The Sleepwalker(76)

“I don’t know what else to think.”

“Why was a part of her nightgown on that branch?”

He shrugged. “It was between your house and the bridge. It was near enough to the road.”

“What else?” I asked.

“What do you mean, what else?”

“What other possibilities have you considered?”

“Stop torturing yourself. Please. For your sake and mine. Would you do that?”

“Does my father know this theory?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“We have never discussed these…specifics.”

“Oh.”

“You’re a tad more passionate, Lianna.”

“I know. He’s given up.”

“You sound so dismissive. He lost his wife. He’s mourning.”

“Well, I lost my mom.”

“People are built differently.”

I sighed, gathering myself. “I guess.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Good. Can I tell you one more thing?”

“Sure.” I waited. I watched as he started to smile and his eyes grew playful.

“You look cute in pajamas.”

“Really: Why did I let you into the house?” I asked.

“Because it’s almost noon and you haven’t gotten dressed. Clearly I’m the bright spot in your day.” He went around the island to stand behind me. Over my shoulder I heard him say, “Since we both know you aren’t going to tell your father and Paige that these are from me, I suggest you say you got them to cheer yourself up.”

“See what a good liar you are?” I murmured. But then I felt him kissing the back of my neck, and I had neither the strength nor the inclination to stop him.



Much of the world grows quiescent in autumn, but Vermont can feel especially depressing and (yes) dead those first weeks of November. The days are short and growing shorter still. But I watched the endless election news from Florida—the world’s ultimate game of musical chairs had actually ended in a tie—and so I saw sunshine and blue sky there. On television. Often I saw all that warmth after starting a fire in the wood stove.

And yet a notable exception to the meteorological grayness that envelops northern New England that time of year are the mountains where we make snow. I was never the skier that my sister was, but even I appreciated that a whole other world existed when you slid off the top of the lift and paused for a moment amid the evergreens iced with vanilla.

On the Saturday morning after Gavin had come by my house, I watched Paige and the rest of the ski team practice on one of the black diamond trails, a little awed by their speed and athleticism, the way they bounced over the moguls, but then I set off on my own and skied the intermediate slopes where I was most comfortable. The sky was cloudless and blue—a respite from the usual gray—and in my breath I saw the promise of the holiday season.

Summer—and my mother’s death—began to seem very far away. I told myself I was getting better, not growing callous, and it did not diminish my mother’s memory when something would take my mind off her.



“I thought you looked pretty good out there,” I told Paige as we were driving home that afternoon.

“Your goggles must have been fogged up. Or you couldn’t see in the glare. I sucked.”

I was a little startled. “You didn’t suck.”

“I’ll be better on Tuesday,” she said. That was the day when the team would have its next practice. Then she asked me, “So who really gave you the posies?” She had brought up the flowers out of the blue to try and catch me off guard; I knew her well enough to know how her mind worked.

“I told you,” I answered blandly. “I treated myself. I treated us.”

“I don’t think so. I think whoever brought them is the same person who left his sunglasses at our house. The Ray-Bans sitting right now by Mom’s knives.”

A little flutter of panic rolled over me, and instantly I started rummaging in my mind for names I could claim had been in our kitchen. But I drew a blank and said nothing. I kept my eyes on the tortuous two-lane road down from the mountain so I wouldn’t have to look at my sister.

“Not even going to lie, eh?” she said, and then she laughed. “Feeling a little busted?”

“Only a little.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please?”

She must have sensed I was weakening. She turned off the radio.

“Fine,” I said. “But don’t tell Dad.”

“I won’t.”

“One of the detectives investigating Mom’s death gave me the flowers. A guy with BCI—”

“BCI?”

“Bureau of Criminal Investigation. A part of the state police.”

“A state trooper?”

“Sort of.”

“And he was at our house yesterday?”

“That’s right,” I said. I couldn’t tell whether she was a little floored because I was seeing a cop or because the cop had been at our home. But when she spoke next, I understood it was the latter that had caused her voice to rise ever so slightly in astonishment.