AFTER BREAKFAST, NICK AND I TALKED ABOUT THE PROFILE. BY then, our technique for conversation had been well established. One of us spoke; the other listened and replied. Everything was polite, proper in rhythm and tone. No one who saw or heard us would think anything was wrong, except me. And him. After all, he knew as well as I did that we’d once talked in other rhythms using different tones; we’d used postures less stiff, made contact more physical, held gazes less veiled. Not this time. This time was an official consultation. A report. A presentation of information. He even took notes when I talked. I watched his hands as they wrote. I knew the texture of those hands. Hell, I knew the circumference of each finger and what they tasted like. But that was useless knowledge, distracting knowledge that I didn’t want.
“so. This handyman. Charlie. You say he’s delusional. Do you think he’s dangerous?”
Charlie? Dangerous? “Not that I can see.”
“But possibly?” His eyes searched mine; I felt them probing. He’s looking for facts, I reminded myself. It’s not personal.
“Dangerous to whom? Himself? Yes, maybe. Others? Not likely. He says someone’s controlling his thoughts. And that there’s a conspiracy among the police, mailmen, and taxi drivers—no, among people disguised as police, mailmen, and taxi drivers.”
Nick scrawled some notes on his pad. “Has he threatened you in any way?”
“No. But he says we’re in danger, so he’s appointed himself our guardian. He watches over us, day and night.” “In other words, he’s stalking you.”
“No. Protecting. He says he’s my only ally, the only one we can trust. Look, Charlie’s old and he’s got bad knees. He’s not your guy.”
“You’re sure.”
I heard the thump of a finger landing inside a plastic bag and blinked it away. “Yes.”
“All right.” He crossed his leg, rested an ankle on a knee. Why did my gut react to every little move his body made? “What about Phillip Woods?”
“Come on, Nick, I’ve told you all this. Ask Dr. Gardener, about him. she must know more about him than I do.”
“When you saw him at the Institute, he said nothing about why he wanted to see her?”
“Nick, you asked me that same question two minutes ago.” He waited. His eyes took in everything, not just me. The entire room, the house, the street. “He just said that they were friends. He was dropping by to see her since he hadn’t been able to reach her at her radio show.”
“Just a casual visit to see a friend. He didn’t seem, say, infatuated? Obsessed?”
“Obsessed? I don’t know. Maybe infatuated. She told me he has a crush on her. To me, he mostly seemed distressed that she wasn’t there.”
“Distressed.”
Oh Lord. How long was he going to drag this out? “Look, Nick, it’s almost nine. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Just another minute.” He squinted at his notepad, looking over his scribbles, turning pages. “Gene O’Malley,” he mumbled.
“Gymnastics coach, rejected by at least two of the missing nannies. Joe Molinari, boyfriend with a bad temper. Okay.” He scanned a page. “Tell me about the phobic guy again. Victor. You said he’s a loner, thirty-something. And a musician?”
“He plays cello. In the summer, when the windows are open, you can hear him playing it.”
“Anything else? Do you see anyone in particular visiting him? Any women?”
“All I’ve seen are deliverymen.”
“And he never goes outside. Are you sure?”
Why was he repeating his questions again and again? I didn’t appreciate being interrogated, as if I were withholding some significant information. “Look, I’ve told you everything. As far as I know, Victor’s been in there for years. I see his silhouette behind the shades at night. sometimes he peeks through the blinds during the day. But the man doesn’t go out. He doesn’t even step onto the porch. We had to leave his Christmas cookies inside the storm door.” I stood, indicating that the discussion was over. “If you want, I can give you a written report tomorrow, but I’ve got to get to work.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it again, and stood. say it, I thought. Go on. Tell me there’s something else you want to talk about. Tell me you want to see me again. To start over.
He opened his mouth again, then hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “Then I guess we’re done.”
“I guess.” I didn’t flounder, didn’t give a hint that my body ached to tackle him right there. If he felt nothing, then I would feel nothing, too. Except that I didn’t feel nothing. I felt like screaming. Like balling up my fists and throttling him, or knocking him down, pouncing on him, and mashing my lips against his mouth. Instead, when he thanked me for my help, I walked him demurely to the door.
He called Molly to say good-bye. she hugged him again and asked when he’d be back. Soon, he said, and, nodding briefly in my direction, he went out the door into the freezing rain.
Don’t go, I thought. Please. stop. Turn around.
He stopped. And turned around. “Zoe?”
Oh my God. It was happening. Now he’d say he was sorry. He’d ask if we could talk things out. I’d pretend to be reluctant, but then I’d rush outside and fall into his arms. I opened the door, ready to sprint. “Yes?” I breathed, a little too eagerly.
“If you think of anything else, give a call, okay?”
The sleet stung my face. “Of course,” I said, closing the door.
Nick hurried to his car. Molly waved good-bye from the kitchen window. I stood against the wall, kicking myself for wanting what was not to be.