“Damn it,” I mutter and look down at the phone.
I want to call Tomasetti and run all of this past him, but I hesitate. Only then do I realize that, while I have been busy with the case, my reasons for avoiding him are a lot more complex than I’m admitting, even to myself. The truth of the matter is, I’m afraid he’s going to ask me to move in with him again—and I don’t know how to answer. I hate it that I haven’t been honest. Not with him—or myself. I need to sort out my feelings and make a decision. He deserves an answer, and I owe it to myself to give it to him, no matter where we go from here.
CHAPTER 16
I make a stop at the grocery and buy a bottle of my favorite cabernet, a bunch of grapes, some crusty French bread, cheese, and a corkscrew bottle opener. I tuck everything into a grocery bag and makes tracks toward Wooster. It takes me twenty minutes to find Tomasetti’s new place. I get lost twice and end up having to call my dispatcher for a quick Google map search. I could have called Tomasetti, but somewhere along the way realized I wanted to surprise him.
Dusk falls in Impressionist hues of lavender and gray. I’m so intent on the peaceful beauty of the countryside, I nearly miss my turn and have to make a hard stop. The rust-bucket mailbox has been bashed in, but the number is still legible, so I turn in. The canopies of the massive elm trees arc over the lane, lending the illusion of driving through a lush, green cave.
Despite my earlier hesitancy, a sense of anticipation keeps pace with me as I barrel toward the house. I think about the man waiting for me and I suddenly can’t wait to see him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh at something I shouldn’t. For a little while I want to forget about this case. I want to forget about the discovery of Lapp’s remains.
The old Victorian sits at the end of the lane looking lost and out of place, like some B-movie actor who knows, no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never master the part to which he’s been cast. In an instant, I take in the wraparound porch, the tall, narrow windows, and the crisp white paint. Huge shade trees hulk on every side of the house. Behind it, a rusty silo that had once been painted silver and a tumbling-down barn watch over the place with mournful, longing eyes.
Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked adjacent a one-car detached garage. I can tell by the way the overhead door lists that it’s not functional. I get out of the Explorer and I’m met by a dissonance of birdsong: blue jays and cardinals and the occasional caw of a crow. The breeze smells of cut grass and the honeysuckle that grows wild on the barbed wire fence behind a small chicken coop. I stand there, taking in the disarray, and all I can think is that this world I’ve stepped into is completely incongruous with the man I’ve come to know.
I take the crumbling sidewalk to the back porch. The door stands ajar, but the screen door is closed. I hear the crackle of a radio beyond. The smells of fresh paint and new wood waft through the screen. Using my knuckles, I rap on the door and wait, incredulous because my heart is pounding and there’s a small, insecure part of me that’s terrified he won’t come.
A full minute passes. Thinking he might be upstairs, I use my key chain and knock harder. “Tomasetti?”
When that doesn’t draw his attention, I push open the door. The hinges squeak as I step inside. The kitchen has been gutted down to the drywall and subflooring. A radio is set up on a five-gallon bucket and The Wallflowers blare “One Headlight.” A wide doorway to my right beckons, so I take it to a good-size living room. Three of the walls are painted an attractive dark tan. A stepladder stands next to a tall window. Plastic drop cloths cover hardwood floors the color of semisweet chocolate. I turn in a slow circle, spot the massive hearth behind me, and find myself smiling.
“Tomasetti?”
The only reply is the birdsong coming in through the open window and sound of the breeze rattling the drop cloth on the floor.
I take the stairs to the second level. There are three large bedrooms and an art-deco–style bathroom with teal-colored tile and a claw-foot tub. More evidence of work up here, too. There are two sawhorses set up with a sheet of plywood stretched across them. A power saw sits on the floor atop a layer of sawdust, an orange extension cord coils like a snake against the wall.
“Tomasetti!” I call out.
No answer.