me."
She did. She told him her work phone and her home phone, and even what hours she would be in both places. He gave her a business card with his name on it. She didn't know policemen had business cards, but apparently they did. This one had the city's symbol on it, and then "Detective David Huckleby." It was such a jokey name, a rural cop name, that in any other context, she would have smiled.
Instead she pocketed the card and stood. He stood too, came up beside her so that he could open the door.
As he reached for the knob, she said, "You still didn't tell me how Tom died."
"I didn't?" He let go of the knob. "Careless of me." When it hadn't been at all. He had wanted her to ask. He had confused her, disoriented her, and then wondered if she would remember to ask. She knew that much. It was some kind of game. Maybe she should have called a lawyer after all.
"Tom's neck was broken, Ms. Taylor," Detective Huckleby said. "We think someone wrapped an arm around his neck and snapped it."
He paused, watching her face. She felt her heart beating hard. She couldn't picture it. She couldn't picture someone grabbing Tom like that.
"You know the grip," Huckleby said. "It's the one they teach in the self-defense classes here."
She had taken one of those classes just the month before. The instructor had been from out of town, a burly man who taught self-defense all over the country. He had used her as his model victim. She had stood in front of the class, felt his fingers on her neck as he positioned her, then remained very still while his arm encircled her throat. With a sharp movement of the forearm, and a backward pull on the hair, he had said, a neck could be broken, snapped, in a heartbeat.
She hadn't known why anyone would want this information. But the class had been in self-defense. And sometimes, she knew from her television-watching experience, self-defense meant only one person got out alive.
Huckleby was watching her, waiting for her reaction. He had known she had been in the class. He had obviously seen the sign-up list.
He touched her arm, felt her biceps, the muscle clearly developed beneath a thin layer of skin. His touch was gentle and, if she hadn't been in such a state of heightened awareness, she would have thought it accidental.
"Will you miss him?" Huckleby asked.
Her mouth was dry. The feeling of guilt had grown stronger. "I'll miss his class," she said. It was the only thing she could tell him. It was the only truth she knew.
"What a sad epitaph for a man you've known for eighteen months, a man who was proud of helping you lose weight."
"I didn't know him," she said, hearing as she spoke how defensive the words sounded. "I just took a class from him."
"I hear he had a thing for pretty women."
She laughed without mirth. It was an involuntary reaction, one that had become habitual over all the years, all the weight. "That wouldn't have included me."
"It does now," Huckleby said softly.
She felt the smile, the inappropriate smile, leave her face. "I was obese when I came into his class," she said. "I couldn't even pedal the damn bike with the resistance turned off for more than thirty seconds at a stretch. Then I'd pant for five minutes and try again."
"Tenacity can be attractive."
"Maybe," she said. "But you don't forget how someone looked when you met them."
You don't forget that not-quite-sympathetic look in the eye, the disgust when he thought no one was looking. You don't forget any of that.
She thought those last two sentences, but had enough self-control to prevent them from coming out of her mouth.
"I don't think you know how far you've come, Ms. Taylor," Huckleby said softly.
"Oh, I do," she said. "And Tom knew it too." She glanced at the door. "Can I go now?"
His smile was gentle. If she had met him
She did. She told him her work phone and her home phone, and even what hours she would be in both places. He gave her a business card with his name on it. She didn't know policemen had business cards, but apparently they did. This one had the city's symbol on it, and then "Detective David Huckleby." It was such a jokey name, a rural cop name, that in any other context, she would have smiled.
Instead she pocketed the card and stood. He stood too, came up beside her so that he could open the door.
As he reached for the knob, she said, "You still didn't tell me how Tom died."
"I didn't?" He let go of the knob. "Careless of me." When it hadn't been at all. He had wanted her to ask. He had confused her, disoriented her, and then wondered if she would remember to ask. She knew that much. It was some kind of game. Maybe she should have called a lawyer after all.
"Tom's neck was broken, Ms. Taylor," Detective Huckleby said. "We think someone wrapped an arm around his neck and snapped it."
He paused, watching her face. She felt her heart beating hard. She couldn't picture it. She couldn't picture someone grabbing Tom like that.
"You know the grip," Huckleby said. "It's the one they teach in the self-defense classes here."
She had taken one of those classes just the month before. The instructor had been from out of town, a burly man who taught self-defense all over the country. He had used her as his model victim. She had stood in front of the class, felt his fingers on her neck as he positioned her, then remained very still while his arm encircled her throat. With a sharp movement of the forearm, and a backward pull on the hair, he had said, a neck could be broken, snapped, in a heartbeat.
She hadn't known why anyone would want this information. But the class had been in self-defense. And sometimes, she knew from her television-watching experience, self-defense meant only one person got out alive.
Huckleby was watching her, waiting for her reaction. He had known she had been in the class. He had obviously seen the sign-up list.
He touched her arm, felt her biceps, the muscle clearly developed beneath a thin layer of skin. His touch was gentle and, if she hadn't been in such a state of heightened awareness, she would have thought it accidental.
"Will you miss him?" Huckleby asked.
Her mouth was dry. The feeling of guilt had grown stronger. "I'll miss his class," she said. It was the only thing she could tell him. It was the only truth she knew.
"What a sad epitaph for a man you've known for eighteen months, a man who was proud of helping you lose weight."
"I didn't know him," she said, hearing as she spoke how defensive the words sounded. "I just took a class from him."
"I hear he had a thing for pretty women."
She laughed without mirth. It was an involuntary reaction, one that had become habitual over all the years, all the weight. "That wouldn't have included me."
"It does now," Huckleby said softly.
She felt the smile, the inappropriate smile, leave her face. "I was obese when I came into his class," she said. "I couldn't even pedal the damn bike with the resistance turned off for more than thirty seconds at a stretch. Then I'd pant for five minutes and try again."
"Tenacity can be attractive."
"Maybe," she said. "But you don't forget how someone looked when you met them."
You don't forget that not-quite-sympathetic look in the eye, the disgust when he thought no one was looking. You don't forget any of that.
She thought those last two sentences, but had enough self-control to prevent them from coming out of her mouth.
"I don't think you know how far you've come, Ms. Taylor," Huckleby said softly.
"Oh, I do," she said. "And Tom knew it too." She glanced at the door. "Can I go now?"
His smile was gentle. If she had met him
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