She opened the door wider and let him in. His T-shirt hung heavily past his belt and his waterlogged pant legs dragged on the ground. His shoes squished as he walked.
“Damn,” he said, fumbling into the laundry room for a towel. “I kept knocking. I saw you on the couch.”
“The rain must be too loud. I didn’t hear.”
Scott rubbed the towel over his sopping hair.
“You should change clothes,” Sylvie said. “I’ll get you something from upstairs.”
He nodded from underneath the towel. Sylvie dashed upstairs to Scott’s old bedroom, but his closet was bare. Charles’s was empty, too. She paused, considering, and then padded down the hall to her own room.
She and James had separate walk-in closets, and Sylvie hadn’t gone into James’s side much since he’d died. His suits and shirts still hung in neat lines. His shined shoes, their leather smell so dignified, were in a row on the closet floor. He kept sweaters and Tshirts at the back on shelves. She pulled out an oversize gray sweatshirt and a plain white T-shirt. To her relief they didn’t smell like much of anything except detergent. On one of the shelves was a pair of black sweatpants, the tags still on. She pulled them out, too.
She quickly threw on a pair of khaki pants and a navy cashmere cardigan and kicked her slippers into the corner. On her way down the stairs, she paused. It was portentous seeing Scott tonight of all nights. They sometimes went days without interacting. Could he sense where she’d been this afternoon, whom she’d been talking to? Had he come to ask what she thought she’d accomplish by talking to Christian’s father? For really, what did going to see him imply? Did it mean she doubted Scott’s innocence once and for all?
Back in the living room, there was a puddle of water at Scott’s feet. “I think I might take a shower, if that’s okay,” he said. “I’m freezing.”
“Sure,” Sylvie said. “Of course.”
They eyed each other warily, neither moving. “There’s a leak,” Scott finally explained. “Right over my bed. My sheets are soaked. And another big one near my bathroom.”
Sylvie swiveled around, searching the counter for the house keys. “We should go take a look.”
“It’s late,” Scott said. “I put a bucket under the leaks. No one will come to fix it now anyway.” He paused to scratch his nose, staring blankly at a watercolor painting of a bunch of violets on the laundry room wall. “I was going to stay at Lee’s. I was waiting for it to stop raining so hard, but …”
“Stay in your old room tonight. Until we have it figured out.”
He glanced out the window. “I could make it. At least there won’t be much traffic.”
Am I that horrible to be around? Sylvie thought. “You’re welcome to stay here. Really.”
“Fine,” Scott conceded, rolling his eyes.
She followed Scott upstairs and got him extra towels, as if he was a guest. Because she knew making up his bed would seem overbearing, she pointed out sheets and pillowcases. Scott nodded and then glanced at her. “It was so weird. That ceiling was suddenly like …” He extended his arms and made a boom sound.
“Well, this rain is sort of …” She fluttered her hands, unsure of the word she was looking for. “ … Angry.”
“All of a sudden this water drips on my head. Like that water torture method they use in interrogations.”
Sylvie looked away. She wondered if Scott even realized the irony in what he’d just said. “Well,” she said. “That certainly doesn’t sound pleasant.”
Scott paused for a moment, almost smiling at her. He reached out his hand and touched her shoulder. Sylvie stiffened, his touch unfamiliar. He pulled her in, just slightly, and then let go abruptly as though he had suddenly become aware of what his limbs were doing.
A dull ache rippled through her. This tenderness was heartbreakingly ill-timed, too much to bear. She saw the picture of Christian propped up against that tree at Feverview Dwellings. The father leaning over his thighs, wracked with sobs.
Scott turned awkwardly to the bathroom. “Well, thanks for answering the door.”
“Of course,” Sylvie said quietly. “Sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”
Then Scott shut the door.
She stood there for a moment, and then gazed down the hall into her bedroom. James’s closet gaped open, the light still on. He was so meticulously organized. His ties on a rack, his sweaters neatly folded, his shirts organized by color. She scanned the blazers, searching for the one he’d worn his last day of work. They’d returned his clothes to her, after it was all over. His shirt had been ruined—they’d had to cut it off him—but he hadn’t been wearing his blazer when he collapsed, so she’d brought it back to his closet and returned it to its hanger, as if he would still someday return and wear it again.