He leans closer. “I’m so glad you’re okay. It could have been worse. A lot worse.” He kisses the back of my neck gently, warmly. He moves his hand down past my elbows, and then he moves to my thighs, my buttocks.
There’s always a part of me that feels resistance in this moment. For one thing, I don’t feel particularly attractive right now. Not particularly sexy. For another, while it’s been many years since Paul and I went through his having an affair, it never completely goes away. The thought of him touching another woman like this, it’s always there. And at times it feels, almost, like someone watching.
But I’ve learned to let this go, to give in to what I want. Paul and I lead busy lives. And we’re no spring chickens. Even though ours is an empty nest — long gone are the days sex was precluded by children always underfoot — it’s not become some romance-athon since Joni left for college. We’re often working late, often tired, two ships passing in the night.
So we take our chances when they arise. And right now is more than that, anyway. It’s about closeness, comfort, intimacy.
I step into the shower ahead of Paul. He removes his clothes and steps in after. I turn to face him, and he presses me gently but firmly against the shower wall. The water pours down. I adjust the temperature so it’s not scalding.
We fall into our rhythm. For a few moments, I forget everything. Michael Rand, Arnold Bleeker, creepy Steve Starzyk.
Laura Bishop, released from prison. Just a few miles away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After our shower, I’m in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch. Paul comes through and tells me that he’s already procured a rental car to replace the wrecked Range Rover. “It’s just a small sedan, less impact-resistant than the Rover, so don’t go hitting any more deer.”
“Ha ha.”
He kisses me, tells me again he’s so grateful I’m okay, then leaves to work on his boat in the garage. Once I hear the whine of his electric sander, I lick some mayo off my fingers and pick up the phone. First I text Sean, who is supposed to be arriving this evening. Currently living in Colorado, he decided to drive instead of fly and so set out sometime yesterday.
Hey kiddo. ETA?
I set the phone on the kitchen island and hurry back upstairs. My overnight bag is in the closet in our bedroom. Distraught as I was last night, at least I had the presence of mind to stick the Tom Bishop file in there. I’m able to locate it quickly and thumb through it, looking for court contact information.
There. The judge who oversaw the case was the Honorable Raymond Meyers. I call, knowing I’m likely to get a machine — it’s the weekend, after all. But a young woman answers, sounding pert and intelligent. It’s the judge’s clerk, named Sydney.
“Sydney,” I say. “I didn’t expect to get anyone.”
She explains that she’s going over a big deposition on a criminal case. We small-talk a little — she graduated Yale two springs ago, and she really likes clerking for Meyers. She thinks he’s a great judge.
I penetrate the small talk with a deep dive. “Well, Sydney, about fifteen years ago, Judge Meyers presided over a capital murder case — David Bishop?”
“Oh yes, I’m familiar with that case.”
“Great. Then you probably know that there was a juvenile involved.”
“Yes,” she says, not quite as pert or bright. “Those records are sealed.”
“That’s right. So, I was a consulting clinical psychologist on that case. I worked with the New York investigators. They requested I do a mental health evaluation. I did five sessions with the juvenile.” I choose my next words carefully. “The work we did in those sessions had an impact on the direction of the case.”
“Yes,” Sydney says, almost too quietly to hear.
“I have my notes, but it was a closed courtroom, testimony sealed. I really could use a look at that information. Could you put in the request to Judge Meyers for me?”
A pause. Then, tentative, “Sure . . . Can I ask what for?”
“Well, that would be between me and Judge Meyers.”
It’s a little curt, but I can’t give her an honest answer. I want to know who else came into the court, gave statements, etc. Some distant family in Arizona, maybe. Any friends of Laura Bishop. There are all sorts of possible angles to this thing.
I try to sound nicer at the end. “If you could have the judge call me at his earliest convenience, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
When I hang up with her, the electric sander is quiet. I wait a few seconds, then it starts up again. My next call is to Candace. Arnold Bleeker’s daughter. I have her number in my phone.
A man answers, and he’s gruff: “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry, I’m trying to reach Candace.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you. And this is my phone, not hers.”
I pad down the stairs, feeling a bit of hope. It’s something in his voice — he’s not as dead-set against me as she is.
“I understand that,” I say. “She made that clear, and I’m so sorry to be bothering you. Are you her husband?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Well, you grabbed me, pretty hard.” If there’s a bruise, it’s camouflaged by the accident, but he doesn’t know that. “I could go to the police and press charges. But I don’t want that. All I want is a chance to explain. I know Candace’s adopted brother. I can’t say how I know him, but . . . Hello?”
I stop in the middle of the living room. So much for my intuition. Candace’s friend hung up on me. What is it with these people?
Getting frustrated now, I dial back. No one answers. The call goes to voicemail: “Hi, this is Greg, with G. Force Trucking. I can’t answer my phone right now, but leave your info and I’ll get back to ya.”
There’s a beep. My mouth is open to hold forth, but then I close it. I’m standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, with a view clear down to the lake. Beside the dock, in the clear dark water, is an object. Something floating.
For a moment, I just stand there, too shocked to move.
Then I turn from the windows and run.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Paul must see me streak across the yard, because suddenly he’s just behind me. I almost fall but am able to keep my balance. When I reach the dock, I sprint to the end of the wood. Paul’s vibrations follow. I’m on my knees reaching into the water. The white shape is floating just out of reach, but close enough to realize it’s a sweatshirt with no one in it.
I know that sweatshirt; it’s Joni’s. She could have slipped out of it. Or been struggling and it came off. Any number of things.
“Em . . .” Paul says. “What—”
Shoes and all, I jump from the dock. It’s August, but Lake Placid is always cold. So cold, it once preserved the body of a missing woman for decades. The lake slopes away quickly from our shore so that just a few feet from the grassy embankment, the water is up to my chest. That’s where I land and start swimming for the shirt, just a few yards away.