“Charlie told me he can put another dead bolt on the door.”
“I’d feel better if you stayed with me,” Larry said. “Unless you want to go back home. It’s okay if you do.”
“I thought we were going to Portland, to find Reggie.”
The constable wondered whom they were talking about. He was sure it had to do with Brightwood, but he didn’t want to ask.
“We are, if you’re up to it. I can drive.”
“What about my car?”
“We’ll leave it here. Later, if you decide you want to stay in the city, I can drive you back to pick it up.”
“Okay,” Amanda said.
The constable rose. He could see the fear on the young woman’s face. He felt bad for her.
“You said this fellow had a knife. What kind of knife? Did you see it?”
“What do you mean?” Amanda asked.
“Well, there are different kinds of knives. Look at pictures of them and get back to me if any of them look familiar.”
Amanda slept deeply, one hand pressed against her cheek, the side of her head against the cold car window. Larry felt strangely peaceful. When he was a cop, he always had a destination. He was always going someplace, helping someone. Being someone.
Since Marjorie died, he had been no one. It wasn’t just her death that he was grieving, he realized. He had been Marjorie’s husband and a police officer. Now he was neither.
Well, he was Amanda’s friend now.
As they reached the passes—there was snow on the distant mountains—Amanda stirred, and awakened. She tried her phone. No service. She yawned, stretched, and then rummaged through her bag.
“Looking for something?” Larry asked.
“Just this,” she said, pulling out a bottle of water and taking a sip. The color was back in her cheeks, and there was a red mark from where she had been resting against the glass. “I was going to check pictures of knives on my phone.”
“You could tell me what it looks like.”
“Long, curved. Like the tip went up.”
She remembered the glittering knife in the dark. The rain had made a shroud of the man, and outlined the knife.
“It had a hook on the top, like this.” She drew in the air.
“Sounds like a hunting knife with a gut hook.”
“A gut hook.” Amanda sounded sick.
“It’s okay. I’m here with you now,” Larry said, and he could have been back at work, driving a victim to the hospital, or talking to a young, distressed witness in the back seat, letting them unravel their life.
There was a small dark scar on Reggie’s ear, where an earring hole had once been. His partner, a much older, heavyset man with silvering hair, stood at the window of their downtown apartment. He turned, concerned.
“Of course I remember Brightwood,” Reggie said. “And your brother. And everything else.” His voice faltered.
Larry and Amanda were sitting in antique chairs upholstered indamask. The apartment was a riot of chintz and color. Outside, the streets of Portland pulsated. Amanda appeared to have recovered from her ordeal, but she still looked tired.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” Amanda said.
“It’s okay. I got Jerry here. Right, Jer?”
