“Did you eat, Peter?” she asks casually with her back to him.
Silence.
She turns. He appears confused.
“I was just wondering if you want some more to eat?” she says.
“I—I’m fine. I had dinner.”
She nods, removes his lasagna, and sticks her own food into the microwave. As it warms, she sips more of her wine. Peter’s gaze goes to the fireplace in the living room. He watches the flames, his face blank. And just like that Mal’s man has slipped away from her again, stolen by this strange and baffling disease. She first started noticing little changes in Peter more than seven years ago. Then he suffered a fall, and doctors thought he might have had a small stroke. Then came the bouts of depression. He lost interest in his hobbies, like gardening, and he seemed increasingly forgetful, irritable. Gradually he lost his social filters. He got angry with her more frequently—outbursts, swearing. He experienced some shocking cases of road rage, one of which resulted in police coming round to the house. His work got sloppy. His colleagues and students began complaining. The official diagnosis, however, took a while.
Mal carries her bowl and wine to the table and sits across from Peter. “And how was your day?”
He meets her gaze and considers her question for a moment. “I read in the paper about that seventy-one-year-old senior who’s gone missing, the one with Alzheimer’s.”
“Sylvia Kaplan?”
He nods. “She walked out of her home in East Van and never came back. Her daughter says they’ve been searching for almost two months now. The last sighting was at a bus shelter on Renfrew. They think she got onto a bus and got off somewhere in the night and was totally lost.”
“It’s heartbreaking, I know. It happens far too often.”
“They were talking about how we need an official Silver Alert system in this province. Like the Amber Alert for kids.”
“I agree.” She forks lasagna into her mouth as she studies Peter’s eyes. They’re filling with tears. She sets her fork down and covers his hand. “You all right?”
He inhales and glances away.
“We’ve got this, Peter,” she says. “You and I. In sickness and in health. Okay?”
He refuses to meet her gaze.
“Peter?”
He turns.
“I’m not going to let you wander off.”
“I want to talk to those people,” he says.
“Which people?”
“The Dignity in Death people. About medical assistance in dying.”
Shock washes through Mal’s veins. For an instant words elude her—she had not allowed her mind to go this far. Yet.
“I don’t want to be a vegetable in a seniors’ home,” Peter says angrily. “Just lying in a bed, my skin rotting with bedsores, forgetting how to eat, how to swallow, needing diapers changed. I don’t want to do that to you, Mal, to anyone.”
Mal draws in a slow, deep breath of air. “Okay,” she says quietly. “We’ll talk about it.”
He slams his hand down on the table. Her glass wobbles and she tenses, bracing for another outburst.
“Talk! Always goddamn talk, talk, talk. I want action!” His gaze burns into hers. Tears leak down the side of his face. His hands shake.
“I know, Peter. I understand. As soon as this case is a wrap, we’ll meet with your doctor, okay? We’ll ask him about medical assistance in dying. We’ll discuss all the options.”
He glowers at her for several beats. “It’s not easy to access MAID with dementia. MAID legally requires you to be cognizant right to the end.”
“I know. But there is some case precedent. We’ll work through it.” She forces a smile. “You and I. Deal?”
“I want it down in writing,” he says, jabbing his finger onto the table. “I want it stated that when I no longer recognize you, Mal, or when I no longer remember the names of my family members, from that point I no longer want to live. That’s when I want MAID. I do not want you struggling to change my pants and wipe my butt and the drool from my mouth.”
For a moment Mal can’t speak.
“Okay?” he says.
“Okay,” Mal says. “We’ll go step by step. But how about you sleep on it tonight and see how you feel in the morning?”
“I’ve been sleeping on it for bloody months. One morning I’ll wake up and it’ll be too late.”
Mal finishes her dinner halfheartedly while Peter sits, watching the fire. She then helps her husband up to bed. He seems particularly tired tonight. She drapes a blanket over him, kisses him, and switches off the lights.
As Mal heads back downstairs to finish her wine by the fire and to mull things over, her cell rings. It’s Lula.
“Hey, Lu,” she says tiredly as she reaches the kitchen. “What’re you still doing up?”
“Likewise, boss. This could wait until our six a.m. briefing, but I figured you’d want to know right away.”
“What is it?”
“We’ve located Vanessa and Haruto North with assistance from Interpol. We—”
“Interpol?”
“The Norths are in Singapore. At their primary residence. Northview is their second home. They acquired the house just over eight months ago. I spoke with them by phone while they were in the presence of law enforcement on the Singapore end, so we can be confident their IDs are solid.”
“How—when did they depart for Singapore?”
“They claim to have been in Singapore at their primary residence for the last six months plus a few days.”
“Both of them?”
“Both of them.”
Mal’s brain reels. “Beulah Brown says she saw a pregnant Vanessa North next door last week.”
“And here’s the kicker,” Lula says. “Vanessa North is not pregnant.”
“What?” Mal says.
“Vanessa North is not pregnant. She’s in her midforties and says it would be a miracle if she was.”
JON
October 28, 2019. Monday.
Three days before the murder.
Jon sits with Mia in a discreet booth. It’s 9:34 p.m., and they’re in a small piano lounge downtown. He’s got a buzz on from the drinks he downed before he arrived, and from the cocktails he and Mia have already shared. A hot, sexual energy crackles over his skin. Daisy and the unborn baby are fast fading to a peripheral wilderness in Jon’s mind. His focus is solely on the seductive woman in his presence.
This place was Mia’s suggestion, and it’s perfect. Tucked away. Private. Jon feels safe in this dimly lit cocoon of elegance. No tacky Halloween-season decor. Soft jazzy piano tunes. A lounge singer with a voice like smoke and whisky. Miles away from where he told Daisy he would be with prospective TerraWest investors from China.
“So how did you find my number?” he asks Mia, who is even more beautiful than he remembered. She wears a ruby-red velvet dress with her hair loose over her shoulders. The dress shows off the green of her eyes.
She smiles, sips her martini, and says softly, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?”
He smiles. That this siren hunted him down is intoxicating. That she wants his body is driving him nuts.