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It was Saturday, so there was no Kimmel or Colbert or Fallon. She picked up the book on her bedside table. It was the latest James Lee Burke, and as was often the case, Robicheaux was having a hard time trying to stop his friend Cletus from ripping someone’s head off. Shortly after midnight, having read only two pages, she felt her eyelids slamming shut.
She hit the light and went to sleep.
Brie woke shortly before five and couldn’t get back to sleep, wondering whether there were any tiny footprints in the flour in front of the sink. Her curiosity won out over her desire to go back to sleep, so she got out of bed, turned on some lights, as it was still dark outside, and descended the stairs.
As she reached the first floor, she felt a tingle of excitement mixed with dread. There was an atmosphere of suspense in the moments leading up to finding out whether there had been any creatures in the kitchen, but at the same time, she was worried about the consequences. Once any infestation was confirmed, she knew she’d go into a cleaning frenzy, emptying the cupboards and drawers of every pot, pan, knife, fork, and spatula a mouse might have touched and running them all through the dishwasher.
Brie held her breath as she entered the kitchen, flicked on the light, and gazed down at the floor.
There were definitely footprints. But they weren’t from mice. Not unless mice wore size-twelve boots.
Brie gasped.
At that moment, she thought she heard something behind her. She whirled around.
There wasn’t even time to scream.
Six Years Later
Saturday
One
It felt surreal.
Which was kind of crazy. It was the most commonplace of activities, shopping in a grocery store. Pushing her cart up and down the aisles. Pausing to look at all the fresh produce. Checking out a head of cauliflower. Looking for bananas that were still green. Glancing at the dozens of different boxed cereals. Sugary and delicious and bad for you, or full of fiber and yucky and good for you. About a hundred different kinds of coffee. Had she ever noticed before today how many brands there were? Maybe this was why an activity so mundane suddenly felt strange and unfamiliar. It was as though she were doing it for the first time.
Or at least the first time in ages.
She had grocery-shopped a thousand times—and that was in no way an exaggeration. A thousand, easily. Say you went out for provisions twice a week. That was more than a hundred times a year. And given that she was in her mid-thirties, and had been doing her own shopping since moving out of her parents’ home at age twenty, well, there you go. Do the math.
That’s a lot of trips to the local Stop & Shop or Whole Foods or Walmart.
But today was different because she really didn’t know what to buy. Did it even matter what she tossed into the cart? She’d entered the store without a list. The basics seemed like a safe way to go. Milk, eggs, fruit. A six-pack of beer. She wondered if a list would have been a good idea. It would have helped her pick up things Andrew liked.
Maybe what made this trip feel so strange was that she didn’t want to be spotted. Didn’t want to run into anyone who knew her. Not at this point. So she kept her head down as she went up and down the aisles. Tried to withdraw into herself. She was thinking that the next time she went out for groceries, she’d pick a place she didn’t usually frequent.
At one point, she thought maybe she’d been spotted, recognized, despite the steps she had taken. As she was passing by the meat counter, a man, shopping alone, attempted to engage her in conversation. He was probably fifty, gray hair, tweed sport jacket, white shirt with a button-down collar. Handsome and, she was betting, divorced or widowed, because he was clearly hitting on her.
They were almost shoulder to shoulder when he picked up a roast wrapped in cellophane and said, “How long would you cook something like this?”
Trying to strike up a conversation.
“I’ve no idea,” she said. “I don’t eat meat.”
Not the best comeback, considering she had already dropped a small package of ground beef into her cart. The man noticed, and said, “Well, you might want to put that back, then.”
She ignored him and quickly pushed the cart farther up the aisle, pretty sure she heard him mutter, “Bitch,” under his breath.
As she went down the aisle stocked with multiple varieties of potato chips and other snacks, she thought one woman had given her a second look, but then convinced herself that she was being paranoid. It wasn’t like anyone had stopped her and said, “Hey, is that you?”
She was starting to wonder whether this shopping excursion had been such a good idea, but she’d really believed it necessary. Anyway, by this point she thought she had enough in the cart, and headed for the row of checkouts. She’d bought half a dozen too many items to qualify for the express line, and wondered whether to put a few things back. But in the time it would take to return them, she might as well go to one of the regular checkouts.
“You need bags?” the hefty woman at the register asked.
She nodded.
“You got one of our points cards?”
