Susan had moved back in with her mother. This is not how Susan described it to anyone who would listen. To anyone who would listen, she explained that she was merely staying with her mother. “Staying” being the operative word, implying an imper-manence to the condition.
In fact she was “staying” in her old room.
It had been Susan’s room, ten years ago. But Bliss had transformed it into a meditation room two minutes after Susan was out the door to college. The walls were painted tangerine, silver beaded Indian curtains hung over the windows, and tatami mats covered the floor. There wasn’t a bed, or any other furniture, but Bliss had had the foresight to hang a hammock, should a guest room ever be required. When Susan suggested that she might purchase an air mattress, say, or a futon, Bliss had explained how a quarter of the world slept in hammocks and how this hammock was an authentic triple-weave hammock from the Yucatán, not like the single-weave crap hammocks that people hung in their backyards. Susan knew better than to argue with Bliss. But she hadn’t been able to twist around without a fiery pain in her shoulder blade since her first night in that fucking hammock, triple weave or no.
The room smelled like the sweet, stale smoke of a hundred Chinese incense sticks. It was worse in the heat, and even with the windows open, the air in the cramped Victorian’s second story was oppressive, like too-tight clothes. At least the hammock offered ventilation.
Susan told herself that she would get an apartment when she finished the story about the senator’s relationship with Molly Palmer. Right now, the story had to come first. Time could not be wasted browsing rental sites and viewing apartments. The story must have priority.
She turned to her laptop and opened it. The story glowed white on the pale blue screen. The cursor blinked. She started typing.
She would have died before she told anyone the truth: that she was scared to be alone. That she still felt the pressure of the belt around her neck. That she still had dreams about the After School Strangler.
She entered Castle’s “no comment” into the second paragraph of the story, and smiled. It hadn’t been that long ago that she’d written personal essays and cute features about salmon festivals and logging shows.
A lot had changed in the past nine weeks, since she’d been assigned the story of profiling Detective Archie Sheridan as he worked to hunt down the Strangler. She had changed.
She had thought about calling Archie a dozen times over the past two months. But she never had. There was no reason to. Her profile series had run. He’d sent a nice note about her last story on the Strangler, and wished her all the best in the world. No invitation to get coffee. No “let’s keep in touch.” She supposed he had bigger things on his mind.
It was for the best. Don’t fall for older, involved men. This was her new rule. And Archie Sheridan? Twelve years older than she was, and in love with his ex-wife. Just her type, and therefore totally off-limits. Plus, she had a job to do.
She refocused her attention on the screen in front of her.
Her current priority: unmasking Senator Castle for the jackass he was. The paper had fought her at every turn, dismissing the whole story as an old rumor. Until Susan found Molly. There had been talk about the senator’s so-called affair for years. And several reporters had even tried to track Molly down. Molly had refused to talk to any of them. But she and Susan had something in common. They had both had shit happen to them as kids that made them stupid about men.
For Susan that had led to bad boyfriends, drugs, if you counted marijuana, which no one in Portland, Oregon, did, and the worst sort of exhibitionism, confessional journalism. Molly was worse off than Susan in all departments.
Maybe, Susan thought, they could help each other find their ways out of the woods.
Or at least be less clichéd about it.
Susan reached over and picked up the mug of tea her mother had left her and touched the earthenware to her lips. But it was still too hot to drink.
Susan was aware, in the early morning, of the landline ringing. Her mother had the same phone she’d had when Susan was little, a red rotary phone that hung on the kitchen wall and had a cord so tangled you could pull the receiver only a few inches off the base. It had a loud bell ring that Bliss liked because she could hear it when she was in the backyard turning the compost pile or milking the goat. Why Bliss cared if she heard it, Susan didn’t know, because her mother almost never answered the phone. So Susan was surprised when the phone stopped ringing after a few rings.