The Vanishing Year(75)
Yates nods. “Technically, yes. For now. I think it’s best that you stay at a hotel. Somewhere in the city.”
“Yes. I understand that.” Henry holds his arm out, toward me. I know he’s thinking of Fishing Lake. My mind spins.
“She needs to stay close by, Mr. Whittaker.” Yates’s voice is stern, in a way I’ve never heard another person talk to him. “This is an active investigation. We need to be able to get a hold of Zoe.”
“Yes, Officer, I understand that. I have a house about an hour away.” He’s resolute and Yates pushes her mouth together, her arms on her hips, her starched blue uniform gapping in the chest. Her broad shoulders rival Henry’s and she looks at him, just as determined.
“I’d advise to keep her here,” she demands. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Henry, the house won’t be safe,” I interject, playing peacekeeper.
“It’s all right, darling. I’ve got security coming. I just need to arrange it.” He holds up a hand in Yates’s direction and mollifies, “Just find this Jared person. I want this bastard caught.” He herds me into the street, swooped and protective, so I don’t even have time to say good-bye to Lydia, Javi, and Elisa, or thank you to Cash. He ushers me into the back of a car and we’re in the street headed downtown before I can think.
What could possibly be the connection between Caroline, Joan, and Jared? What happened to Mick, how does he fit into all of this? I trace back Evelyn’s relationship with Mick in my mind. Their meeting at the beach. His seemingly random disappearances. What is his connection to Caroline? I try to connect these dots, but pain pulses a quick beat behind my eyes.
Henry pats my hand the whole car ride, as though it’s a pet. I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t find the words. The sun hangs low in the sky, slung between buildings, orange and bright. Within minutes, we’re in the Lincoln Tunnel, speeding to safety. Henry the Hero. I check my phone to make sure it’s on. Waiting, waiting. As we speed through the tunnel, the side lights flickering past the window remind me of a searchlight, seeking out lost, drifting ships. Seeking, seeking something. I touch my finger to the glass.
CHAPTER 24
By the time we get to the house, evening has fallen, quiet and thick. The sky is blue-gray, clouds covering the stars, and in the country, so much emptier than twilight in the city. Henry lets us in and the air smells freshly laundered, clean and safe. The innocence of dryer sheets.
The kitchen contains a cold spread: cheese and hummus, fresh vegetables so crisp I find myself looking around for Penny, who couldn’t have left more than moments ago. There’s no one, of course. It wasn’t that long ago that I found this sort of convenient arrangement of our lives to be charming, like a party card trick. A sleight of hand here, a simple misdirection there, and Voilà, here’s your dinner. Now, it crawls under my skin and festers there, like a chigger, and the whole thing makes me itch.
Henry makes me tea, chamomile, lightly sweetened with honey that he insists on serving me in bed, against my protest. It’s barely eight o’clock for God’s sake. My head feels so heavy and I want to do nothing but sleep.
“You must be exhausted. Please, let me take care of you.” He pulls the covers up to my lap, fluffs my pillows. His hair is flopping down on his forehead and he’s changed into a dark oxford shirt and khaki shorts. He looks relaxed, nurturing, his eyebrows pulled together in concern. He keeps kissing me, my forehead, my hands, my cheeks. As you are woman, so be lovely.
He brings me a hot washcloth for my headache. He brushes my hair, kneads my back, his thumbs working the tender muscles between my shoulder blades. I let him. His hands guide me back down to the bed, lying on my back, and his fingers work the buttons on my blouse. I close my eyes and let him remove my clothes until the breeze blows in, chilling my skin where he’s kissed it. His fingers trace circles around my belly, my thighs, my breasts, and I let him. They find me open and wet between my legs and I let him.
I feel loosely disconnected, lubricated at the joints, floating above the bed, watching now-naked Henry make love to me, slow, insistent, loving. His face flickers in the light of a candle I don’t remember lighting, and it embodies one word: rapture.
I don’t come. I feel numb and weightless, like I’ve had too much to drink. Or like I’ve taken something. A thought pops in my head but flitters out before I can catch it. Henry shudders and bucks, his soft yelps in my ear remind me of a caged puppy, and he whispers things I can’t quite hear.
Except one. My most precious thing. He says it again and again until I fall asleep, hard, like falling off a cliff.
? ? ?
I dream of Evelyn, her teeth bared, red and bloody. She screeches, What have you done? She comes at me, hands clawed out to attack my neck, my throat. I can feel her nails on my neck, my collarbone, scratching, and she shrieks like a banshee, her hair wild. Her hatred is so real, so palpable, that I wake up wrapped in sheets soaked with sweat. Henry isn’t in bed.
It’s two a.m. I roam the house and find him sitting in the kitchen, sipping bourbon. He leads me back upstairs, changes the sheets, and tucks me in. I sink into the freshly made bed. I’m quite sure I can’t handle even one more little thing. Henry’s quiet care is such a relief. He brings me orange juice, For strength, he whispers, and I drink it gratefully, chugging it in large, heaving gulps.