The Other Mrs.(54)

Twenty minutes or so, it went on this way.

The shore came closer. Buildings got larger. All the while, they were there, blocks on the horizon. But all of a sudden, they were big and gray like everything else that day.

When the ferry docked, I followed Will from the boat and across a pier. Somewhere on the other side of it, we hopped a bus. I dug in my bag, happy to see I had a Metra card.

I climbed aboard. I found a seat behind him.

The bus clomped along, shuttling us across town.

It wasn’t long before we arrived. Another college campus. More buildings covered in brick. I fell back into my usual routine, following Will as he walked, mirroring him, keeping twenty paces behind all the time.

I watched as he made his way to a building. I climbed the steps thirty seconds after he did. I followed him to a classroom, stood in the hallway and listened to him speak. His voice, it was easy on the ears. Like a babbling brook, the exhilarating rush of a waterfall. It excited and subdued me all at the same time, made me weak in the knees.

Will got all fired up, aroused, talking about population density, about people living in overcrowded conditions, drinking dirty water. I pressed my back to the wall and listened. Not to his words, those meant nothing to me, but to the sound of his voice.

There in the hallway, I closed my eyes, made believe every word out of his mouth was a secret message meant just for me.

When people came tumbling out, they were loud, raucous.

I stepped in when the room was empty.

He stood at the front of the room. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw me.

He was happy to see me. He was smiling, this full-out smile that he tried to hide but couldn’t. The corners of his lips turned up on their own.

I can’t believe it, he said, coming to me, scooping me up into his arms. I can’t believe you’re here. What are you doing here? he asked.

I told him, I came to see you. I missed you.

He asked, How did you know where to find me?

I said with a wink, I followed you here. I think you have a stalker, Professor Foust.



SADIE


I jog home from the coffee shop. The temperatures have dropped even more than before. The rain has turned to sleet, striking me in the eyes so that I stare only at the concrete as I run. It comes down heavy and thick, sticking to my clothing. Before long, this sleet will be snow.

As I approach our house, I hear the sound of a car engine idling nearby, up the hill, ahead of me. I lift my eyes in time to see a Crown Victoria parked at the end of the Nilssons’ drive. The engine is running, exhaust fumes drifting past the red taillights and into the cold air. There’s a man standing beside the Nilssons’ mailbox. On a day such as this, no one should be outside.

I slow down my pace, put a hand to my brow to repel the sleet. My view of the man is obstructed because of the weather and the distance. But it doesn’t matter. I know who it is; I’ve watched this same scene before.

There, not fifty yards from where I stand, is Officer Berg. He hovers behind the rear of his Crown Victoria, with an item in hand. He looks around to be sure no one’s watching before forcing it into the Nilssons’ mailbox. I manage to slip behind a tree just in time.

Officer Berg has done this before, the same day he interrogated Will and me in our home. I watched after he left, as he drove to the Nilssons’ mailbox and left something there that day, too.

It’s the circumspection that piques my interest the most. What is he leaving in the Nilsson mailbox that he doesn’t want anyone else to know about?

Berg closes the receptacle door and climbs back into his car. He pulls away, over the crest of the hill. Curiosity gets the best of me. I know I shouldn’t and yet I do. I push the wet hair from my face, jog up the street. I reach in and take the item from the mailbox with none of the circumspection Officer Berg had.

Nearby, under the canopy of a tree, I see that it’s an unmarked envelope, sealed shut, with a sheaf of paper packed inside. I hold the envelope up to the negligible light. I can’t be certain, but I’m quite sure it’s a wad of cash.

The rev of a car engine in the distance startles me. I thrust the envelope back in the mailbox and walk quickly home.

It’s midmorning, but for as dreary as it is outside, it might as well be the middle of the night. I hurry inside my home, closing and locking the door behind myself. The dogs come running to greet me and I’m grateful for their company.

I turn away from the window. In the foyer, I trip over something. It’s a toy, one of Tate’s toys, which, upon closer inspection, is a doll. I think nothing of it, the fact that it’s a doll. We’re not into gender-specific toys in our home. If Tate wants to play with a doll over Transformers, so be it. But it’s the placement of it that upsets me, lying in the middle of the foyer so that someone might trip. I kick it aside, taking my anxiety out on the poor doll.

I call Will but he’s in the middle of a lecture. When he finally gets a chance to call me back, I tell him about the coroner report, about the boning knife. But Will already knows because he read about it once he reached the mainland this morning.

“It’s horrible,” he says, and together we chew over how tragic and unthinkable the whole thing is.

“Are we safe here?” I ask Will, and when he hesitates—because how can either of us know if we’re safe?—I say decisively, “I think that we should leave.”