She tried listening to NPR on the way to work but her mind kept wandering, so she turned the radio off, and recited the names on the list to herself. Frank Hopkins. Jack Radebaugh. Arthur Kruse. Alison Horne. Jay Coates. Ethan Dart. Caroline Geddes. Matthew Beaumont. And that was eight. There was one more, right? For a total of nine. Then she remembered that she was the ninth name on the list. Why nine? she wondered. Lists should be ten, shouldn’t they? She pulled into her parking spot at the field office. That was the first question she would ask Aaron: Why nine?
10
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 8:00 A.M.
Matthew had reached the part of his run that took him through the town’s conservation land, a pine forest that skirted the largest wetland in Dartford. He slowed down, trying to absorb the shushing sound of the gentle breeze going through the tops of the trees, trying to be in the moment.
He stopped and just stood there, listening, but mostly all he could hear was his own breath entering and leaving his lungs. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened at the end of the previous night, standing in the dark with Michelle Robinson, making out like teenagers as curfew approached. He’d barely slept, going over and over in his mind what had happened, the solidity of her back against his hand, the softness of her mouth. How long had it lasted? Five minutes, maybe. Afterward, she had laughed, and said, “Well, that was interesting.”
“We probably shouldn’t be—”
“No, we definitely shouldn’t be.” Her hand was around his waist pressing their bodies together.
“And I should get back into the house, before Nancy …”
“Yes, you should. Definitely.” She let go of him, and leaned back against her car. “Maybe we should just chalk this up as a very nice interlude in our lives.”
“That sounds about right. It was very nice.”
They kissed once more, briefly but on the lips, and said goodnight.
Her words had been comforting, otherwise Matthew might be panicking right now that Michelle was telling Pete she was in love with someone else and wanted a divorce. No, that wasn’t going to happen. It had just been a semi-drunken kiss between two married friends. Nothing more, and over time they’d forget all about it. What else could happen? Even the thought of starting an affair, of kissing in parked cars, and renting motel rooms, and lying to their spouses, made Matthew feel sweaty and nauseous. It would be a terrible idea, and people would get hurt.
He wondered what Michelle was thinking about right now. Should he send her a text message, ask her if there was a place they could meet and talk? But if he did that, then there’d be a text history on his phone. There’d be proof, even if he could somehow erase it. Also, it would be inviting more of what had happened the night before. No, the best thing to do was to pretend it had never happened.
One thing, though. Matthew might feel anxious, but he also felt happy. If nothing else, the memory of that kiss would carry him through a winter’s worth of family troubles. The memory would always be there, ready for him to access. That would have to be enough. If Michelle and he had an affair, they would get found out. That’s what always happened. And then he and Nancy would get divorced, and he’d probably never see the children again. She’d have custody, and she would hate him for what he had done, passing along all that hate to their children. Not only that, she’d probably pass along all of her neurotic tendencies too, his children becoming miniature versions of their mother. Or maybe not. Maybe they’d turn out okay. He had, after all. His own mother had been a mess all through his childhood. And now she hadn’t left her house in over fifteen years, since he’d gone off to college. She lived on vegetable soup, and a steady diet of Hallmark movies, any movie really so long as it had a happy ending. Jesus, why was he thinking of his mother? He thought of Michelle again, and what it had been like to hold her in his arms.
Matthew had been slumped forward, his hands on his knees, even though he was no longer breathing deeply. He straightened up and did a couple of lunges, to stretch out some more. He’d already decided to do the big loop today and that meant two and a half more miles. More time to think of Michelle Robinson. But before he began to run again, he heard the snap of a twig behind him, then he was thrown forward onto the path by the enormous force of a .44-caliber bullet punching a hole dead center between his shoulder blades, severing the spinal cord so that he was effectively brain-dead by the time he landed on the soft forest floor.
SEVEN
1
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 8:04 A.M.