The German Wife(116)

“I hear you,” Tucker said, dropping his tone, as if to de-escalate the tension. I drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. “But what I don’t understand is why no one we’ve interviewed so far can confirm a single thing you’ve just told us. Avril tells me you and she have become quite close, yet she didn’t mention a thing about this potential—what, assault by dinner plate? Or a break-in? Or Henry Davis lingering outside your house? If any of that really happened, Mrs. Rhodes, you must have been distressed—why didn’t you tell anyone? We even asked Klaus Schmidt and some of your other neighbors if they’d noticed anything unusual at your house. They all told us about the graffiti and that scene you caused at the Redstone Arsenal picnic, but had nothing else to report.”

“When Jürgen wakes up, he’ll tell you,” I whispered fiercely.

“If he wakes up,” Johnson said flatly. “I got the impression that was far from a sure thing when I spoke to the hospital earlier.”

I stared at them helplessly, but then a thought struck me. There were other people who knew at least part of what had been going on.

“Talk to Lizzie or Calvin Miller.”

After that, they moved me back to the cell.



46


Lizzie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

“Henry left last night,” I said brightly. I was carrying a basket of linen, freshly stripped from Henry’s bed. Calvin liked to sleep in on Saturdays, then usually went into the office for a few hours to catch up on some paperwork while the place was quiet. By the time he emerged from his room, I’d torn through Henry’s apartment and stripped the place down to its bones. I tore Henry’s notes up into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. The rest of his bullets and a tin of red paint I found in his closet were in a cardboard box in my laundry, along with Sofie Rhodes’s photographs, tucked safely in an envelope I’d already stamped and addressed to her home.

There was nothing I could do about the gun, since Henry wasn’t sure where he’d dropped it. I just had to hope that since he’d bought it months ago and likely in another city, the police couldn’t trace it back to him.

“He left last night?” Calvin repeated, frowning. “He didn’t even say goodbye?”

“He had a falling-out with Walt at the lumberyard,” I said, lying on the fly and hating every second of it. I’d never lied to Cal before. “But Henry heard about a job up north. He just had to be there to start today. So I encouraged him to go.”

“You were so worried about him...” Cal said, bewildered. “We were going to talk to him about seeing a doctor today. You just let him leave instead?”

“I figured it was best if he got out of Huntsville.”

“How did he even hear about this job?” Calvin said, peering at me. “I didn’t hear the phone ring last night.”

“You do sleep so deeply,” I pointed out. Then I flushed and avoided his gaze, thinking about that awkward middle-of-the-night encounter we’d had on Thursday. I stared at a knot in the floorboards and laughed nervously as I added, “Anyway, he called an old friend late to catch up and that’s when he learned about the job.”

I felt so many things, and not all of them made sense. I was ashamed and deeply upset for the Rhodes family—something I thought I’d never feel. I was so anxious I felt ill. I was confused. Henry was in trouble, and my instincts were to protect him. That was earnest—a pure expression of my love. But as my brother drove away, I was already wondering if I’d done the right thing.

“I’m worried about him. And more than a little hurt that he didn’t say goodbye this time,” Calvin admitted.

“He didn’t want to wake you,” I said. There was a rough edge to my voice, and I hoped that Calvin heard it as sadness that Henry was gone again. He offered me a sympathetic smile, then downed the last of his coffee.

“Do you want me to stay home today?” he offered. “I could help you in the garden?”

“It’s going to be so hot,” I said, my throat tight. “I’ll probably just wash the linen and maybe read a book. You should go.”

I knew he’d be back, probably sooner rather than later because it wouldn’t take long for word to reach the base about what had happened. My husband would inevitably come rushing home with questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

I hadn’t let myself think that far ahead. I had to go to the mailbox to send the photos back to Sofie Rhodes, and then I had to find a safe place far from my house so I could dispose of the bullets and the tin of red paint.

As soon as Cal’s car left, I ran to the laundry room and picked up the box of things from Henry’s room, intending to rush to my car to dispose of it all. But as I reached my door, I heard an engine on the street. Was Cal returning already?

No. It was worse.

A police car pulled into the driveway and parked behind my car. Panicking, I dropped the box to the floor and shoved it beneath a lamp table in the corner of my living room. The lace table square on the table hung only a few inches over the edges. The box was visible, but surely it wouldn’t arouse suspicion even if the officers did notice it.

Then I straightened my shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

I showed Detective Johnson and his partner, Detective Tucker, inside and invited them to take a seat. I offered them coffee, which they declined. I dropped into my armchair when I realized my nervous hovering was probably making me look guilty. When I caught myself picking at the skin around my fingernails, I jammed my hands under my thighs. I resisted a bizarre urge to keep looking toward the box in the corner of the room.