“Don’t say that. Of course you do. I just wish you’d share more about your life with me.” I moved to sit beside him on the couch. “I just want to know you.”
“There’s not much to tell.” He swallowed. “Let’s just say my father made it pretty clear I wasn’t wanted. He shoved me down the stairs a couple of times, knocked me around a bit, and was handy with the belt. I spent most of my childhood being afraid of him whenever he was home from the ships. He was always yelling at my mom—and I saw bruises on her arms. I was glad when he finally left, but then a few years later my mom found the first lump. I tried to take care of her the best I could until she died, but I was still a kid, you know?”
I wanted to cry, thinking about everything he had been through. He’d grown up so fast. “You have my family now.” I leaned over and wrapped my arms around him, squeezing hard.
“You all mean so much to me,” he said. “It’s like I was floating along for years and now I’ve finally found somewhere to land. I never want to lose you.” He rested his warm cheek against mine, his arms holding me tight. My body relaxed, and I felt a surge of relief. This was the Andrew I knew and loved. “I’m really sorry I broke your gift,” he said. “I hate to think that you spent all that time trying to make it special for me, and then I go and wreck everything. I don’t know why I get like that sometimes. It’s like I just see red and then I can’t think straight. I don’t want to be like that with you.” He sounded so confused, so unsure of himself, so ashamed.
I pulled away, looked him in the face. “It’s not that big of a deal, okay? We have lots of Christmases ahead of us. Next year I’ll knit you a tacky scarf or something.”
He cupped the side of my face. “You’re too good. How did I get so lucky?”
“You might not think you’re so lucky when you deal with my family chaos tomorrow.”
“Let’s go to bed. I want to hold you and show you how much I love you.” He was looking at me in the way that usually made me crave his touch, but something held me back.
I picked up a red bow. “Not yet! We have to finish wrapping these gifts!”
I watched him carefully place the bow in the center of a large package. I was still unsettled but pushing off the lingering negative feelings. This was what made a real marriage—arguments, misunderstandings, then talking things out and becoming even closer.
It was okay that we didn’t wrap the presents together. We finished them together.
CHAPTER FOUR
DECEMBER 2016
The officer’s name is Corporal D. Parker. She looks to be in her late thirties, with auburn hair pulled back into a bun, pale blue eyes, and a friendly smile that I know is meant to make me relax, but I can’t stop shivering and stumbling over my words. I’m holding her card tight in my palm and keep glancing at it as though the RCMP logo and official letters will somehow make me feel safe. I can’t remember what the D stands for, the introductions a blur. I was so relieved when I saw her car pull in behind me. She went inside first and made sure no one was lurking, but I already knew Andrew would be long gone. He’s too smart to linger.
We’re standing in the kitchen now and I’m trying to explain why I’m so sure it was my ex-husband. “He put my keys on top of my purse—he used to get mad at me for losing them.”
“Anything missing from your wallet?”
“I don’t know. He put my lip gloss back in my purse too.” I stare at it, and know I’ll never use that gloss again as long as I live. “He must have come in through the window.”
“Okay, show me where.”
I take her to the spare room, point at the window, and she looks outside. I think about how much it’s rained in the last hour, how the snow has melted all around the house.
“Do you know if she has any valuables in the house?”
“Maybe a few pieces of jewelry—but Andrew wouldn’t have taken anything. He just wanted me to know he was in the house. I think he was hiding in the front closet and snuck out when I was cleaning the bedrooms. Gatsby spooked at the end of the hall.”
“Gatsby?”
“The cat.”
“I should probably talk to him too.” I blink at her, and she smiles and gives a shrug. “Cop humor.” She glances at the window frame, leans over like she’s looking for something on the sill. “I’ll dust for prints, and I’ll need the number for the home owner.”
I wait on the couch while she works upstairs. I can hear the low murmur of her voice on the phone, her footsteps. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Carlson when I was in the room—she asked me to stay downstairs because she might have more questions.