses. Oh, yes, she was very good at taking care of people, herself included most of the time.
    But Jay wasn’t; he had to have somebody to count on, lean on. Somebody strong. Well, if they did go their separate ways, he wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a suitable replacement … Yes, he would, why try to kid herself? A beaten-down man with low self-esteem wasn’t exactly an ideal catch for any woman except a controlling or maternal one, neither of which was the type he needed.
    Face it, Shelby, she thought. The woman he needs is you. And the crux of the problem is, you’re tired of the burden and the responsibility.
    She sat with her drink in a chair drawn up close to the fire while Jay put together a meal in the kitchen. The spreading heat took away some of the damp mustiness and, along with the effects of the gin, warmed her again. Outside the wind had risen, buffeting the cottage with angry gusts, but in here, with the fire and the candlelight, it was almost cozy. Almost. Three martinis on an empty stomach could make any surroundings seem tolerable, as long as there was enough light to keep the darkness at bay.
    They ate sandwiches and stewed tomatoes in front of the fire, neither of them saying much. That had always been one of the good things about their relationship, the ability to sit together in companionable silence. Even when they argued or fought, they seldom raised their voices. Nor had they ever indulged in public bickering and name-calling, like the Lomaxes and the Deckers; that kind of open hostility was foreign to both their natures. A little private sniping now and then, sure, but what couple didn’t do that? Jay had his faults, but basically he was a quiet, gentle man. A good man. If only he wasn’t so infuriatingly introverted. And withdrawing deeper into himself every day. That, too, as much as the string of failures and setbacks, as much as the burden and responsibility of looking out for him, was what was slowly killing the marriage.
    Bedtime. She took two lighted candles into the master bedroom, went back to get a third. The fire’s warmth didn’t reach in there, but the bed, at least, was covered with two blankets and a thick down comforter.
    The adjoining bathroom was small and chilly. She took one of the candles in there and made short work of changing and of using the toilet. When she came out, Jay was already in bed with the comforter pulled up to his chin. She said as she got in beside him, “Whoever buys the toilet paper for this place has a sadistic streak.”
    “Poor quality?”
    “Like sandpaper.”
    “Probably Ben. He didn’t have much money when we were in college. Thrifty about everything in those days.”
    “Nobody should be thrifty when it comes to their asses.”
    Jay burst out laughing. She gave him a look, and then realized how indignant she’d sounded and laughed with him. Echo of the good early days, when they’d laughed often together.
    There was a sag in the middle of the mattress, so that when she turned on her side he slipped down against her back. The bed was too small to move away; she lay still, feeling the heat from his body, hoping he wouldn’t turn and try to arouse her. He didn’t. Within minutes his breathing told her he was asleep.
    But he was restless tonight; his arms and legs kept twitching. Often enough that was a sign that he would have his nightmare. The same nightmare over and over—that was