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Even though his head still ached, he poured the vodka down the drain and thought about Erin and the Feldmans. Erin knew them and visited them, even though she'd never mentioned going to their house. He'd called her and dropped by unexpectedly and she'd always been home, but somehow, he'd never found out. She'd never told him and when he'd complained that they were bad neighbors, she'd never said a word.
Erin had a secret.
His mind was clearer than it had been in a long time and he got in the shower and washed and put on a black suit. He made a ham-and-turkey sandwich with Dijon mustard and ate it, then made another and ate it as well. The street was filled with cars and he watched peopl
e walking in and out of the house. Karen came outside and smoked another cigarette. While he waited, he tucked a small pad of paper and a pen in his pocket.
In the afternoon, people started filing toward their cars. He heard the engines start up and one by one they began to pull away. It was past one o'clock and they were going to the service. It took fifteen minutes for everyone to leave and he saw Larry Feldman being helped to the car by Karen. Karen got in the driver's seat and drove off, and finally there were no more cars on the street or in the driveway.
He waited ten more minutes, making sure everyone had left before finally walking out his front door. He crossed his lawn and paused at the street and headed for the Feldmans' house. He didn't hurry and didn't try to hide. He'd noticed that a lot of the neighbors had gone to the funeral and those who hadn't would simply remember a mourner wearing a black suit. He went to the front door and it was locked, but there'd been a lot of people in the house so he walked around the side and headed to the back. There, he found another door and it was unlocked and he stepped into the house.
It was quiet. He paused, listening for the sound of voices or footsteps but heard nothing. There were plastic cups on the countertop and platters of food on the table. He walked through the house. He had time, but he didn't know how much time, and he decided to start in the living room. He opened cabinet doors and closed them, leaving everything the way it had been before. He searched in the kitchen and the bedroom and finally went to the study. There were books on the shelves and a recliner and a television. In the corner, he spotted a small file cabinet.
He went to the file cabinet and opened it. Quickly, he scanned the tabs. He found a file labeled KATIE and pulled it out, opened it, and examined what was inside. There was a newspaper article--it turns out that she'd drowned after breaking through the ice of a local pond--and there were pictures of her that had been taken at school. In her graduation photo, she looked remarkably like Erin. In the back of the file, he found an envelope. He opened it and found an old report card. On the front of the envelope was a social security number, and he took the pad of paper and his pen and wrote it down. He didn't find the social security card, but he had the number. The birth certificate was a copy, though it was wrinkled and worn, as if someone had crumpled it up and then tried to flatten it again.
He had what he needed and he left the house. As soon as he reached home he called the officer from the other precinct, the one who was sleeping with the babysitter. The following day, he received a call in return.
Katie Feldman had recently been issued a driver's license, with an address listed in Southport, North Carolina.
Kevin hung up the phone without another word, knowing he'd found her.
Erin.
31
Remnants of a tropical storm blew through Southport, rain falling most of the afternoon and into the evening. Katie worked the lunch shift, but the weather kept the restaurant only half full and Ivan let her leave early. She had borrowed the jeep and after spending an hour at the library, she'd dropped it off at the store. When Alex drove her home, she'd invited him to come by later with the kids for dinner.
She'd been on edge the rest of the afternoon. She wanted to believe it had something to do with the weather, but as she stood at her kitchen window, watching the branches bend in the wind and rain falling in sheets, she knew it had more to do with the uneasy feeling that everything in her life these days seemed almost too perfect. Her relationship with Alex and the afternoons she spent with the kids filled a void she hadn't known existed, but she'd learned long ago that nothing wonderful lasted forever. Joy was as fleeting as a shooting star that crossed the evening sky, ready to blink out at any moment.
Earlier that day, at the library, she'd perused the Boston Globe online at one of the computers and had come across Gladys Feldman's obituary. She'd known Gladys was ill, had known about her terminal diagnosis of cancer before she left. Even though she'd been checking the Boston obituaries regularly, the sparse description of her life and survivors struck her with unexpected force.
She hadn't wanted to take the identification from the Feldmans' files, hadn't even considered the possibility until Gladys had pulled out the file to show her Katie's graduation photo. She'd seen the birth certificate and the social security card next to the photo and recognized the opportunity they presented. The next time she'd gone to the house, she'd excused herself to go to the bathroom and had gone to the file cabinet instead. Later, as she ate blueberry pie with them in the kitchen, the documents felt like they were burning in her pockets. A week later, after making a copy of the birth certificate at the library and folding and wrinkling it to make it appear dated, she put the document in the file. She would have done the same with the social security card, but she couldn't make a good enough copy and she hoped that if they noticed it was missing, they would believe it had been lost or misplaced.
She reminded herself that Kevin would never know what she'd done. He didn't like the Feldmans and the feeling was mutual. She suspected that they knew he beat her. She could see it in their eyes as they watched her dart across the road to visit them, in the way they pretended never to notice the bruises on her arms, in the way their faces tightened whenever she mentioned Kevin. She wanted to think that they would have been okay with what she'd done, that they would have wanted her to take the identification, because they knew she needed it and wanted her to escape.
They were the only people she missed from Dorchester and she wondered how Larry was doing. They were her friends when she had no one else, and she wanted to tell Larry that she was sorry for his loss. She wanted to cry with him and talk about Gladys and to tell him that because of them, her life was better now. She wanted to tell him that she'd met a man who loved her, that she was happy for the first time in years.
But she would do none of those things. Instead, she simply stepped out onto the porch and, through eyes that were blurry with tears, watched the storm tear leaves from the trees.
"You've been quiet tonight," Alex said. "Is everything okay?"
She'd made tuna casserole for dinner and Alex was helping her with the dishes. The kids were in the living room, both of them playing handheld computer games; she could hear the beeps and buzzes over the sound of the faucet.
"A friend of mine passed away," she said. She handed him a plate to dry. "I knew it was coming, but it's still sad."
"It's always sad," he agreed. "I'm sorry." He knew enough not to ask for further details. Instead, he waited on the chance she wanted to say more, but she washed another glass and changed the subject.
"How long do you think the storm is going to last?" she asked.
"Not long. Why?"
"I was just wondering whether the carnival tomorrow is going to be canceled. Or whether the flight is going to be canceled."
Alex glanced out the window. "It should be fine. It's already blowing through. I'm pretty sure we're on the tail end of it now."
"Just in time," Katie remarked.
"Of course. The elements wouldn't dare mess with the well-laid plans of the carnival committee. Or Joyce for that matter."
She smiled. "How long is it going to take you to pick up Joyce's daughter?"
"Probably four or five hours. Raleigh's not exactly convenient to this place."
"Why didn't she fly into Wilmington? Or just rent a car?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask, but if I had to guess I'd say she wanted to save some money."
"You're doing a good thing, you know. Helping Joyce like that."
He gave a nonchalant shrug, indicating that it wasn't a big deal. "You'll have fun tomorrow."
"At the carnival or with the kids?"
"Both. And if you ask me nice, I'll treat you to some deep-fried ice cream."
"Fried ice cream? It sounds disgusting."
"It's actually tasty."
"Is everything fried down here?"
"If it can be fried, believe me, someone will find a way. Last year, there was a place serv
ing deep-fried butter."
She almost gagged. "You're kidding."
"Nope. It sounded terrible, but people were lining up to buy it. They might as well have been lining up for heart attacks."
She washed and rinsed the last of the cups, then passed it to him. "Do you think the kids liked the dinner I made? Kristen didn't eat very much."
"Kristen never eats much. And more important, I liked it. I thought it was delicious."
She shook her head. "Who cares about the kids, right? As long as you're happy?"
"I'm sorry. I'm a narcissist at heart."
She ran the soapy sponge over a plate and rinsed it. "I'm looking forward to spending some time at your house."
"Why?"
"Because we're always here, not there. Don't get me wrong--I understand it was the right thing to do because of the kids." And because of Carly, she also thought, but she didn't mention that part. "It'll give me the chance to see how you live."
Alex took the plate. "You've been there before."
"Yes, but not for more than a few minutes, and then only in the kitchen or living room. It's not like I've had the chance to check out your bedroom or peek in your medicine cabinet."
"You wouldn't do that." Alex feigned outrage.
"Maybe if I had the chance, I might."
He dried the plate and put it in the cupboard. "Feel free to spend as much time in my bedroom as you like."
She laughed. "You're such a man."
"I'm just saying that I wouldn't mind. And feel free to peek in the medicine cabinet, too. I have no secrets."
"So you say," she teased. "You're talking to someone who only has secrets."
"Not from me."
"No," she agreed, her face serious. "Not from you."
She washed two more plates and handed them to him, feeling a wave of contentment wash over her as she watched him dry and put them away.
He cleared his throat.
"Can I ask you something?" he said. "I don't want you to take it the wrong way, but I've been curious."
"Go ahead."
He used the towel on his arms, dabbing at stray droplets, buying time. "I was wondering if you'd given more thought to what I said last weekend. In the parking lot, after seeing the rodeo monkeys?"
"You said a lot of things," she said cautiously.
