River Road by Carol Goodman Page B

animal decomposing into a primordial swamp. I looked back through the driver’s-side window and met the wide staring eyes of something covered with mangy fur.
    I gasped and covered my mouth, unable to look away, my horror undiminished when I realized it was only a stuffed animal suction-cupped to the window.
    She thought she hit a cat , the caption had read above a photo of the surprised face and the splayed limbs of a stuffed animal suction-cupped to the window of the car that had killed my daughter.
    â€œThis is Hannah Mulder’s car,” I said, then turned to look at the trailer. Through the lit, uncurtained window I saw a cluttered room filled with tables piled high with newspapers and empty beer cans, a sagging couch bearing the impress of its owner, and a lump of mangy fur that might have been the litter mate of the stuffed animal in the car. “I see,” I said. “This is to show me that Hannah Mulder didn’t have a car to hit Leia with. But what does that prove? She could have bought another car or borrowed one from a friend.”
    He smiled at me but it was a sad smile. “Look around you. Does it look like Hannah Mulder can afford to buy another car? Does it look like she has any friends to borrow one from?”
    I looked back through the window for anything to prove him wrong—pictures on the refrigerator, Christmas cards on the ledge above the television set—any sign that anyone else but Hannah had been inside her house but her since she’d gotten back from prison.
    â€œOkay,” I said, “I get your point.”
    â€œDo you?” He took a step closer to me and I backed up. Had he brought me here to threaten me? I wondered wildly. Would any of the residents of Happy Acres Park come to my rescue if I screamed? I had a feeling that no one here wanted trouble from the police.
    But all he did was sniff. “You smell like bourbon,” he said. “You smell just exactly like Hannah Mulder did when I pulled her in after she ran down your daughter.”
    I flinched. It would have been better if he had hit me. “I’m not Hannah Mulder,” I cried, my voice sounding weak and pathetic in my own ears. “I’m not a drunk.”
    â€œMaybe not yet,” he said, looking at me steadily, “but keep going the way you’re going and”—he jerked his chin toward the sad tableau of Hannah’s living room—“this is what your life is going to look like in a few years.”

CHAPTER NINE
    W e didn’t talk on the rest of the drive back to my house. I was too furious to trust myself to speak. How dare he? I fumed to myself. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything about me.
    I expected McAffrey to leave me at the foot of my still unplowed driveway but he drove easily over the rutted tracks Anat had left. It was on the tip of my tongue to say my next car should be an SUV when I remembered that I might not have a car again. Instead, when he pulled up to my door, I turned to him and said, “I understand why you don’t believe Hannah hit Leia, but why then do you think she was lurking outside my house—or do you think I was so drunk I made up that part too?”
    â€œI don’t think you made up that part,” he said, staring straight ahead, his emphasis making it clear he thought I’d made up other parts. “I’ve followed Hannah half a dozen times from the Swan to your home. I know she’s been hanging around here since she got out of prison.”
    â€œOh,” I said, not sure if I found it reassuring or creepy that McAffrey had been watching my house. Maybe he did know more about my life than I thought. Had he watched me buying bourbon at the local liquor store? Did he monitor my recycling for empty bottles? But instead of asking if he’d been watching me I asked, “Why were you watching her?”
    â€œI wanted to make sure she wasn’t bothering you. I had a