Alice’s limbs stiffened at the mention of her mother.
“Whatever you say,” she said.
“I love you, Alice. Forever and ever. No matter what happens.”
“I love you, too, Jake,” she said, and turned away from him.
After he fell asleep, Alice got up and went to her old bedroom, and got under the covers. She could hear the very faint sawing sound of Jake’s snoring through the condo’s cheap walls. She tried to sleep, but she kept thinking about what Jake had said. Why had he brought up her mother? She’d found her mother dead on the sofa, something she’d have to live with forever. And now she’d lost her best friend. She hadn’t been able to save her, and Jake was making it sound like she was somehow to blame.
She flipped over onto her stomach, even though she knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep. She thought about Jake, trying to erase the words he’d said to her.
Chapter 21
Now
The bed was moving, the twisted sheet tightening against his ribs.
Harry opened his gummy eyes. It was still night. He was cold, but a warm body was pressed against his back, and an arm had snaked over his shoulder. He heard Alice’s voice in his ear: “Just keep sleeping, Harry. I don’t want to be alone.”
Harry stayed as still as possible, wondering if he could just pretend to be asleep, but he knew that she’d felt his entire body tense when she touched him. She pulled in tighter. There was some kind of satiny fabric between his body and hers, but he could feel the press of her breasts against his back, the rough edge of a nipple. “Alice . . .” he managed to say.
“Shhh. Go back to sleep. You’re so cold.” She spread her hand across his chest, then brought her legs up so that her knees touched the backs of his thighs.
“I don’t think—”
“Just for me, okay. Go back to sleep.” He could smell the wine on her breath. She shifted her body back and forth like a bird settling into a nest. She pressed her forehead against the back of his neck.
Harry concentrated on his breathing, keeping it steady. He closed his eyes. It did feel good to have a body up against his, radiating warmth. He listened as her breathing became deeper; he could feel her breath against his skin. His heart rate began to slow.
When he woke, he was on his back, Alice hovering over him, lifting her nightgown past her hips. Harry started to speak, and Alice was kissing him, one hand against his neck, her other sliding down his stomach, and taking hold of his erection. There was nothing he could do to stop it from happening; his body was taking over, and soon they were having sex. Alice kept her head close down to his, her hair spread over his face, and he shut his eyes, the world reducing to darkness and sensation, Alice whispering his name in his ear again and again.
Afterward, he started to speak again, and Alice said, “Don’t. Let’s not talk about it.”
Harry, relieved, stayed quiet, and soon Alice’s breath became slow and rhythmic. He turned away from her and closed his eyes. When he opened them again the window had brightened with soft morning light. Alice was still breathing heavily, her mouth now pressed into the hollow between his shoulder and his spine, her lips against his skin. He moved his hips involuntarily, and Alice’s fingers fluttered against him. Harry made himself roll away, then sat up on the edge of the bed. He produced a low humming sound to make it seem as though he had just woken up. Behind him, on the bed, Alice stirred. He stood before she could say anything, aware of his nakedness, and quickly left the room, grabbing his jeans and T-shirt from the floor.
He went straight downstairs, where he got dressed, and pulled on the shoes that were still by the door. Then he stood still, listening for the sound of Alice getting up herself. He heard nothing. What had happened in the middle of the night now felt like a vague, dusky dream. How drunk had she been? Was there the possibility that she hadn’t known what she was doing?
Harry opened the door quietly and stepped out onto the front step into the cool dawn. Birds were chattering loudly in the trees, and the front lawn was coated in dew. He sat on the steps, his mind replaying details from a few hours ago. His skin shivered and tightened at the memory. It had been a new experience, giving in to the will of someone else, her body taking control of his; she was smaller than he was, but she’d felt larger as she’d drawn him into her. Harry was desperately trying to file the experience into a folder that made sense, but he couldn’t. He’d had sex with his stepmother, less than a week after the death of his father. It felt halfway between a fantasy come true and the type of nightmare you wake up from drenched in sweat. He tried to stop remembering it, but kept hearing her whispering his name in his ear, the edge of her teeth against his earlobe.
He had no idea what time it was, but figured it was probably just around five o’clock. He decided to walk to the Dunkin’ Donuts over in Kennewick Center, get himself some coffee, maybe something to eat.
It was over a mile to Kennewick Center, but the walk felt good. He began to warm up, the sun rising, the mist burning off. Approaching the Dunkin’ Donuts, he wasn’t sure it was open yet, but when he got to the front doors, he could make out an employee moving behind the counter. He got himself a large regular—a coffee with maximum cream and sugar—and a blueberry donut.
He sat in a booth, watched through the steamy window as a pickup truck pulled in across two spots. A skinny man wearing a camo baseball cap jumped out of the cab, the truck still running, and strode into the shop. “Mornin’, Cody,” said the woman behind the counter as she got him a coffee and an apple turnover without asking him what he wanted. Harry kept his eye on the truck, spilling exhaust, and had a brief urge to race out of the shop with his coffee, steal the truck, and just start driving north, see how far he could get.
But he didn’t move. The man returned with his breakfast to his truck. Harry kept sipping at his coffee. He ate the blueberry donut, remembering, as he ate it, that it had been his father’s favorite. His thoughts shifted again to Alice, and Grace’s conviction that she had something to do with the murder. What if Grace was right, and he’d slept with his father’s murderer? His stomach flipped. He told himself to breathe, and thought of Occam’s razor, something he’d learned about in a probability course in college: The simplest solution to a problem is most likely the correct one.
What was the simplest solution?
Probably that his father had been an adulterer who liked to seduce younger women. He’d seduced a married woman and been killed by a jealous husband. Grace was just another girlfriend who had nothing to do with his father’s death. Alice was a betrayed wife who was right now trying to grapple with everything that was happening. And she was desperate for attention and affection. Wasn’t this the most logical solution? And if that was the case, then Harry had some responsibility because of what his father had left behind. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, looking for his phone, just to check if Grace or Alice had sent him a text, but he’d left it in the bedroom.