What You Don't Know(98)
“You believe her story?”
“I don’t know what to believe, Paulie. I went by, but I didn’t talk to her—figured if she caught sight of me she’d clam right up. There’re detectives with her now, trying to get to the truth of it, but you know what a closemouthed bitch she is. But we shouldn’t consider her a suspect. I don’t think she’s strong enough to turn this guy’s face into raw hamburger. That’s what it looks like, padnah. This whole thing’s gonna make me swear off red meat.”
“I thought Sammie was writing about Secondhand for the Post.”
“She was. And so was this guy. They were competing against each other for the same job, I guess. That’s the story Dan Corbin fed me, anyway.”
Hoskins takes a pen and a scrap of paper out of his pocket, writes Chris Weber down on the paper. Circles it. Draws a line, then writes Sammie’s name. Ted’s back at the station, trying to get a hold of the people running alltheprettyflowers.com, see if they can find out exactly who is registered as SecondHand, but it doesn’t look promising. People who run websites like that prefer to remain anonymous, and they extend that courtesy to their clients. Hoskins figures it for pointless, but they have to try.
“Any word on Sammie yet?” Loren asks.
“Not a thing,” Hoskins says. Something pulls against his ankles, makes him jump. It’s a stray cat, mewling to be picked up, and he kicks at it, furious. “She’s gone, her husband’s nowhere to be found. It’s not looking good.”
SAMMIE
“I didn’t think you’d be okay coming over here,” Ethan says, standing back so she can come inside. “I could’ve met you somewhere, you know.”
“This is a nice neighborhood,” she says, unwinding her scarf from around her neck and dropping it on a side table, beside a framed photo of an older couple, posed in a studio in their Sunday finest. The man is in a nice suit and has the sharp look of an educated gentleman, and the woman looks kind. Her white hair is styled in soft curls that seem to melt away from her face. “Who’s this?”
“Who?”
“This.” She points at the picture. “Your grandparents?”
“Yeah, that’s them. This is their house.”
“Where are they now?”
“On vacation in Florida. I’m housesitting.”
“Oh.” She peeks into the living room. It’s a nice house, small. Lots of knickknacks and doilies, wallpaper with cabbage roses. “It smells weird in here.”
Ethan rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “I need to take out the garbage.”
She walks farther into the house and he’s right behind her, like a puppy dog. He’s nervous, she can practically feel it coming off him in waves. She’d tried to call Hoskins again, before she’d even pulled out of her driveway, wanting to see where he was; if he’d been released from jail she would’ve gone to him, probably fucked him, that’s what Dean thinks she’s been doing, so why not? But there was still no answer, and she’d been considering what to do, whether or not to go back inside and wait or head down to the police station when her phone rang in her hand, it was Ethan, calling just when she needed it most, and he invited her over to talk and now here she is, walking through his grandparents’ house.
They sit, side by side on the couch. There are clear plastic covers on the arms, to keep them from too much wear, and Sammie smooths down the one on her side. Ethan is sitting so straight he could have a pole up the back of his shirt, and sequins of sweat are clinging to his forehead. When was the last time a man was so nervous around her? High school, probably, but she can’t remember. It’s nice, to have that kind of effect on a man. She’d forgotten how it was, that prickle of anticipation that comes before sex with someone new.
“Are you all right?” she asks, and when she touches his knee he jumps like he’s been spattered with hot grease. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No. I’ve—I’ve never had anyone want to come here.”
“What about Kelly?”
He blinks, looks away. “We broke up,” he says. She waits, thinking he might say more, but he doesn’t.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s for the best. We’re not interested in the same stuff.” He clears his throat. “I should go get my notebook, let you read what I’ve written so far.”
“Wait.”
She’s never been good at starting these things. It’s always the man who starts it, who touches her, kisses her. But Ethan is so young and so nervous, and he’s terrified, she can see it in his eyes, and he’s never going to touch her, and if she doesn’t do something soon she’ll end up going home. Already she can feel her resolve dissolving, this petty revenge was a stupid idea, but then she thinks of Dean, and how he’s punishing her for something she didn’t even do, and she wants to get back at him, even if Dean never knows she’s here, even if he never finds out what she’s done, she’ll know, and that’ll be enough. She slides her hand from his knee up his thigh, until she’s cupping Ethan through his pants, and that’s easy because he’s already hard.
“Sammie,” he says weakly, and she puts her hand loosely over his mouth and holds it there. There’s a cut over one of his eyebrows, shallow and mean-looking.