Page 24 of Again with Feeling

“No, Dash—” Frustration creased Bobby’s brow. “I’m just saying that every relationship is a gamble. After a certain point, you’re just making time, and you have to take a chance.”

I nodded. My head felt loose on my neck. Stepping around Bobby, I started toward the servants’ dining room.

He reached out like he might stop me, but his hand fell short. “Can we please sit down and talk about this? I’m really unhappy with how this conversation is going.”

“What’s there to talk about?” I asked. “You made your decision. Everything is—how did you put it? Everything else is just making time.”

Chapter 7

For the first section of the drive, I was on autopilot. The brisk mid-morning of June on the Oregon Coast became a blur of still-damp ferns, pavement dark with moisture, the branches of spruce and pine and fir glistening. I passed Hastings Rock, with its jumble of architectural styles—everything from Victorian to beach bungalow to modernist—making a postcard skyline against the horizon. The Jeep, always noisy, seemed louder than usual, until the rush of wind against the frame and the roar of the engine made me feel like I’d stuck my head in a wind tunnel. In a good way, if that makes any sense.

But below that initial level of disconnect, I ran through frenzied replays of the conversation with Kiefer and Bobby. How Kiefer had said,I thought it would be cute. How Bobby had said,Of course I was going to tell you. The way he’d stood in the kitchen, that defiant pose like he knew he was doing something wrong and was daring me to say something about it. How he’d said,Not everyone is like you.

How dare you? That’s what I wanted to say. And I wanted to—to shake him. It wasn’t something I’d felt before, as though words weren’t a sufficient outlet for my feelings. Like the only way I could tell him how I felt was to lay hands on him, as though somehow pure force couldmakehim see that he was being an idiot. And even as I shook with the need, I was also horrified by the strength of that urge, by the darker current of it. Because I wanted to do something that would shock Bobby. I wanted to do something that would snap him out of this craziness. I wanted to do something that would wipe that stupid look off his face. You’ve known each other a month, I wanted to say. Barely amonth. You don’t even know his middle name. But what I really wanted to say, what was stuck in my throat, was: How dare you feel sorry for me?

Because that was what it had been at the end. Condescending, yes. Patronizing, sure. But worst of all, full of pity.

Not everyone is like you.

Fine, I thought. No problem. Move out. Go live a great, happy life with this baby version of West you somehow managed to dig up. See if it goes any better for you this time.

And then I started to cry. I had to pull onto the shoulder of the road, easing the Jeep to a halt. I didn’t sob. I didn’t fall apart. But I sat there, fighting wave after wave, my eyes hot and stinging.

Eventually, I got myself under control again. Slumped in my seat, I stared out the windshield. The day was bright and clear, and even inside the Jeep, I could tell it was warming up pleasantly—a perfect summer day in this part of the world. Next to me, green stalks rippled in the breeze. Barley, maybe. Or wheat. An ancient wheel line sprinkler broke up the neat rows. As I watched, a little brown bird with a yellow throat fluttered down onto the lateral pipe. It cocked its head, as though listening to something, and took off again in a flurry of movement.

The world moves on, I thought. And I checked the mirror and shifted into drive and got going again.

It would have been generous to call my sudden flight from Hemlock House a plan, but Ihadintended to talk to Neil and Jane Carver—or whatever Jane’s last name was these days—and since I found myself almost halfway to Astoria, I decided now was as good a time as any.

When I got there, the street was as quiet and empty as it had been the day before. I drove past Arlen and Candy’s house, butthere was no sign of a grim-faced octogenarian lying in wait with a shotgun. Maybe more importantly, there was no sign of Candy, who probably would have asked me for Bobby’s phone number. If she did, I was going to give it to her. Petty is as petty does.

Richard’s house—which, I guess, was really Neil and Jane’s house now—looked unchanged from the day before: a little white bungalow like all the others on the street. The curtains were open, and the windows were dark. I parked and got a look at the garage, but the door was down, and I couldn’t tell if there was a car inside. Then I knocked on the front door.

Steps moved inside the house, and the door opened to reveal a woman. She was White, and I put her age somewhere in the sixties. She had long, thick hair that had once been dark but was graying now, and she had great skin—and clearly wasn’t wearing any makeup. Not beautiful, but…well, what I might have called arresting, if I were writing about her. Something about her face held the eye. She wore a knit top, polyester slacks, and sensible pumps; she didn’t seem like the type to lounge about the house in a muumuu.

Her voice was surprisingly deep when she said, “May I help you?”

“My name is Dash Dane. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Jane Carver.”

“I’m Jane Carver.”

Believe it or not, there isn’t a WikiHow article for “How to Introduce Yourself to a Potential Murderer.” (I checked.) So, I said, “I know this is going to sound strange, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about Richard Lundgren. I’m not a reporter. This is going to sound crazy, but—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Dane. Won’t you come in?”

“Uh, yes?”

(Will Gower definitely wouldn’t have let it sound like a question.)

The living room at the front of the house was surprisingly updated and, if I’m being honest, beautiful. I mean, the size and the layout made it hard to pretend the house itself was anything but what it was, but Jane had done a great job with what she was working with. The sofa set was cream-colored upholstery with nailhead trim, and when Jane indicated for me to sit, I discovered that it was comfortable as well as attractive. The coffee table was simple—just solid wood with a good stain—but it matched the entertainment center. A few stylishly antiquated prints hung on the walls, and it took me a moment to recognize the watercolors as cityscapes of Astoria. Peonies exploded out of a blue glass vase and lent a hint of their perfume. It was a far cry from Arlen and Candy’s place next door.

Jane left. Sounds filtered to me from the kitchen: running water, the clink of cups, steps moving back and forth. It took me a moment, but then I spotted the opportunity she’d given me, and I eased myself up from the sofa. The house was tiny, and a little stub of a hall connected the living room to the kitchen. I figured if Jane asked why I was wandering around, I could explain I was looking for the bathroom. Thatneverwent wrong in books.

Three doors stood open along the hallway. One connected with what had to be Jane and Neil’s room—it had a lived-in look. The furniture here was dated but in good condition, and although the tops of the dresser and the wardrobe appeared to be free of the usual junk that tended to accumulate (at least, in my bedroom), one of the nightstands held books, and the other had an empty glass and a remote control. The next room was the small but pristine bathroom, with the same white tile running across the floor and up the walls. The shower curtain was closed, but if I pushed it back, I expected I’d find the tub scoured within an inch of its life. And the next room appeared to be for guests. The bed was made up, but it felt unused in a way that the otherroom hadn’t. In the kitchen, a kettle whistled, and I started to turn back toward the living room. And then I noticed the books.

The bookcase stood against the far wall, and the books lining it were clearly all from the same series. I didn’t need to get closer to know what they were; I’d read those books plenty of times, and I had the same series back at Hemlock House. They were the Matron of Murder books—Vivienne’smagnum opus.

As the sound of footsteps moved closer, I hurried back to the living room and settled onto the sofa again. A moment later, Jane appeared, carrying a rosewood tray with a tea service for two. I watched her movements as she poured: steady, unhurried, assured.

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