A Noise Downstairs(31)

It did not.

When he rose the following morning—he thought he’d finally fallen asleep around five—he was exhausted and bleary-eyed, but also slightly relieved.

But the more he thought about his situation, the less relieved he was. If the typing sounds were imagined, even when he was certain he was fully awake, was his head injury to blame? Were there symptoms the doctor had not discussed with him?

Had he been sleepwalking? Had he been in some kind of trance?

At breakfast, Charlotte said, “So, no tippity-tap last night?”

“No,” he said groggily. “I listened for it all night.”

“Oh, babe, you gotta be kidding. No wonder you look like shit.”

“Yeah, well, I feel like shit, too.”

She went back to the counter and filled a mug from the coffee machine. “I’ve just renewed your prescription.”

He stared into the black liquid and said, “Can you inject this directly into my veins?”

“Look, I gotta go,” she said, leaning in to give him a light kiss on the cheek. “Maybe the mystery typist will return tonight and we can all have a drink together.”

Paul didn’t see the humor in the comment.

“What have you got on today?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Just my project.”

After Charlotte had left for work, he continued sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in. He noticed his hand was slightly trembling.

“God,” he said to himself. “You’re a mess.”

The door to his small study was open, and from where he sat, he could see the black Underwood typewriter sitting atop his makeshift desk, dwarfing the laptop next to it, facing in his direction.

The semicircular opening to the cathedral of keys struck Paul as a kind of garish smile.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Paul said, and went back to his coffee.





Seventeen

The following morning, more than twenty-four hours after it had all happened, Frank White still found himself trembling at the memory of it.

Anna, who had canceled all her appointments for the previous day but expected to return to work today, was sitting with her father at the kitchen table, stroking his hand. He’d hardly touched the scrambled eggs she had made for him.

“It’s okay, Dad.”

He nodded, slipped his hand away from hers and picked up his fork. “This looks good,” he said.

“There’s ketchup there if you want it.”

The doorbell rang. Frank’s entire body stiffened.

“It’s okay. It’s someone from the police.” She did half an eye roll. “Someone I’m expecting from the police. Who can maybe answer a few questions for us. Would you be okay here on your own for a few minutes?”

“Of course,” he said, a tiny bit of egg stuck to his lower lip. “I’m not a child.”

Anna smiled and, considering what he had just said, resisted the temptation to pick up his napkin and wipe his mouth.

Frank said, “I thought they were going to shoot me. I thought they were going to shoot you.”

“I know. But it didn’t happen. You’re okay and I’m okay.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Neither of us has a scratch on us.” She gave him another smile, hoping she could coax one out of him. “Never a dull moment around here, right?”

He nodded.

“And there’s more coffee if you want it.”

Finally, a smile from her father. “I could probably use something a bit stronger.”

She got up and left the kitchen. She opened the front door and found a short, heavyset black man in his forties standing there. His bushy black mustache made up for the few strands of hair he had on his head. He wore a sport jacket, dark blue shirt and tie, and jeans. He was ready with a badge to display for Anna.

“Hi,” he said. “Detective Joe Arnwright. Milford Police.”

“Come in,” she said.

“How are you today?” he asked, taking a seat in the living room. It wasn’t a polite greeting. He was clearly asking how she was compared to the day before.

“My father’s still very upset. I’m still very upset.”

Arnwright nodded sympathetically. “Of course.”

“They stormed in here,” she said. “We were asleep.”

“To be fair, they managed to open a window and came into the house very quietly in an effort—”

“Don’t you people do something to confirm that what someone’s telling you is true?”

“Dr. White, we’ve—”

“My father gets up to take a pee and finds men with guns in the hallway. It’s a wonder you didn’t give him a heart attack, let alone shoot him.”

Arnwright nodded patiently. “Their information, as you know, was that a man had already shot his wife and was going to shoot his daughter next. That’s what our officers believed they were coming into. They needed to assess the situation as quickly as possible to eliminate any threat. And that threat, they would have presumed, was against you. The daughter.”

“You were conned,” Anna said.

“I’m not disputing that.”

“They made my father lie on the floor and pointed guns at his head!” Anna said through gritted teeth. She managed to convey her anger without raising her voice. She did not want her father to hear all this. “An old man! With dementia!”