She had some idea what it cost him, admitting helplessness. She remembered the sounds of the traffic up on the highway, the blinding headlights. Her hands found the back of the chair, squeezing. “Don’t go.”
He was quiet, gazing at her. “Maybe, tonight, I won’t need to.” He crossed the room toward her. “Maybe, tonight, I won’t wake up.” His hip grazed hers as he passed, leaving her rigid, barely breathing, as she listened to his footsteps go into the next room. A few moments later, there came the sound of water pounding from a showerhead.
Gradually, her grip relaxed, leaving finger imprints in the leather. Her breathing was shallow. She didn’t know what to do with herself in the quiet, so she went back to the kitchen, setting her water bottle on the counter, opening and closing her hands as she walked, thoughts moving at light speed, too fast for her to catch hold of.
The hallway around the corner was dark, and she hit the switch. His bedroom was down here—the house had a full second floor, but it didn’t surprise her that he wanted to sleep on the ground level, close to a way out—and she stood, pulse throbbing as she looked at the king-size bed, nothing on the walls but one framed Ansel Adams print of a pine forest in the snow.
The room across the hall looked like it was meant to be used as a study or sitting room, but it had no furniture in it, only some cardboard cartons stacked along the wall. There was a faint, acrid smell here, one the housekeeper hadn’t been able to erase, and Pearl went back to the kitchen, then the living room, where water still rained against the other side of the wall.
There was light, and she stepped closer. He’d left the bathroom door open.
She could see him in there, behind the translucent curtain. The shade of his skin, the darkness of his hair. Her body seemed to be nothing but heartbeat now.
His hands rose, smoothing through his hair, rinsing shampoo. In her mind’s eye, she saw her feet crossing the tiles. Felt the steam gauzing moistly over her face, the plastic curtain in her fingers as she drew it back.
Something jarred her—a distant car horn, maybe, down on Ocean. She still stood in the doorway, six feet from the shower and the shape of him, the suggestion of the open door. He reached down and turned off the faucet.
Pearl left the house, shutting the front door gently behind her, breathing deeply of the night air. She walked back to Ocean, and her car. Tristan was right. It wasn’t far.
Nineteen
THE NEXT DAY, Reese met Pearl at the picnic table on their last fifteen-minute break, plunking down on the bench beside her, phone in hand. “Go. I want updates.”
“I went to Tristan’s place last night.”
He stared. “No shit. Inside the lair. Did he have mirrors on the ceiling and a vampire harem?”
“Shut up, or I tell you nothing.”
He made a get on with it gesture and she dove in, telling him everything but how the night had really ended, or of the feelings she could barely sort through herself.
She could’ve stayed. The invitation had been there, and it had kept her up much of the night, watching the clock as the midnight hour passed, wondering if, across town, Tristan had woken up yet. The knowledge that she could’ve been there, in that bed, acting as his anchor, left her hot, restless, kicking the sheets off and then tugging them back up again. She should feel one way about it—know her own mind—but confusion was the only constant that carried her through till morning. The whole thing seemed ludicrous now, in the daylight, with Reese here, like a fragment from a dream.
“But I realized what the smell was. Smoke”—she watched as Reese’s thumbs moved over the screen; she could never tell if he was texting or gaming—“coming from those boxes in the spare room. There was some powerful mildew, too. Definitely more stuff from the house.”
Reese’s thumbs stopped. “He actually went inside?”
“He must’ve. Nothing stored in the garage would smell that strong.”
“That is messed up. He’s hanging out where his family got torched.”
“Well . . . he lived there, too. Maybe he’s looking for anything he can save. He said that the floor of his room collapsed and he lost everything.”
“Right. Because who wouldn’t want souvenirs from the Garrison family barbecue? Isn’t this the same guy who auctioned off his folks’ stuff?”
“Then maybe it’s more like . . . he’s looking for something specific. He didn’t find it in the boxes in the garage, so he gave those things away.” She thought back to the times she’d seen Tristan alone. On almost every occasion, he’d had a searching air about him. In the boathouse; combing through Joseph’s beach playhouse.
“Maybe he’s trying to find his one-of-a-kind monogrammed cigarette lighter before the cops do.”
Pearl let a snort of laughter escape. “You know he didn’t do it. He was up at Sugarloaf. They proved it.”
“Well, what, then? And if you say his baby pictures, I swear to God, I’m gonna heave.”
She rested her chin on her folded arms. “I don’t know what it is.” She looked at Reese. “Do you think he’s trying to figure out who killed them, too?”
“If he is, it sounds like he’s got a pretty good idea where to start looking. And he’s not sharing with the cops.”
They sat, listening to sounds carrying over from the pool, splashing and children’s laughter. Reese’s phone chirped, and Pearl watched him navigate who knew how many browser windows at once. “So. How’s the apartment hunt going?”
Reese didn’t look up. “I’ve got a line on something.”
“Here in town?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Good.” She tried not to show how relieved she was; there wasn’t much in the way of year-round housing in Tenney’s Harbor, where landlords could charge three times normal rates for a summer rental. “Sure you can afford it?” He looked at her from under his brows, and she held up her hands. “Okay. You’re the king of tips. All hail Reese.”
“Damn straight.” He stuck the phone in his pocket and stood, giving her a shot in the arm. “Time’s up. Let’s roll.”
The boys came in later, sitting in the same formation they had on that first day: Tristan close to the lobby exit, Akil in the middle, Bridges with his back to the room. They were seated in the section nearest the patio doors, and Pearl was glad for the distance, keeping her head down, trying to kill the final ten minutes of her shift without having to face Tristan so soon after last night.
At one point, when she came out of the kitchen, she couldn’t avoid Bridges’s gaze. He smiled, waved a little; Akil continued sucking down his iced coffee, ignoring her. They didn’t know about her visit to Tristan’s house. Akil would be smirking and whispering, and Bridges—the guilt hit her, then, with unexpected force—would probably be too angry to look at her. Apparently, the flow of gossip only went one way in their group.
Tristan watched her for a moment, then went back to pushing the food around his plate. She couldn’t guess at what he was feeling, but for her part, she was right back in that moment, faced with the open door again, the big bed in the dark, spartan room. And the choice still seemed impossible.
She punched out, left by the back way. Knowing she was taking a chance, she texted Tristan. Sorry about last night. She hesitated. It seemed like a good time to leave.
There was a long pause; she was in her car with the engine running before his response popped up, maybe waiting for a moment when Akil wasn’t right by his side: I wish you’d stayed.
The woods surrounding the Garrison house were thick with life, birdsong, the lush green overgrowth of summer.