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“Sure,” I said. It’s so hot out, I thought. Why was Rhonda Jean wearing that jacket? And why didn’t she have any luggage?
And suddenly, I was cold. The summer heat evaporated and a chill blasted through me, so real and so heavy I let out a surprised breath. It felt like a bubble of icy air had ripped straight through my body, freezing my throat. As the July sun beat mercilessly above me, I shivered hard.
Officer Syed didn’t seem to notice. He was walking away, wiping his forehead again.
The cold dissipated, and then I was dizzy. My stomach roiled and my head ached as if I had the flu. I blinked and bent, putting my hands on my knees and trying not to throw up as the feeling passed.
Sweat popped on my skin, coating my face and making my sunglasses slide down my nose. I could feel Detective Quentin still looking at me. Maybe they were all looking at me now.
Before I straightened, my gaze caught on something next to my feet. A corner of faded pink visible from under the dirt and dead leaves on the side of the road. Getting myself together, I leaned down and tugged at it.
It was a cloth flower. It was old and weathered, the cheap silk faded and dirty. The plastic stem was snapped, as if the flower had been part of a bouquet at some point. The rest of the bouquet was long gone.
Attached to the flower was a small card with faded writing on it, the letters inked in calligraphy. Through the dirt, I could still read the words.
In memory of Katharine O’Connor. March 2, 1993.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The police kept us until noon. When we finished pointing out what we remembered on Atticus Line, they brought us to the Coldlake Falls police station to take a formal statement.
They questioned us separately. My interview took an hour and a half, during which I was asked over and over to repeat my version of last night’s events. I left out the truck and the girl Eddie thought he’d seen in the truck bed. I left out the flower I’d seen by the side of the road. And, of course, I left out everything about both Eddie’s past and mine. Other than that, I was honest.
It was as good as they were going to get from me.
When they finished with us, they drove us in another squad car back to Rose’s. The sun was at its merciless zenith, pulsing high in the cloudless sky. The window air conditioners at the B and B were humming loudly and the lights were off, the living room lit by bright sunlight coming through the lacy curtains. Rose was nowhere to be seen, but there were two tuna sandwiches in plastic wrap on the kitchen table with a handwritten note: Eat it if you want it.
We ate the sandwiches in silence. Exhaustion was creeping up on me, mixing with the heat and lack of sleep and pulsing behind my eyes. Eddie was restless, deep in thought. When we adjourned to our bedroom, he changed into his shorts and sneakers.
“I’m going for a run,” he said.
I knew better than to point out how hot it was outside. Eddie was used to it, and he didn’t care. He was a dedicated runner. “Wear sunscreen,” I said, pushing my sneakers off and getting on the bed. “Drink water.”
He grinned at me, the first smile I’d seen from him all day, and I remembered it yet again: We were married. Actually married. For a second I ached for the honeymoon we could have had, lazily swimming and then making love. Despite everything, I had the urge to pull him into bed with me right now, but this room was creepy, and Rose could listen outside the door at any minute. I sighed. It was going to have to wait.
“I’m bad luck,” I told him.
“It’s me who’s bad luck,” he replied. “It’s followed me all my life.”
“That’s not true. Your parents are nice. You had a nice childhood.”
“I had a nice childhood after my parents adopted me,” he corrected me.
He’d been six when his mother gave him up, old enough to have memories of her. Old enough to be aware that she didn’t want him anymore.
But he’d been adopted almost immediately, and his adopted parents were good, kind people. His adopted family had aunts and uncles and cousins in Ann Arbor. I’d met some of them, and their kindness was alien to me, their commitment to chatting about chili recipes and watching football games almost unnerving. These were people who had led decent, stable lives, and if they were a little boring, it was a small price to pay. I had started to wonder if I could let myself have a life like that.
It had almost seemed possible until Eddie and I ended up in Coldlake Falls, covered in blood.
“Maybe both of us are bad luck,” I said. I leaned over the bed and scrutinized the shelf under the bedside table. “What are the odds that Rose has a subscription to Glamour so I have something to read?”
“Not good,” Eddie said.
I found a paperback novel and picked it up. It was Flowers in the Attic. “There is something very wrong with that woman,” I said.
“Shh. She might be listening.” Eddie walked to the door. “I’ll do my best not to get murdered while I’m on my run. I’ll be back in a little while.”
I watched him go, because he was Eddie and I was allowed to appreciate the back of him as he left a room. Then I turned on the fan in the corner to bolster the whiff of cold air coming from the air conditioner, propped myself on pillows on the fussy bed, and started reading Flowers in the Attic for the first time since I was fifteen, while Princess Diana watched silently above my head, judging. I fell asleep after the first ten pages.
