All the Dark Places(3)

But it’s no use. He can’t hear me. He’s cold, lifeless. His neck gapes open beneath his stubbled chin. He’s still dressed in the clothes he was wearing last night. His eyes are half-shut, and his dark hair is soaked in the puddle surrounding him. I fall back against the filing cabinet, screams erupting from someplace deep in my soul.

*

Cops swarm through the house as I sit in a kitchen chair. My sister, Corrine, is on her way. Someone brought me my robe from upstairs and helped me into it. It was that young officer, I think. The first one who arrived and escorted me back to the house. It was nice of her, but I’m still numb, my feet, my whole body.

The house is a wreck. I peek up and look out into the living room. Beer bottles and wineglasses litter every end table, even the fireplace mantel. Leftover dips and finger foods are spread across the counter, congealing, a disgusting mess. But who’d have thought anyone would be here before I’d had time to clear it all away? Who’d have thought my husband would be lying dead in his office the morning after his party? I cry into my fleecy sleeve. Who would do this to Jay? My life is collapsing around me, and I feel like I’ve fallen into a dark pit.

I hear Corrine’s low, Lauren Bacall–like voice as she comes through the front door. She’s talking to one of the cops. Then she’s beside me, leaning over my shoulder, her perfume filling my nostrils. But it doesn’t displace the smell of blood.

“What the hell happened, Molly?” She pulls me to standing and squeezes me in her arms.

I bury my face in her woolly coat.

“Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions,” a man’s voice emanates from behind her.

Corrine turns to the cop and demands, “What’s happened here?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Let’s sit, okay?”

Somehow Corrine and I are sitting side by side while the husky, uniformed officer takes the chair across from us.

“I’m Sergeant Simmons,” he says, and lays a notepad on the table. “Mrs. Bradley?”

I clear my throat, swipe a tissue under my nose. “Yes?”

“I need you to tell me what happened.”

I try to breathe through my tears, try to pull a breath down into my chest. “Okay,” I squeak, and think back to when I woke up, try to put disjointed pieces together. “I got up this morning, and my husband wasn’t there, in bed. He’s an early riser . . . There wasn’t any coffee.” I start to cry again, and the cop leans back in his chair.

Corrine drums the table with her fingers. “Is this necessary right now? She’s distraught.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve got a dead man . . . You are?”

“Corrine Alworth. Her sister.”

He nods. “Okay. Mrs. Bradley, so you woke up this morning, what time?”

I’m at a loss. My head is throbbing. I have no idea, so I look at the time on the microwave and try to figure it out. “Uh.” It’s ten-fifteen now. “Nine o’clock, maybe a little after.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“ No.”

He glances around the room, at the mess. “Had a party last night?”

“My husband’s birthday.” I duck my head, lean against Corrine. I want to disappear.

“Were you here, Ms. Alworth?”

“No. I wasn’t,” she says.

Is she angry? I can’t always tell that about my big sister. She sounds angry a lot of the time. But she’d had other plans. I clutch my left forearm and work my fingers over my sleeve.

“Okay, Mrs. Bradley. You got up. Your husband wasn’t in bed. Then what did you do?”

“I came downstairs, and I saw the office door was open. He said last night that he was going to do some work after everybody left.”

“So he went out there last night?”

“Yes. That’s what he said he was going to do.”

“What time was that?” Sergeant Simmons’s round, moon-like face is slack, patient, and I want to answer his questions. I want to be helpful, but anguished thoughts skitter through my brain like birds I can’t catch.

“I don’t know. Late.”

“He always work late at night?”

“Yes, actually, he does.”

“Okay. Did you lock the doors when you went to bed?”

I honestly don’t know. My recollection is cloudy. We’d really had too much to drink. I’d had too much to drink. I barely remember walking up the stairs, and I’m suddenly cognizant of clumpy mascara sticking my lashes together, the gummy, unpleasant taste in my mouth. I hadn’t even washed for bed.

I choke on a sob, clear my throat. “I think Jay did.”

“But you don’t know?”

Sergeant Simmons tries to catch my gaze, but I can’t look at him. I don’t want him here. I don’t want my house filled with police officers touching our things, writing reports. I want Jay at the stove, flipping pancakes. Me beside him, frying bacon. I want to go back to yesterday. I shake my head, wipe my face with a tear-stained tissue.

“So you woke up this morning. Saw your husband wasn’t in bed. Went downstairs to investigate and saw the office door open? Then what?”

“I ran across the yard to look for him.” Corrine places a box in front of me, and I grab a fresh clump of tissues. I’m all snot and tears, as though I’m dissolving.