WHEN WE GOT HOME, MOLLY GOT INTO HER PAJAMAS AND snuggled under her covers. We read Amelia Bedelia, her favorite book, until she fell asleep. Exhausted, I got into bed and sank immediately into a deep, healing sleep. In the morning, I awoke refreshed. I’d slept so soundly that it took a while to remember that Tamara was missing, that Susan was a mess, that, as Charlie had warned, evil lurked close by. I had the sense that somehow dreams and reality had traded places, that daylight carried nightmares from which, by sleeping, I had temporarily escaped.
But Angela arrived carrying warm fresh scones from the Pink Rose, complaining that some construction worker had gawked at her all the way up the street. It had to be a guy from Jake’s crew. Or Jake himself. I reminded her that those guys gawked at every woman; they considered it part of the job.
“Yeah? Well, he wouldn’t look that way at anyone on my street,” she declared. “He did, somebody’d make sure he didn’t look at nobody else for a long time.”
“Anybody else.” I buttoned my coat. “He wouldn’t look at anybody else for a long time.”
Angela poured Molly’s milk, ignoring me. “The guy pissed me off, Zoe, you’ll pardon my expression. Don’t you listen,” she wagged a finger at Molly
“What’s wrong about somebody looking at you, Angela?” Molly smeared raspberry jam on her scone. “I look at you all the time.”
“It was how he looked at me.” Molly blinked at her. “How?” “Like he shouldn’t have.”
“Like this?” Molly scowled at her. “Or this?” She tugged her lips and eyes diagonally with her forefingers. “Or this?”
I left them to their discussion and hurried to work. Given the disaster of the previous session, I decided to assign a new project. I asked the group to close their eyes and picture a place that made them feel safe and peaceful. Then, distributing oil sticks, I asked them to draw these places. They responded well; apparently whatever had been plaguing them in our last meeting had been purged. At any rate, they quickly became absorbed in their work. Nobody bickered or wandered. I moved from easel to easel, discussing each work in progress, encouraging each effort.
Amanda was drawing a castle on a steep hill by the sea. Eyelids raw without lashes, bald spots hiding under a kerchief, she explained that she visited this place sometimes in her mind. I felt a pang, realizing that the place Amanda felt safest and most peaceful was imaginary. But she seemed content forming moats and turrets, her hands for the moment too busy to pluck her remaining wisps of hair.
Kimberly’s work was, as usual, a scramble of splotches and jagged lines, but so far she’d managed to keep her work within the confines of her paper. I asked her to tell me about the place she was drawing. Laboring on a purple zigzag, she replied without looking up. “Wails pills healing pillows mellow yellow marshmallows.” As always, I encouraged her and made a note of her comments. Sometimes meaning could be deciphered, sometimes not. Kimberly continued mumbling, drawing random markings apparently without effort or affect; not for the first time, I wished I could interpret the ideas she intended to articulate, see the images she intended to create.
As I approached Hank’s easel, I caught a glimpse of a sun-drenched greenhouse, blossoms and green everywhere. But before I could look closely, he ripped the page off the drawing pad and crumpled it up. “It’s not right,” he repeated, tearing it. “It’s just not right.”
I looked at the clock. Hank had spent a record twenty-three minutes working on a drawing before destroying it. I congratulated him on that, but, panting, Hank broke into tears. The flaws weren’t in the picture, he sobbed. They were in his compulsive need for perfection. He knew what it was. He recognized it but couldn’t control it. He sat on his stool, broad shoulders hunched, raw with emotion. I wanted to hug him and promise him he’d be okay. Instead, I handed him a tissue, and when he’d dried his tears, I took his hand, reminding him that journeys were made of small steps taken one at a time. I congratulated him on his progress; a few weeks ago, he hadn’t been able to describe his problems so clearly, hadn’t had the insight. He’d come a long way in a short time and deserved credit for that. We sat together hand in hand, and I felt his struggle pulsing through his body. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed. I offered him another oil stick, and when he was ready, he took it. Pressing on, facing another blank page.
Meantime, Sydney Ellis was also making a leap. Sydney was standing beside his easel, an oil stick clutched in his fist. He’d stood that way for the entire session. Although he hadn’t made a mark on his paper, he’d managed to join the group. In the last session, he hadn’t even noticed that there was a class, much less that he could become part of it. Now, he’d claimed a spot among the others. Small steps, I reminded myself, taken one at a time.
When the session ended, I felt gratified. The group finally seemed to be responding to art therapy. I ran around the studio, humming “Standing in the Shadows of Love,” an old Four Tops song, as I stored supplies and unfinished pictures in the closet. Then, files in hand, I rushed out, and somehow slammed full force into a wall—or no—not a wall. Something softer, woollier—something charcoal gray? Rebounding, stunned and off balance, I let out a screech and tried to regain my footing. Arms reached out, grabbing at me. Reflexively, I swatted, slapped at them, letting papers, files, patient notes, everything fly from my hands as I backed away, tripping over an easel leg, arms flailing, falling flat on my back into the storage closet. Oh my God.
Nick Stiles gawked in alarm. Panting, flustered, I tried to collect myself, rearranging my skirt so it would cover at least part of my thighs.
“Jesus,” he said. “Are you all right?”
My face got hot. My elbow felt broken. Not to mention my ego. “What were you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
“I didn’t sneak up on you.” Large hands grabbed mine and pulled me to my feet.
“You should have said something.” I’d regained my balance if not my composure.
“I thought you saw me come in.”
“How could I see you? I was in the closet—”
“You’re right.” He cut me off. “I should have said something. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I blinked at him, sputtering but unable to go on. He’d admitted being wrong, agreed that he was at fault, even apologized. He’d escaped unscathed. How infuriating was that? His eyes twinkled. How high up had my skirt gone?
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I nodded, still flushed, and began picking up my papers. What was he doing here? He knelt beside me, helping. His knee brushed my arm, just barely. He smelled fresh. Showered. A man in the morning.
“I am sorry. Really.” He handed me a stack of files.
“I guess I’m a little jumpy.” I managed a smile. We stood. There wasn’t much space between us, but he didn’t move away. If I did, I’d be back in the storage closet. My eyes came up to his lapel. I stared at it, didn’t look up. The moment was too long. People didn’t stand this close together unless they were going to kiss. This was absurd; women were disappearing and I was thinking about kissing the police detective? My face was hot again. I was embarrassed by my own thoughts. I didn’t know what to look at, where to point my face. If I looked up, my mouth would point right at his chin, kissing posture. Awkwardly, I turned my head, tilted it, and glanced at him sideways. He smiled. The smile was crooked. Not symmetrical. More like a half smile. A smirk.
“Well, you saved me a phone call,” I said, my head still cocked. “I was about to try you again. You were out yesterday when I returned your call.”
His eyes were ice blue. Very pale, outlined in navy. I hadn’t known eyes came in that color.
“I got your message, but actually, I decided it would be better to talk to you in person, Ms. Hayes. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
In private? About what? It had to be the finger. The missing women. Something too important for the phone. My mind raced, trying to figure out what.
Stiles stepped back, making room for me to lead the way. I took a deep breath and adopted a professional mode. But I wasn’t quite successful. Something was off. As we walked, I became increasingly aware of the blond hairs on the back of his hands. And I had the strangest desire to reach out and run my fingers along the woolly sleeve of his charcoal coat.