you he wasn’t out to hurt me. He was looking for something in here.”
“Even so, Barry didn’t come home tonight. You’ve got to tell Norris you saw him in the Volvo. It’s getting too fucking weird.”
“I can’t help that, Cliff. Why don’t you tell Norris, or don’t tell him. Whatever. Just let me get up, will you?”
“Wait, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you get it?
I
don’t want you to go. I don’t want anything else to happen to you.”
His hand was now at the collar of my nightshirt. He leaned in to kiss me, but I stopped him. “What is this? More of what you said last night? You were serious about all that?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fantasizing about what—you, me, and Jordan in a little cottage in the woods or something? You going to take us to Connecticut and we’ll have a boat?”
He looked away, unable to deny it. And oddly enough, now that I’d said it, in theory there was nothing so terrible about the idea. I’d never been on a boat.
He got me while I was thinking. A long kiss like the ones we’d had last night.
“Why me?” I asked. “How come you didn’t go after Beth . . . or Clea? Or somebody at school?”
“How many times do I have to say it? I want to be with you.”
“All right. But it’ll have to wait.” I pushed out of bed then. “I’m splitting.”
“Jesus Christ, Sandy. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Where are you going?”
“Home, I guess. I mean, to Woody and Ivy’s. I’ll catch a cab.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You will not, Cliff. Now get out of here and let me get dressed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FRIDAY
1
Woody was making me his famous apple pancakes. Which was mighty nice of him, in light of our last meeting. We had not talked since I freaked out on him and Ivy at the commune the day after the murders.
Ivy was still asleep. I had awakened the two of them at one-thirty in the morning, offering no explanation why I’d chosen that ungodly hour to come calling. I’ll explain everything tomorrow, I told them, and we had all stumbled into our respective beds.
When I awoke in my old room about 9 a.m., I could smell the sausages and coffee. I followed my nose out to the kitchen and found my uncle, fully dressed, sleeves rolled up, sifting flour into an old crockery bowl.
I hardly knew where to begin, how to apologize. After a minute of fumbling for the words, I gave up, lip trembling, willing myself not to bawl like a baby.
Woody put down his wooden spoon and came over to me, hugged me tightly. “You will always be my girl,” he said, and there may even have been a bit of wetness in his eyes.
“But,” I said when I’d brushed away the tears, “you still think I’m foolish to get all up in this murder thing, don’t you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Cass. But I can see you’re going to do it anyway. So I have to stand with you.”
The pancakes didn’t disappoint. They were just as delicious as I remembered. Truth was, Woody was a better cook than Ivy, who had help with the household stuff several days a week. But on lazy Sundays or holidays, Uncle Woody would prepare one of his specialties—pancakes, or pepper steak, or his sensational duckling in sweet sauce.
After eating, we sat at the kitchen table over our coffee. Woody lit a cigarette with his beloved old Zippo. “Jack tells me you came to see him.”
“Yeah, I did.” I hoped Klaus hadn’t gone whining to Woody, telling him how rude I’d been, or that I’d stormed out of his office.
“He says some things are coming to light about these two youngsters. Details about the deaths. It’s not nice, Cass.”
“I didn’t think it would be.”
“He says the boy was tortured before they killed him.” Tortured. Jack Klaus was right: That was
personal,
I thought. “But it looks like they killed the girl right off. The homicide detective thinks she might’ve just walked in on it.”
I swallowed hard, refusing to visualize any of it.
“Cass, doesn’t common sense
“Even so, Barry didn’t come home tonight. You’ve got to tell Norris you saw him in the Volvo. It’s getting too fucking weird.”
“I can’t help that, Cliff. Why don’t you tell Norris, or don’t tell him. Whatever. Just let me get up, will you?”
“Wait, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you get it?
I
don’t want you to go. I don’t want anything else to happen to you.”
His hand was now at the collar of my nightshirt. He leaned in to kiss me, but I stopped him. “What is this? More of what you said last night? You were serious about all that?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fantasizing about what—you, me, and Jordan in a little cottage in the woods or something? You going to take us to Connecticut and we’ll have a boat?”
He looked away, unable to deny it. And oddly enough, now that I’d said it, in theory there was nothing so terrible about the idea. I’d never been on a boat.
He got me while I was thinking. A long kiss like the ones we’d had last night.
“Why me?” I asked. “How come you didn’t go after Beth . . . or Clea? Or somebody at school?”
“How many times do I have to say it? I want to be with you.”
“All right. But it’ll have to wait.” I pushed out of bed then. “I’m splitting.”
“Jesus Christ, Sandy. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Where are you going?”
“Home, I guess. I mean, to Woody and Ivy’s. I’ll catch a cab.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You will not, Cliff. Now get out of here and let me get dressed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FRIDAY
1
Woody was making me his famous apple pancakes. Which was mighty nice of him, in light of our last meeting. We had not talked since I freaked out on him and Ivy at the commune the day after the murders.
Ivy was still asleep. I had awakened the two of them at one-thirty in the morning, offering no explanation why I’d chosen that ungodly hour to come calling. I’ll explain everything tomorrow, I told them, and we had all stumbled into our respective beds.
When I awoke in my old room about 9 a.m., I could smell the sausages and coffee. I followed my nose out to the kitchen and found my uncle, fully dressed, sleeves rolled up, sifting flour into an old crockery bowl.
I hardly knew where to begin, how to apologize. After a minute of fumbling for the words, I gave up, lip trembling, willing myself not to bawl like a baby.
Woody put down his wooden spoon and came over to me, hugged me tightly. “You will always be my girl,” he said, and there may even have been a bit of wetness in his eyes.
“But,” I said when I’d brushed away the tears, “you still think I’m foolish to get all up in this murder thing, don’t you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Cass. But I can see you’re going to do it anyway. So I have to stand with you.”
The pancakes didn’t disappoint. They were just as delicious as I remembered. Truth was, Woody was a better cook than Ivy, who had help with the household stuff several days a week. But on lazy Sundays or holidays, Uncle Woody would prepare one of his specialties—pancakes, or pepper steak, or his sensational duckling in sweet sauce.
After eating, we sat at the kitchen table over our coffee. Woody lit a cigarette with his beloved old Zippo. “Jack tells me you came to see him.”
“Yeah, I did.” I hoped Klaus hadn’t gone whining to Woody, telling him how rude I’d been, or that I’d stormed out of his office.
“He says some things are coming to light about these two youngsters. Details about the deaths. It’s not nice, Cass.”
“I didn’t think it would be.”
“He says the boy was tortured before they killed him.” Tortured. Jack Klaus was right: That was
personal,
I thought. “But it looks like they killed the girl right off. The homicide detective thinks she might’ve just walked in on it.”
I swallowed hard, refusing to visualize any of it.
“Cass, doesn’t common sense
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