But Teddy sees what I’m doing.
He stops giggling and shakes his head.
“That one’s not for Mommy or Daddy. Anya says she wants you to have it.”
* * *
I haven’t owned a computer since high school. For the past few years, I’ve been getting by with just a phone. But that night, I walk a mile to a shopping plaza and spend some of my paycheck on a new Android tablet. I’m back at the cottage by eight o’clock. I lock the door and change into my pajamas and then get into bed with my new toy. It only takes a few minutes to set up the tablet and connect to the Maxwells’ Wi-Fi network.
My search for “Annie Barrett” generates sixteen million results: wedding registries, architecture firms, Etsy shops, yoga tutorials, and dozens of LinkedIn profiles. I search again for “Annie Barrett + Spring Brook” and “Annie Barrett + Artist” and “Annie Barrett + dead + murdered” but none of these yield anything helpful. The internet has no record of her existence.
Outside, just over my head, something smacks against the window screen. I know it’s one of the fat brown moths that are all over the forest. They have the color and texture of tree bark, so they can easily camouflage themselves—but from my side of the window screen, all I see are their slimy segmented underbellies, three pairs of legs and two twitchy antennae. I rattle the screen and shake them loose, but they just fly around for a few seconds and come back. I worry they’ll find some gap in the screen and wriggle through, that they’ll migrate to my bedside lamp and swarm it.
Next to the lamp is my drawing of Anya being dragged through the forest. I wonder if I was wrong to keep it. Maybe I should have passed it to Caroline as soon as she walked through the door. Or better yet, I could have crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into the recycling bin. I hate the way Teddy has drawn her hair, the obscene length of her long black tresses, dragged behind her body like entrails. Something on my nightstand shrieks and I spring out of bed before realizing it’s just my phone—an incoming call with my ringtone set to high.
“Quinn!” Russell says. “Am I calling too late?”
This is such a typical Russell question. It’s only eight forty-five, but he advocates that anyone serious about fitness should be in bed with the lights out by nine thirty.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling about your hamstring. The other day, you said you were tight.”
“It’s better now.”
“How far’d you go tonight?”
“Four miles. Thirty-one minutes.”
“You tired?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You ready to push a little harder?”
I can’t stop staring at the drawing, at the tangle of black hair trailing behind the woman’s body.
What kind of kid draws this?
“Quinn?”
“Yeah—sorry.”
“Everything okay?”
I hear a mosquito whine and I slap the right side of my face, hard. Then I look at my palm, hoping to see mangled black ash, but my skin is clean.
“I’m fine. A little tired.”
“You just said you weren’t tired.”
And his voice shifts gears a tiny bit, like he’s suddenly aware there’s something going on.
“How’s the family treating you?”
“They’re fantastic.”
“And the kid? Tommy? Tony? Toby?”
“Teddy. He’s sweet. We’re having fun.”
For just a moment, I consider telling Russell about the situation with Anya, but I don’t know where to begin. If I come right out and tell him the truth, he’ll probably think I’m using again.
“Are you having glitches?” he asks.
“What kind of glitches?”
“Lapses in memory? Forgetfulness?”
“No, not that I can recall.”
“I’m serious, Quinn. It would be normal, under the circumstances. The stress of a new job, a new living situation.”
“My memory’s fine. I haven’t had those problems in a long time.”
“Good, good, good.” Now I hear him typing on his computer, keying in adjustments to my workout spreadsheet. “And the Maxwells have a swimming pool, right? You’re allowed to use it?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know the length? Ballpark?”
“Maybe thirty feet?”
“I’m emailing you some YouTube videos. They’re swimming exercises. Easy low-impact cross-training. Two or three times a week, all right?”