Page 33 of Wrong Mail

"Oregon," David says.

"Oregon." Rodriguez nods. "Portland's a good city. You get back there much?"

"From time to time."

Rodriguez's eyes move between us, no smile, and then he looks back down at his notes.

"And Mr. Erickson?"

"What about him?"

"How was he as a neighbor? And like his wife, did he have any extracurricular activities he liked to indulge in?"

"Brant was happy," I say, and my voice catches in a way I don't expect. "That's the impression I got, anyway." I glance at David. He has nothing to add.

Nobody says anything.

Rodriguez doesn't write it down. Hanson does.

"And you two?" Rodriguez says.

"Sorry?"

"How's your marriage?"

The question drops into the room without any change in his voice at all. It takes me a full second to understand what he's asked.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Well, Mr. Grant, you told me you're at the hospital more than you're here. And Mrs. Grant, you work from home." His voice doesn't change. "Like the Ericksons, I'd imagine that puts a strain on a marriage."

"I'm not sure what that has to do with anything," David says.

"The devil's in the details." Rodriguez lets a beat go by. "Two people were killed next door with no forced entry. I'm going to ask everybody on this road a version of that question, and most of them will be offended, and I'm going to ask it anyway."

"This isn't a therapy session, Detective," David says.

It comes out fast, sharper than he means it to. He's on his feet before I've drawn the breath to answer, and the room goes very quiet.

I look up at my husband.

He isn't looking at me. He's staring at Rodriguez, and there's a hardness in him I don't often see.

A thought arrives.

He's angry.

Then I catch the thing underneath it. The thing that doesn't fit.

No, he’s frightened.

And that stays with me longer than it should, because there's no reason for it. Anger I understand. No one wants a detective sitting in their living room asking whether their marriage is strained. But fear is different. I file the fear away, the way I file everything now. I tell myself it's the house, the tape next door, a murder forty feet from where we sleep. Anyone would be frightened, with that on the other side of the hedge.

"It's fine," I say. "David. It's fine." I turn to Rodriguez. "We're fine. We've been married two years. He works too much and I don't sleep. That's the worst of it."

"Thank you," Rodriguez says, entirely unbothered, and I have the strong sense he's already got whatever it was he came in here for.

He stands.