out of our trash and taped it back together.”
“Roger claimed he’d found the pieces in his yard on garbage day,” Sara said.
“And taped them back together.”
Bennett puts one foot on the slate- top coffee table. “And you confronted him, Paul?”
“You could say that.”
“What happened?”
“I called the police,” I tell him. “They came, and they listened to both of us talk, and then they asked him if
he
wanted to press charges against
me.
”
“He’s not telling the whole story,” Sara adds quickly. “Therewere other things besides just our credit card statement. That’s why Paul called the police.”
Douglas Bennett says, “What other things?”
“Roger Mallory is a goddamned lunatic.” I lower the cold gel pack Bennett handed me when we arrived. Why does a defense attorney keep ice packs in his office? Why am I always the one needing them? “The guy’s got video cameras trained on all of our houses. He’s got whole file cabinets full of stuff in there.”
“When you say stuff…”
“I mean
intelligence
files. On our neighbors. On us.” I toss the gel pack to the table, where it lands with a slap. “He’s got background checks and phone records and photographs. He’s got fucking video footage. It’s all organized by address. Every body in the circle has their own little file. We’re under goddamned surveillance over there.”
The look on Sara’s face as I’m speaking is one of apprehension approaching embarrassment. As though she realizes how all of this sounds. As though she’s waiting for the same response from Douglas Bennett that I received from the police. The same response you’d expect from almost anybody.
But Bennett just listens. He sits and absorbs. After a moment, he tilts his head my way. “Back up a bit.”
“Back up where?”
“To the part where you found your credit card statement.” He leans back in the settee, deep brown leather creaking under his weight. “How did you come to find your credit card statement inside Roger’s house?”
“That’s the question I wish I’d asked myself before I’d called the police.”
“We know how crazy this sounds,” Sara says. “Roger managed to leave Paul looking…”
“Foolish?” Bennett says.
“Like an asshole,” I say. “Roger managed to leave Paul looking like a paranoid asshole.”
“Paul,” Sara says. “That’s not what I was—”
“With a grudge. A paranoid asshole with some kind ofgrudge.” I look at her and offer the closest thing to a smile that I’ve got. It doesn’t feel like much, so I offer my hand across the lamp table. Sara reaches out. We sit there awkwardly, elbows locked, fingers laced.
She looks at Bennett and sighs. “We know how crazy it sounds.”
But we haven’t even touched crazy yet. Even Sara knows that much.
How can I do this to her?
Bennett sits quietly. He seems to be looking at something in the distance.
After a long stretch of silence, he stands and crosses the office. In an alcove shelved to the ceiling with legal volumes sits a big walnut desk. Bennett stops at the desk and reaches toward a group of picture frames crowding one corner. He chooses one frame in particular, turns it over in his hands, and gazes at it for a moment. Then he returns to the sitting area.
“My son,” he says, handing the frame to Sara. “Eric.”
Sara takes the frame. Bennett lowers himself back into his chair.
“That’s out of date. He’s only thirteen, fourteen there. Probably just a little older than Brit Seward.”
“He’s very handsome,” Sara says.
“My wife says he looks like me. Maybe that’s why he’s been in and out of trouble since before that photo was taken.” Bennett watches Sara tilt the portrait my way, then place the frame carefully on the table, faceup. “Drugs especially.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That must be very difficult.”
“For the past five months he’s been serving time in a youth offender program in Colorado.
“Roger claimed he’d found the pieces in his yard on garbage day,” Sara said.
“And taped them back together.”
Bennett puts one foot on the slate- top coffee table. “And you confronted him, Paul?”
“You could say that.”
“What happened?”
“I called the police,” I tell him. “They came, and they listened to both of us talk, and then they asked him if
he
wanted to press charges against
me.
”
“He’s not telling the whole story,” Sara adds quickly. “Therewere other things besides just our credit card statement. That’s why Paul called the police.”
Douglas Bennett says, “What other things?”
“Roger Mallory is a goddamned lunatic.” I lower the cold gel pack Bennett handed me when we arrived. Why does a defense attorney keep ice packs in his office? Why am I always the one needing them? “The guy’s got video cameras trained on all of our houses. He’s got whole file cabinets full of stuff in there.”
“When you say stuff…”
“I mean
intelligence
files. On our neighbors. On us.” I toss the gel pack to the table, where it lands with a slap. “He’s got background checks and phone records and photographs. He’s got fucking video footage. It’s all organized by address. Every body in the circle has their own little file. We’re under goddamned surveillance over there.”
The look on Sara’s face as I’m speaking is one of apprehension approaching embarrassment. As though she realizes how all of this sounds. As though she’s waiting for the same response from Douglas Bennett that I received from the police. The same response you’d expect from almost anybody.
But Bennett just listens. He sits and absorbs. After a moment, he tilts his head my way. “Back up a bit.”
“Back up where?”
“To the part where you found your credit card statement.” He leans back in the settee, deep brown leather creaking under his weight. “How did you come to find your credit card statement inside Roger’s house?”
“That’s the question I wish I’d asked myself before I’d called the police.”
“We know how crazy this sounds,” Sara says. “Roger managed to leave Paul looking…”
“Foolish?” Bennett says.
“Like an asshole,” I say. “Roger managed to leave Paul looking like a paranoid asshole.”
“Paul,” Sara says. “That’s not what I was—”
“With a grudge. A paranoid asshole with some kind ofgrudge.” I look at her and offer the closest thing to a smile that I’ve got. It doesn’t feel like much, so I offer my hand across the lamp table. Sara reaches out. We sit there awkwardly, elbows locked, fingers laced.
She looks at Bennett and sighs. “We know how crazy it sounds.”
But we haven’t even touched crazy yet. Even Sara knows that much.
How can I do this to her?
Bennett sits quietly. He seems to be looking at something in the distance.
After a long stretch of silence, he stands and crosses the office. In an alcove shelved to the ceiling with legal volumes sits a big walnut desk. Bennett stops at the desk and reaches toward a group of picture frames crowding one corner. He chooses one frame in particular, turns it over in his hands, and gazes at it for a moment. Then he returns to the sitting area.
“My son,” he says, handing the frame to Sara. “Eric.”
Sara takes the frame. Bennett lowers himself back into his chair.
“That’s out of date. He’s only thirteen, fourteen there. Probably just a little older than Brit Seward.”
“He’s very handsome,” Sara says.
“My wife says he looks like me. Maybe that’s why he’s been in and out of trouble since before that photo was taken.” Bennett watches Sara tilt the portrait my way, then place the frame carefully on the table, faceup. “Drugs especially.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That must be very difficult.”
“For the past five months he’s been serving time in a youth offender program in Colorado.
Similar Books
