Chapter 20

(James's POV)

On Memorial Day, hundreds of miles to the north, I stood in the backyard of a house in Seattle, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian-style shirt I'd bought when Isabella and I had visited Oahu on our honeymoon.

"Isabella's back in Seattle," I said.

Charlie Swan, my captain, flipped burgers on the grill. "Again?"

"I told you that her friend has cancer, right? She feels like she's got to be there for her friend."

"That cancer's bad stuff," Charlie said. "How's Isabella holding up?"

"Okay. I can tell she's tired, though. It's hard to keep going back and forth like she's been doing."

"I can imagine," Charlie said. "Renée had to do something like that when her sister got lupus. Spent two months down in Portland in the middle of winter cooped up in a tiny apartment, just the two of them. Drove them both crazy. In the end, the sister packed up Renée's suitcases and set them outside the front door and said she was better off alone. Not that I could blame her, of course."

I took a pull on my beer, and because it was expected of me, I smiled. Renée was Charlie's wife and they'd been married almost thirty years. Charlie liked to tell people they'd been the happiest six years of his life. Everyone at the precinct had heard the joke about fifty times in the past eight years, and a big chunk of those people were here now. Charlie hosted a barbecue at his house every Memorial Day and pretty much everyone who wasn't on duty showed up, not only out of obligation, but because Charlie's brother distributed beer for a living, a lot of which ended up here. Wives and husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends, and kids were clustered in groups, some in the kitchen, others on the patio. Four detectives were playing horseshoes and sand was flying around the stakes.

"Next time she's back in town," Charlie added, "why don't you bring her by for dinner? Renée's been asking about her. Unless, of course, you two would rather make up for lost time." He winked.

I wondered if the offer was genuine. On days like these, Charlie liked to pretend he was just one of the guys instead of the captain. But he was hard-edged. Cunning. More a politician than a cop.

"I'll mention it to her."

"When did she take off?"

"Earlier this morning. She's already there."

The burgers were sizzling on the grill, the drippings making the flames jump and dance.

Charlie pressed down on one of the patties, squeezing out the juice, drying it out. The man knew nothing about barbecuing, I thought. Without the juice they would taste like rocks—dry, flavorless, and hard. Inedible.

"Hey, about the Bree Tanner case," Charlie said, changing the subject. "I think we're finally going to be able to indict. You did good work, there."

"It's about time," I said. "I thought they had enough a while ago."

"I did, too. But I'm not the DA." Charlie pressed down on another patty, ruining it. "I also wanted to talk to you about Laurent."

Laurent Canton had been my partner for the last three years, but he'd had a heart attack in December and had been out of work since. I had been working alone since then.

"What about him?"

"He's not coming back. I just found out this morning. His doctors recommended that he retire and he decided they were right. He figures he's already put in his twenty and his pension is waiting for him."

"What does that mean for me?"

Charlie shrugged. "We'll get you a new partner, but we can't right now with the city on a budget freeze. Maybe when the new budget passes."

"Maybe or probably?"

"You'll get a partner. But it probably won't be until July. I'm sorry about that. I know it means more work for you, but there's nothing I can do. I'll try my best to keep your load manageable."

"I appreciate that."

A group of kids ran across the patio, their faces dirty. Two women exited the house carrying bowls of chips, probably gossiping. I hated gossips. Charlie motioned with his spatula toward the railing on the deck.

"Hand me that plate over there, would you? I think these are getting close to being done."

I grabbed the serving platter. It was the same one that had been used to bring the hamburger patties out to the grill and I noted smears of grease and bits of raw hamburger. Disgusting. I knew that Isabella would have brought a clean platter, one without bits of raw hamburger and grease. I set the platter next to the grill.

"I need another beer," I said, raising his bottle. "You want one?"

Charlie shook his head and ruined another burger. "I'm still working on mine right there. But thanks."

I headed toward the house, feeling the grease from the platter on my fingertips. Soaking in.

"Hey," Charlie shouted from behind him. I turned.

"Cooler's over there, remember?" Charlie pointed to the corner of the deck.

"I know. But I want to wash my hands before dinner."

"Make it back quick then. Once I set the platter out, it's every man for himself."

I paused at the back door to wipe my feet on the mat before heading inside. In the kitchen, I walked around a group of chattering wives and toward the sink. I washed my hands twice, using soap both times.

Through the window, I saw Charlie set the platter of hot dogs and burgers on the picnic table, near the buns, condiments, and bowls of chips. Almost immediately flies caught the scent and descended on the feast, buzzing over the food and landing on the burgers. People didn't seem to care as they formed a crazy line. Instead, they shooed the flies and loaded their plates, pretending that flies weren't swarming.

Ruined burgers and a cloud of flies.

Isabella and I would have done it differently. I wouldn't have pressed the burgers with the spatula and Isabella would have placed the condiments and chips and pickles in the kitchen so people could serve up there, where it was clean. Flies were disgusting and the burgers were as hard as rocks and I wasn't going to eat them because the thought made me nauseated.

I waited until the platter of burgers had been emptied before heading back outside. I wandered to the table, feigning disappointment.

"I warned you they'd go fast." Charlie beamed. "But Renée's got another platter in the refrigerator, so it won't belong until round two. Grab me a beer, would you, while I go get it?"

"Sure," I said.

When the next batch of burgers was done, I loaded a plate of food and complimented Charlie and told him it looked fantastic. Flies were swarming and the burgers were dry and when Charlie turned away, I tossed the food into the metal garbage can on the side of the house. I told Charlie that the burger tasted fantastic.

I stayed at the barbecue for a couple of hours and talked with Demetri and Felix. They were detectives like me, except they ate the burgers and didn't care that the flies were swarming.

I didn't want to be the first one to leave, or even the second one, because the captain wanted to pretend he was one of the guys and I didn't want to offend the captain. I didn't like Demetri or Felix. Sometimes, when I was around, Demetri and Felix stopped talking, and I knew they had been talking about me behind my back. Gossips.

But I was a good detective and knew it. Charlie knew it, and so did Demetri and Felix. I worked homicide and knew how to talk to witnesses and suspects. I knew when to ask questions and when to listen; I knew when people were lying to me and I put murderers behind bars because the Bible says 'Thou shalt not kill' and believed in God and I was doing God's work by putting the guilty in jail.

Back at home, I walked through the living room and resisted the urge to call for Isabella. If Isabella had been here, the mantel would have been dusted and the magazines would have fanned out on the end table and there wouldn't have been an empty bottle of vodka on the couch. If Isabella had been here, the drapes would have been opened, allowing the sunlight to stretch across the floorboards. If Isabella had been here, the dishes would have been washed and put away and dinner would have been waiting on the table and she would have smiled at me and asked me how my day had gone. Later we would make love because I loved her and she loved me.

Upstairs in the bedroom, I stood at the closet door. I could still catch a whiff of the perfume she'd worn, the one I'd bought her for Christmas. I'd seen her lift a tab on an ad in one of her magazines and smile when she smelled the perfume sample. When she went to bed, I tore the page out of the magazine and tucked it into my wallet so I'd know exactly which perfume to buy. I remembered the tender way she'd dabbed a little behind each ear and on her wrists when I'd taken her out on New Year's Eve, and how pretty she'd looked in the black cocktail dress she was wearing.

In the restaurant, I had noticed the way other men, even those with dates, had glanced in her direction as she passed by them on the way to the table. Afterward, when we'd returned home, we made love as the New Year rolled in.

The dress was still there, hanging in the same place, bringing back those memories. A week ago, I remembered removing it from the hanger and holding it as I'd sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

Outside, I could hear the steady sound of crickets but it did nothing to soothe me. Though it was supposed to have been a relaxing day, I was tired. I hadn't wanted to go to the barbecue, hadn't wanted to answer questions about Isabella, hadn't wanted to lie. Not because lying bothered me, but because it was hard to keep up the pretense that Isabella hadn't left me.

I'd invented a story and had been sticking to it for months: that Isabella called every night, that she'd been home the last few days but had gone back to Portland, that the friend was undergoing chemotherapy and needed Isabella's help. I knew I couldn't keep that up forever, that soon the "helping-a-friend" excuse would begin to sound hollow and people would begin to wonder why they never saw Isabella in church or at the store or even around the neighborhood or how long she would continue to help her friend.

They'd talk about me behind my back and say things like, "Isabella must have left James, and I guess their marriage wasn't as perfect as I thought it was." The thought made my stomach clench, reminding me that I hadn't eaten.

There wasn't much in the refrigerator. Isabella always had turkey and ham and Dijon mustard and fresh rye bread from the bakery, but my only choice now was whether to reheat the Mongolian beef I'd picked up from the Chinese restaurant a couple of days earlier.

On the bottom shelf, I saw food stains and I felt like crying again, because it made me think about Isabella's screams and the way her head had sounded when it had hit the edge of the table after I'd thrown her across the kitchen. I'd been slapping and kicking her because there were food stains in the refrigerator and I wondered now why I'd become so angry about such a little thing.

I went to the bed and lay down. Next thing I knew, it was midnight, and the neighborhood outside my window was still. Across the street, I saw a light on in the Uley house. I didn't like the Uleys. Unlike the other neighbors, Sam Uley never waved at me if both of us happened to be in our yards, and if his wife, Emily, happened to see me, she'd turn away and head back into the house. They were in their thirties, the kind of people who rushed outside to scold a kid who happened to walk across their grass to retrieve a Frisbee or baseball. They confounded me and I didn't think they were good neighbors.

I went back to bed but couldn't fall asleep. In the morning, with sunlight streaming in, I knew that nothing had changed for anyone else. Only my life was different. My brother, Garrett, and his wife, Kate, would begetting the kids ready for school before heading out to their jobs at University of Seattle, and my mom and dad were probably reading the Globeas they had their morning coffee. Crimes had been committed, and witnesses would be in the precinct. Demetri and Felix would be gossiping about me.

I showered and had vodka and toast for breakfast. At the precinct, I was called out to investigate a murder.

A woman in her twenties, most likely a prostitute, had been found stabbed to death, her body tossed in a Dumpster. I spent the morning talking to bystanders while the evidence was collected. When I finished with the interviews, I went to the precinct to start the report while the information was fresh in his mind. I was a good detective.

The precinct was busy. End of a holiday weekend and the world gone crazy. Detectives were speaking into phones and writing at their desks and talking to witnesses and listening as victims told detectives about their victimization. Noisy. Active. People coming and going. Phones ringing.

I walked toward my desk, one of four in the middle of the room. Through the open door, Charlie waved but stayed in his office. Demetri and Felix were at their desks, sitting across from me.

"You okay?" Felix asked. Coffey was in his forties, athletic with a buzz cut. "You look like hell."

"I didn't sleep well," I said.

"I don't sleep well without Sophia, either. When's Isabella coming back?"

I kept my expression neutral.

"Next weekend. I've got a few days coming and we've decided to go to the Reservation. We haven't been there in years."

"Yeah? My mom lives there. Where at the Reservation?"

"La Push."

"So does she. You'll love it there. I go there all the time. Where are you staying?"

I wondered why Felix kept asking questions.

"I'm not sure," I finally said.

"Isabella is making the arrangements."

I walked toward the coffeepot and poured myself a cup, even though I didn't want any. I'd have to find the name of a bed-and-breakfast and a couple of restaurants, so if Felix asked about it, I'd know what to say.

My days followed the same routine. I worked and talked to witnesses and finally went home. My work was stressful and I wanted to relax when I finished, but everything was different at home and the work stayed with me. I'd once believed that I would get used to the sight of murder victims, but their gray, lifeless faces we re-etched in my memory, and sometimes the victims visited me in my sleep.

I didn't like going home. When I finished my shift, there was no beautiful wife to greet me at the door. Isabella had been gone since January. Now, my house was messy and dirty and I had to do my own laundry. I hadn't known how to work the washing machine, and the first time I ran it I added too much soap and the clothes came out looking dingy. There were no home-cooked meals or candles on the table. Instead, I grabbed food on the way home and ate on the couch. Sometimes, I put on the television. Isabella liked to watch HGTV, the home and garden channel on cable, so I often watched that and when I did, the emptiness I felt inside was almost unbearable.

After work I no longer bothered to store my gun in the gun box I kept in my closet; in the box, I had a second Glock for my personal use. Isabella had been afraid of guns, even before I'd placed the Glock to her head and threatened to kill her if she ever ran away again. She'd screamed and cried as I'd sworn that I'd kill any man she slept with, any man she cared about. She'd been so stupid and I'd been so angry with her for running away and I demanded the name of the man who had helped her so I could kill him.

But Isabella had screamed and cried and begged for her life and swore there wasn't a man and I believed her because she was my wife. We'd made our vows in front of God and family and the Bible says 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.' Even then, I hadn't believed that Isabella had been unfaithful. I'd never believed another man was involved. While we were married, I'd made sure of that.

I made random calls to the house throughout the day and never let her go to the store or to the hair salon or to the library by herself. She didn't have a car or even a license and I swung by our house whenever I was in the area, just to make sure she was at home. She hadn't left because she wanted to commit adultery. She left because she was tired of getting kicked and punched and thrown down the cellar stairs and I knew I shouldn't have done those things and I always felt guilty and apologized but it still hadn't mattered.

She shouldn't have run away. It broke my heart because I loved her more than life and I'd always taken care of her. I bought her a house and a refrigerator and a washer and dryer and new furniture. The house had always been clean, but now the sink was full of dishes and my hamper was overflowing.

I knew I should clean the house but I didn't have the energy. Instead, I went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer. There were four bottles left; a week ago, there'd been twelve. I knew he was drinking too much. I knew I should eat better and stop drinking but all I wanted to do was take the bottle and sit on the couch and drink. Vodka was good because it didn't make your breath smell, and in the mornings, no one would know I was nursing a hangover.

I poured a glass of vodka, finished it, and poured another before walking through the empty house. My heart ached because Isabella wasn't here and if she suddenly showed up at the door, I knew I'd apologize for hitting her and we'd work things out and then we'd make love in the bedroom.

I wanted to hold her and whisper how much I adored her, but I knew she wasn't coming back, and even though I loved her, she made me so angry sometimes. A wife didn't just leave. A wife didn't just walk away from a marriage. I wanted to hit and kick and slap her and pull her hair for being so stupid. For being so damn selfish and I wanted to show her it was pointless to runaway.

I drank a third and fourth glass of vodka.

It was all so confusing. The house was a wreck. There was an empty pizza box on the floor of the living room and the casing around the bathroom door was splintered and cracked. The door would no longer close all the way. I'd kicked it in after she'd locked it, trying to get away from me. I'd been holding her by the hair as I punched her in the kitchen and she'd run to the bathroom and I'd chased her through the house and kicked the door in. But now I couldn't remember what we'd been fighting about.

I couldn't remember much about that night. I couldn't remember breaking two of her fingers, even though it was obvious that I had. But I wouldn't let her go to the hospital for a week, not until the bruises on her face could be covered by makeup, and she'd had to cook and clean one-handed. I bought her flowers and apologized and told her that I loved her and promised it would never happen again, and after she got the castoff, I'd taken her into Seattle for a dinner at Petroni's. It was expensive and I'd smiled across the table at her.

Afterward, we'd gone to a movie and on the way home I remembered thinking about how much I loved her and how lucky I was to have someone like her as my wife.