He knows my name.
Oh, God. He knows my name.
I wondered if he could be one of Don’s former associates. I knew Don was an ex-con when I married him. As much as Don claims to be on the straight and narrow, I’ve suspected he’s stepped off the path a time or ten. Like any woman in love, I’ve overlooked his lapses.
The idea that he could be looking for Don made me blurt out, “Don’s not here.” Then it hit me what a stupid thing I’d done, admitting I was alone. “What do you want?”
“Answers.” He moved in behind me, so there was no chance I’d see his face. His body brushed mine in a way that caused my flesh to crawl.
“I know you went to see her.”
At first, I couldn’t understand whom he meant.
“Rosemary Thomas. You visited her the night before her execution.”
My mind frantically tried to make sense of what he was saying.
“You aren’t denying it,” he whispered.
When I swallowed, the metal of the blade seemed to move in closer to my throat. I croaked, “Yes, I met with her.”
His breath stirred my hair and his nose brushed the upper shell of my ear. “What did you talk about?”
“Nothing important.”
“Liar.” He jammed my arm higher up my back and I cried from the pain. “Try again.”
“We… ah… talked about children.”
“I don’t believe you. Tell me the truth.”
“I am. I’m telling you the truth.”
“You sure? So you and Rosemary just… talked.”
My “Yes” came out a frustrated hiss, similar to the whisper he used.
“You sure she didn’t give you something that night?”
God. How would he know? “Just advice.”
Evidently he wasn’t satisfied with my answer. He abruptly released my arm and with his free hand grabbed a handful of my hair as he jerked my head aside, brandishing the knife in front of my eyes. “You lie.”
“No. Please-”
He pressed the blade and my skin finally gave way. I gasped at the sharp sting.
“Tell me everything or the next one will hurt.”
What if I told him what Rosemary had given me? Would he let me live?
He’d kill me for sure. Probably messily. The image flashed before me, my body sprawled on the ground, eyes staring vacantly at the skylights, my neck sliced. Don or the kids would find my body. Or the dogs. In my mind I could almost hear their barking as they tried to rouse me.
But the yips I heard weren’t only in my mind. They were getting louder, which meant someone had let the dogs out of the house.
Despite the fear choking me, I managed to let out a scream, a scream so loud and long it hurt my own ears and turned my throat raw.
My attacker dropped back. The knife clattered to the floor and his footfalls faded as I fell to my knees, retching. I heard nothing but blood roaring in my ears and the furious pounding of my heart. I huddled against the ground and gripped the knife in my hand, just in case.
But it wasn’t only my heart pounding-footsteps closed in, stopping next to my head. A hand landed on my back and I shrieked.
“Belle?”
Terrified, I looked up, expecting to see him again. “Don, thank God you-”
“What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. He ran out the door. But please don’t-”
Then Don was gone, whistling for the dogs.
I should’ve saved my breath. Don wasn’t the type to cocoon me when he had a chance to inflict damage on someone who’d dared attack me. Part of me feared what Don would do to the guy; part of me wished I could watch him do it.
I remained crouched on the floor, knife clutched in my hand. Too stunned to cry. Too scared to move.
When Don returned, huffing and puffing, anger contorting his face, slamming the door hard, I knew he hadn’t caught the guy.
I launched myself at him. His strong arms encircled me and held me tight. “Oh, God. Don. If you hadn’t-”
“Shhh. Baby, I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
After years together and countless questions from people asking how we ended up together, I couldn’t explain it. No one had ever looked out for me the way Don did. No one had ever loved me the way Don did. He’d do whatever it took to make me happy, and I’d learned firsthand how broad his definition of “whatever” was.
Once I stopped trembling, he eased back to look me over. His hard gaze zoomed to the cut on my neck. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
His jaw tightened. “You calmed down enough to call the police?”
Don hated cops. Hated them. That he planned to dial 911 meant he was worried. I lifted my hand to touch him, to soothe him, and I’d forgotten I still held the knife. He didn’t even flinch with the blade so close to his face, just kept his eyes on mine as he unwrapped my fingers from the handle and tossed the knife to the floor. “It’s okay. We’ll get the guy who did this to you.”
“No cops.”
“Belle. You’re not thinking straight. We have to let the police know what happened.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Jesus Christ. The fucker cut you! He could’ve killed you. I can’t believe you’d let him go free. What if the kids’d been home, huh? Would you be as careless with their safety as you are with your own?”
I shook him, hoping it’d clear his brain. “Don. Listen to me. This wasn’t a random attack.”
He froze. “What?”
“The guy… knew me. He knew my name. He knew about my visit to Rosemary the night before the execution, and he somehow suspected that she gave me-”
“For Christ’s sake, Belle,” Don roared, “that’s ten times worse. If this guy is gunning for you, then we definitely have to report this.”
Silence.
We stared at each other. Measuring each other.
After a minute or so, Don threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine. No cops. But it proves I’m right. You can’t go to the memorial, Belle. No way. This has gotten too goddamn dangerous.”
The dogs barking and scratching at the door took his attention away from me.
We both knew his blustering was just that. I had no choice but to attend Rosemary’s memorial service, even though I was pretty sure whoever attacked me would be there too.
11 Matthew Pearl
Waking up, sometimes you wonder whether you’re really that godawful person you were the day before. But sometimes nothing so profound finds a way into your head-dizzy, used up, in the morning you think, What the-? Then, nothing.
Jon Nunn, in these years since Rosemary’s death, had to try to remember himself every single creaky morning of his life. For years, he’d alternate days filled by the righteous urge to save someone (typical for an ex-cop feeling out civilian life) and days darkened by the urge to strangle and bust up someone bad. Stan Ballard, who’d stolen his wife, was one imagined victim, sure, but sometimes just anyone would have done fine, anyone blamable for the happiness and freedom that came with not being him.
The hard guilt radiated from Rosemary’s death (No, her execution, jackass, his unrested brain would nag him), but it had actually gone further by now. Having found no satisfaction on that score, it traveled back to Christopher Thomas’s murder, as though Jon were responsible for that one too, for stuffing Thomas in an iron maiden, and responsible for all the chains of calamities in the world before and after the death of Rosemary. (Execution, Jon boy, ex-e-cution.)
It had started in small spurts, hardly noticeable a couple of years after… after all of it had settled in. All of it gone: his career, his wife, his balance. He’d begun to take walks where Christopher had been seen in the weeks before his murder. He’d stroll the streets around the museum where the art types would meet up with other art types for lunches, coffees, trysts. He’d drive to the grocery store where Rosemary did her shopping for the kids and sit in movie theaters where she had gone to cry in private and to get away from everything. Who would stop his meanderings? He wasn’t flashing any guns or fake badges, he wasn’t womanizing and manipulating the way Chris Thomas once did, he was just walking, talking, listening, looking. He was using up time between meetings. Better than drinking; anyone would have to admit that.