THE HEADLINES READ, “MURDER/SUICIDE—REAL OR STAGED?” “ ‘I Did Not Kill My Wife’: Cop Claims Innocence.” “Cop Suspended Pending Murder Investigation.”
Shaking, I scanned the articles, gradually accepting the truth. Nick had been suspected of killing his wife, Anne. He’d denied it. He’d insisted that his wife had taken out the gun, that they’d struggled. It had fired, wounding him in the face. When he was down, he said, she shot herself.
But there was conflicting evidence. Such as the location of the wounds. Anne Stiles was left handed; Stiles was wounded on the left side of his face. If he’d been facing her in a struggle as he said, a gun fired by her left hand would have wounded him on the right. There were other reasons for doubt, as well. The residue on his hand . . . the trajectory of the bullets . . .
I stopped reading and sat, shivering, trying to understand. Had Nick, not his wife, been the shooter? No way. In the struggle, he might have turned his head. There could be a dozen reasons that the bullet struck where it had. And why there had been residue on his hand. He’d been exonerated, after all.
I stuffed the articles back into the box, not wanting to know more, but the face of the dead woman stared out at me from a page of yellowing newsprint. Our resemblance was clear. Was that why Nick noticed me? Why he’d made love to me? I shivered, beginning to understand. Oh my God. Nick had been interested in me because I looked like his dead wife.
Was it possible that Nick Stiles killed her? No, I told myself. No way. But my skin rose in goose bumps and my mouth went dry, insisting that yes, indeed he might have.
Agitated, I moved from window to window, searching the snow, the pine trees, wanting to find Nick. To ask him and find out, for better or worse. Outside, though, nothing moved. Nobody. Snow was beginning to fall, burying footprints from our hike, smoothing over our crumbled snowballs. Concealing all signs of our presence. From the front window, I could find not a single sign of human life.
Not even, it hit me, a car.
Nick’s Volvo was definitely gone. And so was Nick. He’d gone to see Beverly. The sonofabitch had actually driven off to meet her and left us there.
My adrenaline surged. Clutching the sheet, shivering, breathing shallowly, I heard the hollow silence of frigid country air as questions ran through my mind. Why had Nick brought us out there only to leave us there alone? And why had he left us his cell phone?
I should call someone, I thought. I should let somebody know what was going on. But who? It was the middle of the night, after 2:00 A.M. If I called anyone, what would I say? That Nick Stiles had left Molly and me alone in his cabin? Or that, years ago, he’d not been found guilty of killing his wife?
Slow down, I told myself. Don’t let your mind race. First of all, forget those old newspaper articles. They don’t mean any-thing—they even say Nick was exonerated. No charges were filed against him; he’d even kept his job. The only thing the articles proved was that Nick still cared about what happened enough to keep the record of it in his closet.
And there was no proof that Nick had gone for a tryst with Beverly Gardener. Maybe his car was gone because he’d gotten an important call. Police business. Maybe he intended to be back before I woke up, hadn’t wanted to disturb my sleep. For all I knew, Beverly Gardener’s call was beyond his control. Maybe Dr. Gardener was pursuing Nick, hounding him. Chasing him without encouragement, unwilling to accept rejection. Maybe Nick would explain everything shortly, when he got back. In a few minutes. Soon.
Time passed, though; minutes stretched into hours, and still Nick didn’t return. Whatever explanations I tried to concoct became pathetically unconvincing. The night that just hours ago had blanketed us with passion and warmth had turned treacherous, hiding secrets, concealing lies. I wandered the house. Down the stairs, through the main room. Carrying the phone, wearing Nick’s robe, I made the rounds from window to window, room to room, checking for what, I wasn’t sure. For a while, I sat on the bed up in the loft, from which I had a view of the main room, the kitchen, Molly’s room, the front door. Wrapped in Nick’s blankets, I waited for a formerly suspected wife-killer to return from a night out with a self-absorbed, seductive brunette. Would he tiptoe in? Make a grand entrance without apology? Or would he clatter about and make a ruckus, pretending simply to have been downstairs making pancakes all the time?
Enough, I told myself. What’s the matter with you? You’ve got him tried and convicted before you’ve even heard his case.
The phone rang in my hand. I jumped.
Don’t even answer it, Charlie’s voice urged. Just grab Molly and get out. But I didn’t listen to him; I answered, hoping to hear Nick.
A long inhale. An exasperated exhale. Then the husky, insistent voice. “Where is he, sugarplum? For godsakes, tell me. Is he on his way?”
I made my voice sturdy. “What do you want, Beverly?” “I think I’ve been clear, dumpling. I want Nick. Where is he? Tell me.”
I didn’t answer.
“Look, honeybun. This is serious. He was supposed to be here. A long time ago. He hasn’t shown up, and I really can’t wait much longer.”
“And I should care about that because ...?”
“Because I’m worried. The roads are terrible. What time did he leave? He was supposed to be at my condo—”
“Do you two always get together in the middle of the night?”
“Amazing, isn’t it? But often, yes. We’re both available around the clock, and he’s never kept me waiting before. Not like this, anyway. Look, cupcake, if he calls, tell him not to go to my condo. I can’t wait here anymore. I’ll be at the Institute. In my office. Got it?”
The Institute? I began to say that it was an odd place for a late-night rendezvous. But she’d already hung up.