Never Let You Go(37)

My bedroom is cold and I shrug on a sweater and pull on my favorite fuzzy socks while I wait for my computer to boot up. I sit at my desk and check my e-mails, but nothing downloads, which is strange—I always have a few e-mails, even if they’re mostly junk. Then I realize some of the emails in my in-box are new—one is a potential client looking for an estimate, but the messages have already been opened, the subject headings no longer in boldface. I stare at the screen. Did Sophie come home at lunch? Why would she use my computer?

I scan down the list, check the time and date. A bunch were from the night before—e-mail flyers, Groupons, winter clothing discounts, Christmas sales. The inquiry about the cleaning was sent at six in the morning, just before I woke up. Then I check the time on the two other e-mails. They were sent while I was at work this afternoon, but they too are showing as read.

One is from Jenny about Christmas presents, chatter about what she’s getting each of her daughters. The other is from Greg. I click on it, skim the content. He’s sorry about the weekend, can’t wait to see me, thinks I should spend a night at his house soon.

I’ll make you breakfast and deliver it in bed.

I can’t look away from the screen, my blinking cursor, the damning words. I’m anchored to my chair, but inside I’m moving everywhere at once. Fear heaves and smashes its way through my body, a giant lumbering beast. Was Andrew in my house? Did he read this email?

It’s impossible. We have an alarm. But then I remember Sophie dashing back into the house because she forgot something. She probably didn’t set it again.

I glance down at my desk and see all the notes on my calendar, dates, times, appointments. Then I notice the mail beside my keyboard, bills I’d brought in this morning and dumped on my desk in a scattered pile. Each envelope has been sliced open cleanly and the bills carefully placed one on top of the other. Lined perfectly straight, every edge exact.

I stand up quickly, push my chair away from me, and step back.

I grab a nail file from my pencil holder, spin around, and scan my room. The bed. This morning I smoothed it flat, tucked all the corners in tight, but now there’s an indentation on the edge as though someone had sat there. I look at the closet, the shadow under my bed. He could be anywhere. I fumble behind me, find my cell phone.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I think someone’s in my house.”



While I wait for the police, I stay on the phone with the operator and make my way down the stairs, scanning for any movement. In the kitchen I pick up a butcher knife and my car keys, then head for the front door with the knife straight out in front of me. My senses are razor-sharp, the air so heavy I can feel it burning into my lungs. Finally I’m outside, sucking in the cold night air. I don’t have my shoes or a coat. I wrap my arms around my body, run to my car, and climb inside. I lock the doors, blast the heater, and listen for the police sirens.

One officer searches the house while the other takes my statement. There’s no sign of a forced entry and nothing seems to be missing. They don’t dust my keyboard for fingerprints because apparently they need a smooth surface to get prints. It doesn’t matter. He would have worn gloves. I think of his favorite leather pair that I’d picked out for his birthday one year.

I can feel the doubt in their polite voices as they make notes, the routine sound to the words. How many times do they get called by nervous ex-wives?

After they leave, I look around my house, conscious of every sound, the hum of the fridge, the gas furnace. There’s a smell in the air, something burning, and I realize my stew is still in the oven. I pull it out. It’s a dried brown mess, but I have no interest in food now anyway.

I text Sophie that I’m going to bed early and suggest she stay at Delaney’s. She answers back right away: Sure. I go through the house, checking everything, pawing through my drawers, imagining things from his perspective. He would have hated seeing my lingerie, would have seethed thinking of my wearing it for another man. I go through my bathroom, imagine him checking every prescription, my makeup, my birth control pills.

A book has been placed open on the side of the bath with a few candles and a bottle of aromatic salts, which had been under the counter, now arranged nearby as though inviting me to take a long, relaxing soak. My celebrity gossip magazines have been tossed into the garbage.

Andrew hated when I read those in the bath.

He must have spent hours in my house. Even the fridge looks like it might have been rearrange, cream behind the milk. I’m sure it was on the side of the door this morning. I’m driving myself mad, thinking about everything he touched. Did he eat some food? Make himself a snack? Then I realize the dishwasher is empty and he’s stacked wood in the fireplace.

I call Corporal Parker and ask if we can meet at the station first thing in the morning to talk about my options. She agrees and suggests I spend the night elsewhere if I think Andrew might come back, but I already tried to call Greg when the cops were here earlier, and he wasn’t home, then I remembered it’s his poker night. He didn’t answer his cell either.

“I’ll make sure the alarm is set this time,” I say.

“Okay, I’ll ask any patrol cars in the area to take some drives past tonight.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. See you in the morning.” I disconnect my cell phone and sit down on the side of my bed. The sense of Andrew is overwhelming. I can feel his anger, his absolute fury. I’ve broken so many rules. I tuck my shaking hands under my legs.