The Clairvoyants(52)

We ended up on the deserted campus, and William headed toward his office in Tjaden Hall.

“I have to pick up some things,” he said.

The office proved to be much warmer than the apartment—so warm that William tapped open one of the high windows with the broomstick he kept just for that purpose. He had an old leather couch against one wall, and while he sorted through slides in the light from the desk lamp, I lay down and closed my eyes.

“I’m going to the lab,” he said. “Take a nap if you want.”

Something was bothering me about the office, some smell in the couch’s fabric cushions, something I noted when we walked in, before he’d opened the window and let most of the scent out. It was incense—sandalwood. Del had started burning it as a teenager—little cones she set on saucers, or sticks of it she propped in ceramic holders. I had often opened the windows of our bedroom to let the smell out, it was so strong. She insisted it would help us remember our past lives.

I sat up on the couch. The cold came in from the open window and erased the incense smell. I stood and went to the office door and peered out into the empty hallway. Once, Anne’s office had been at the end—William had shown it to me one day. Her name remained on the door, though a group of graduate students had taken it over. I walked out into the hall and then stepped back into his office. The smell of the sandalwood seemed to have disappeared. I stood looking at the books on his shelf, and then, bored, I tugged on the top desk drawer. It was locked.

I would have expected to find napkins from the Green Dragon, or pens and pencils, or university letterhead. But there was something more important stored there. Despite my promise to myself that as a dutiful wife I wouldn’t pry, I scanned his office, wondering where he might have placed the key. He might have hidden it anywhere—inside or behind books, taped under the shelves themselves. He didn’t carry it with him on his key chain, which held three keys: one to his motorcycle, one to the office, and one to the apartment. It made sense that the desk key would be here in the office. I scanned the spines of the books, and noticed on one of his bookshelves a small tin—a battered thing that struck me immediately as special to him. He’d told me that as a child his mother sold apples, and he collected the money in a tin. I wavered, not sure if I should look, but then I gave in and took it down and pried off the lid. Inside was the key.

I stuck my head out the door to check the hallway, and then unlocked the desk drawer and slid it open. Lying flat, taking most of the space, was a leather portfolio. It was an awkward place to put something like that, and I was intrigued. William still hadn’t shown me any of his new work. I slid the portfolio out and opened it on the desk. I felt a little thrill of surprise. I’d discovered some of his sleep studies.

Each image captured just a woman’s sleeping form, her bare arms flung out, her legs entwined with sheets. Some of the women had their hands placed under their cheeks, their lips parted as if to speak. Their long hair fanned in disarray over their bodies. All of the women were nude. The bones of their backs showed, their skin luminous in early morning light, in late afternoon shadow, in a dark room illuminated by a bare bulb. Those whose faces were revealed seemed familiar to me, and yet I couldn’t place why. And it bothered me, like the sandalwood smell. The images were strange, compelling. I had to admit that they disturbed me. I went back through the portfolio again, studying each photograph. Despite the shadows and blurred effects of light that sometimes concealed them, I felt that wave of recognition again, accompanied by a slowly growing unease.

The faces in the photographs belonged to the Milton girls. Once I made the connection I recognized each of them—Alice’s ginger-colored hair, the point of Lucie’s chin, Kitty’s long lashes. I flipped through the pages, searching for one of Mary Rae, but there were none. I was stunned by his use of the girls in Milton as his subjects, but since I hadn’t officially been shown the photographs I wasn’t sure how to bring them up. His refusal to share them made sense to me now. Even more troubling, though, was the Milton girls’ silence. If they hated him so much, why would they agree to pose?

Anne had sketched a portrait of Mary Rae before she died, and it was displayed in a prominent spot in the living room—the girl, nude, on her side, an arm thrown over her face. It was eerily similar to William’s photographs. I told myself William was simply imitating his mentor, a woman with obvious talent and, we were constantly reminded, not long for this world.

The door at the far end of the hall opened, and William’s footsteps approached. I wanted more time with the portfolio, so instead of putting it back in the drawer, I slid it beneath a stack of folders he’d packed into a cardboard box on his desk. I locked the drawer, replaced the key in the tin, and then returned to the couch to feign sleep. He entered the office, and I felt him standing near me, the shadow of him over me. I assumed he was watching me, but when I peered up at him he was not looking at me but at the desk, his hands on his hips. I must have moved something on its surface when I opened the portfolio.

He readjusted some papers on the desk’s surface, then turned toward me, and I smiled up at him.

“What time is it?” I asked him.

“Did you fall asleep?”

I sat up. “I must have,” I said.

Something between us had shifted. We were each tense, and whatever we wanted to say remained unspoken. “No one is trying to hide anything from you,” Del had said. Clearly, she’d intended me to believe someone was.