“All I’ve ever wanted,” Thomas muttered, “was to keep her safe. Take the jacket, all right. Take whatever you want. Then leave us alone. We were better off without you. You have my word.”

He headed up the stairs, chasing his wife.

Chapter 16

THOMAS FOLLOWS ME up to my bedroom. I think he’ll protest more. Maybe grab me by my shoulders, turn me roughly until I have no choice but to face him. Through sheer force of personality, he’ll get his way. Do I want him to argue? Manhandle me physically? Pin me against his chest? Is this how our arguments usually end?

But he does nothing at all. Merely stands in the doorway as I pick out a pair of jeans, a heavier sweater, from the guest room closet.

Maybe he didn’t come up to argue. Maybe he’s simply waiting for me to hand over my stash of scotch.

I close the door in his face so I can change my clothes, finish my preparations. But when I open it two minutes later, Thomas is still waiting for me.

“Are you coming?” I ask curiously, having expected him to update his own wardrobe.

“No.”

It brings me up short. Somehow, I’d been sure he’d ride along, if only to continue his role of protective husband.

“I need to work,” he says.

“Seriously? Your job is that important?”

“This project is.”

The detectives, Wyatt and Kevin, are waiting for us downstairs. I should get moving. But when I go to push pass my husband, he touches my arm, light enough, gentle enough, to draw me up short.

“Why?” he asks quietly. “I’ve certainly done everything in my power to help you. And still you have a secret supply of scotch?”

I don’t say anything, just feel my heart accelerate in my chest. Shame, I think. Remorse. Guilt. Something else I can’t quite figure out. I can’t look him in the eye. I don’t dare pull away. And I still don’t volunteer to hand over my stash.

“If you can’t dump it,” Thomas continues, “at least tell me where it is. While you’re gone, I’ll take care of it.”

“No.”

“Nicky, for the love of God, I just got you out of the hospital—”

“It’s all I have,” I hear myself whisper, and I understand in that moment that it’s true. I don’t have family. I don’t have friends. I don’t remember my past; I don’t know if I have a future. What I have is a hoarded treasure trove of tiny little bottles. No more, no less.

“You have your quilt,” my husband says.

I frown at him, uncertain. He points to the daybed, where I notice the butter-yellow quilt has been folded neatly and placed at the end. Did he do that? Did I do that and already forget?

“You should take the quilt with you,” Thomas tells me. “Maybe it’ll bring you luck.”

“I can’t go on a ride along with two cops with a blanky. That’s . . . ridiculous.”

“Nicky.”

The tone of his voice is serious. So serious I pause again, find myself studying him long and hard. A million images flash across my mind. Us laughing, us kissing, us racing across sandy beaches, us scaling rocky mountain cliffs. We lived. We loved. And once, it had been enough. I know all that, staring at him.

I’m sad, in a place way down deep that prior to now, I didn’t even know existed. I’m going to lose him. Have known that for a while now. Perhaps even a better reason to hoard secret bottles of scotch. Because for twenty-two years, this man has been my world. He’s my sole companion, my best friend, my biggest burr of annoyance, and my largest source of solace. He’s been my everything.

Except that kind of relationship isn’t healthy. For either of us.

“Take the quilt with you,” my husband murmurs. “The next few hours are going to be demanding. You might get tired, suffer another headache. The detectives will understand you having a blanket in case you need to rest.”

He’s already reaching for the quilt as he speaks. He presses the solid square in my arms, where I instinctively clutch it against my chest. I feel the softness of the familiar fabric against my fingers, inhale a scent that is both comforting and lonely.

I cried when this quilt came in the mail. Now I want to cry again.

“You have a picture of Vero,” I hear myself say.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. I found it in your closet.”

My husband smiles, but it is sad, faint. “No,” he repeats quietly. “I don’t. Now, if you’re really going to do this, time to go downstairs, get it done.

“Just remember,” he says, as he moves me away from him. “The problem with asking questions is that you can’t control all the answers. Life is like that. Especially for you and me.”

*   *   *

THE DETECTIVES ARE clearly surprised that Thomas isn’t joining us. They exchange glances but don’t immediately say anything. Nor do they comment on the blanket I’m carrying under my arm. Apparently Thomas is right: A woman with a concussion can get away with most anything.

The younger detective—Kevin, the sergeant had called him—is holding Thomas’s raincoat. Apparently, my husband agreed to part with it after all. So they could test sand. Funny, I’d never thought about it before, but in New England, there’s a lot of roadside sand.

Except not in our driveway or in our backyard. Thomas had lied about that.

I place the folded quilt on one of the lower steps, open the hall closet, and reach automatically for my tan, flannel-lined barn jacket. Next I find my black clogs, because in the backcountry, with mucky roads and sidewalks, clogs are my shoes of choice. Not my tennis shoes. I can’t imagine Wednesday night why I grabbed tennis shoes.

Because they were sitting right there and I had to get out fast.

The phone ringing.

Hello, I said.

And then . . .

My head hurts. I rub my temples unconsciously. I should take more Advil. Or maybe serious painkillers. But I don’t want to fog myself even more. I might be the one who ordered this little jaunt, but I’m also the one fatiguing fast. Thomas hadn’t been wrong. I really do need to rest.

I reach into the closet for one last thing. Peg behind the door. It isn’t there. I finger the spot again, and the older detective, Wyatt, catches the motion.

“What are you looking for?”

I have to think about it. “A hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“Ball cap. Black.” With a brim I can pull low. For example, to better obscure my features when purchasing from the local liquor store.

I shake off the memory, feeling unpleasant, vaguely dirty, like I’ve walked through spiderwebs.

“You’re sure your husband isn’t coming?” the other detective, Kevin, checks.

“He has to work.”

“He works a lot,” Wyatt states.

I nod, because what can I say? According to Thomas this project is important. Except I have no idea what the project is.

The detectives escort me out of the house. They’re driving one of the county’s white-painted SUVs, the NORTH COUNTRY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side. I’ve seen the vehicles parked enough times along the back roads. Sometimes, the uniformed officers engage in traffic stops, but Thomas once told me deputies spent most of their time transferring prisoners around the state. The vehicles I see parked here and there are actually waiting to receive or hand off inmates.

Maybe that’s why I feel so uncomfortable when the detectives open the rear passenger door and gesture for me to climb in. My wrists should be cuffed, I think. This is it: the beginning of the end.

I’m surprised when Kevin goes around, gets in the other side next to me. To watch my responses, play more of the memory game? Or do they not trust me alone?

I place the quilt on my lap. The feel of it against my clasped hands helps ground me and I’m glad I brought it.

Wyatt puts the large vehicle into gear, backs out of our drive.