Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(43)

Except not in our driveway or in our backyard. Thomas had lied about that.

I place the folded quilt on one of the lower steps, open the hall closet, and reach automatically for my tan, flannel-lined barn jacket. Next I find my black clogs, because in the backcountry, with mucky roads and sidewalks, clogs are my shoes of choice. Not my tennis shoes. I can’t imagine Wednesday night why I grabbed tennis shoes.

Because they were sitting right there and I had to get out fast.

The phone ringing.

Hello, I said.

And then . . .

My head hurts. I rub my temples unconsciously. I should take more Advil. Or maybe serious painkillers. But I don’t want to fog myself even more. I might be the one who ordered this little jaunt, but I’m also the one fatiguing fast. Thomas hadn’t been wrong. I really do need to rest.

I reach into the closet for one last thing. Peg behind the door. It isn’t there. I finger the spot again, and the older detective, Wyatt, catches the motion.

“What are you looking for?”

I have to think about it. “A hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“Ball cap. Black.” With a brim I can pull low. For example, to better obscure my features when purchasing from the local liquor store.

I shake off the memory, feeling unpleasant, vaguely dirty, like I’ve walked through spiderwebs.

“You’re sure your husband isn’t coming?” the other detective, Kevin, checks.

“He has to work.”

“He works a lot,” Wyatt states.

I nod, because what can I say? According to Thomas this project is important. Except I have no idea what the project is.

The detectives escort me out of the house. They’re driving one of the county’s white-painted SUVs, the NORTH COUNTRY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side. I’ve seen the vehicles parked enough times along the back roads. Sometimes, the uniformed officers engage in traffic stops, but Thomas once told me deputies spent most of their time transferring prisoners around the state. The vehicles I see parked here and there are actually waiting to receive or hand off inmates.

Maybe that’s why I feel so uncomfortable when the detectives open the rear passenger door and gesture for me to climb in. My wrists should be cuffed, I think. This is it: the beginning of the end.

I’m surprised when Kevin goes around, gets in the other side next to me. To watch my responses, play more of the memory game? Or do they not trust me alone?

I place the quilt on my lap. The feel of it against my clasped hands helps ground me and I’m glad I brought it.

Wyatt puts the large vehicle into gear, backs out of our drive.

I have one last glimpse of my home. Thomas’s dark frame silhouetted in the upstairs window.

Then my husband disappears from me.


* * *



WE DRIVE FOR a while in silence. There is a barrier between the backseat and the front, formed from Plexiglas maybe, something scratchy but clear. The rear seat isn’t the hard plastic used in so many squad cars for easy cleaning after transporting vomiting drunks. Instead, Kevin and I share the SUV’s original gray upholstered bench seat. It’s comfortable enough, makes it easier to pretend we’re all just friends going out for a drive.

If I look ahead, though, into the front section of the sheriff’s transport, I can see the bulked-up dash, with radio, mounted laptop and all kinds of bells and whistles even my cutting-edge Audi never had. Wyatt is murmuring something into the radio, though with the divider closed it’s hard to hear. Making further arrangements? Maybe I’ll end the night arrested yet.

I try to look out my window, but the impression of rushing darkness makes me nauseous. I wish I were back in the upstairs bedroom, lying beneath my quilt with an ice pack on my forehead. The cool black. The icy oasis to ease the throbbing in my head.

The SUV slows, comes to a stop. Blinker is on. We make a right turn. Off my back road onto a more major thoroughfare. Five minutes pass, maybe ten; then civilization begins to appear. A small strip mall here, a gas station, grocery store, there. A New Hampshire state liquor store.

I feel my body tense. Ready to turn in. Where I buy my supply, I think without thinking. But the sheriff’s vehicle keeps on driving.

“Familiar?” Kevin asks me, clearly cuing off my body language.

“I run my errands here.”

“Makes sense. Shops closest to your house.”

“The bottle of scotch I had that night. Do you know where I bought it from?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Was it there, that state liquor store?” Because in New Hampshire, you can buy beer and wine in a grocery store, but not hard liquor. That’s controlled by the state.

“Not that store,” the detective says, surprising me.

The vehicle is still moving. This road is nicely paved, which is always a perk in the North Country. I find myself closing my eyes, allowing the movement to lull me. I’m tired. Very tired. That underwater feeling has returned. As if none of this is real, or even happening.

I’m floating along, weightless, senseless. If I could just stay this way, maybe I would never be hurt again.

“Mommy, mommy, look at me. I can fly.”

But it’s not the flying that’s the hard part. It’s the landing, always the landing, that gets us in the end.

I hear myself sigh. A long and mournful sound.