The Night Before(36)

“What?” Rosie asked.

“Gratitude. For Dan. For that boring guy who sits on the couch watching football and doesn’t hear a word I say, but loves me and is honest and loyal and doesn’t call me a cunt when we’re making love. That man, Billy or Buck, or Jonathan or whoever the hell he is—he’s sick and he’s a liar. He’s never who he says he is. But I try now to think of him as a gift. Because he showed me what kind of monsters are out there.

“Promise me,” she said then, taking hold of Rosie’s arm this time. “Promise me that you will never tell anyone about this. I can’t lose what I have. Not over this. Please.”

“Of course,” Rosie reassured her. “I won’t say a word. But can you just sit with me a little longer? Tell me more things about him, the stories he told, things he said about his past, anything—it might help me find him. And then find my sister.”

Sylvia nodded. “Okay,” she said. “But then you have to promise me another thing.”

“Name it.”

“I’m not a vengeful person. Or a violent person. But if you do find him, I want to know who he is,” she said. “And somehow, I want him to pay.”





NINETEEN


Laura. Session Number Eleven. Two Months Ago. New York City.

Dr. Brody: It can become confused in the mind. Intimacy and sex. Power and sex.

Laura: You sound like an article in Cosmo.

Dr. Brody: I know. It’s cliché. Do you remember when it changed? You used to find power through other things—chasing vampires and climbing trees. Even school and sports.

Laura: Jumping through hoops.

Dr. Brody: Maybe. But it changed, didn’t it? What brought that change?

Laura: It’ll sound absurd to you.

Dr. Brody: Try me.

Laura: It was a kiss. Everything changed with one kiss.





TWENTY


Laura. The Night Before. Thursday, 10:30 p.m. Branston, CT.

Jonathan Fielding lives in a nice building, with navy blue carpeting in the hallways and beige wallpaper. All of the trim is gold, so it looks elegant and fancy. Maybe a bit old-fashioned, but that’s normal for this town.

We don’t speak in the elevator. We don’t speak as we walk down the hall to his door. Or when he finds the key and puts it in the lock, turns the knob, and lets us in.

“Here it is,” he says, finally. “Home sweet home.”

Only it’s not sweet at all. And it doesn’t feel like anybody’s home. It’s close to empty.

He deciphers my expression and makes a preemptive excuse.

“I know, I know.” His hands are held up in front of him, head bowed like he’s making an apology. Humble. Contrite. “I haven’t had time to get it properly furnished.”

That’s an understatement.

I walk in and look wall to wall. On the left is the kitchen. It’s very white and clean, as though it rarely gets used. There is noth ing on the counter except take-out menus and plastic silverware. Not even a saltshaker. Not even a dirty glass he didn’t have time to put in the dishwasher.

Dead center is the living room. There’s a small sofa against the wall. It’s black leather and has no pillows. It faces the opposing wall where a very large television sits on the floor, propped up on a temporary stand. It’s waiting to be hung. Beside it is a cable box and some wires going into the wall.

There is nothing else. Not a coffee table. Not a painting or a picture or a rug. Absolutely. Nothing.

“Okay,” I say skeptically as I gather this information along with the other things he’s told me over the past three hours.

He said he’s been divorced for a year. He said he lived here even before that and worked here as well. He said he only commuted to the city a few times a month.

More things to add to my list of concerns—with the car and the woman (yes, I add her back on the list now) and the fact that he’s stayed here voluntarily, in this small town where he has to get dates on a website.

I begin my inquisition.

“So tell me you moonlight for the CIA.”

He laughs nervously. Throws his keys on the bare kitchen counter. They make a loud noise as they slide across it. There’s nothing on the counter to stop them.

“What?” he asks.

“You’ve been here a year and all you have is one sofa? Didn’t you get anything from your old house? I thought people divided things up when they got divorced.”

Eyebrows raised, tilted head. Wry smile. That crooked smile. Is it endearing? Or was I wrong before? Is it smug?

“I know. I just … I didn’t want any of it. It all reminded me of her and our life together. It’s not like I still love her or anything. But it is the death of a dream, right? The dream I had of a family and all that.”

Hmmm … Jonathan Fielding, you can do better than that. Can’t you?

“But then you didn’t just make a run to IKEA and load up? Do you even have any dishes?”

Jonathan Fielding opens a cupboard and points proudly to a set of white plates and glass tumblers.

“You want a drink?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Sure,” I say. But I return to the subject. “Seriously. You’ve really been here for a year? Living like this?”