Chapters (42)
- Cover Page
- EARLY BIRD BOOKS
- Praise for the Writing of Richard North Patterson
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- About the Author
“She looks out the window. ‘He loves me, in his way: at least I’m part of a life he’s wanted. But it would be impossible for him at work, and his career has really just begun. He knows that.’
“I can’t think of what to tell her. After a time she says in a low voice, ‘Etta, it’s like I’m being punished.’
“The way she looks and sounds I feel like shivering. ‘Why would you be punished?’ I ask.
“She shakes her head. ‘For many things.’
“I feel so bad that without thinking I reach out to touch her hand. As soon as I touch her I feel like it’s wrong and pull back. But she just looks at her hand, smiling a little.
“We sit like that across the table, neither one of us talking. Then we hear Mr. Henry coming through the front door. She looks at me and says very quiet, ‘Thank you, Etta.’ Then she stands, sort of squares her shoulders, and walks out to meet him.
“I stayed in the kitchen. She said something to him and then I heard the library door close. I waited, pretending to work. They didn’t come out for over an hour. Then the door slid open and she called out that her and Mr. Cantwell would be having their Manhattans. When I brought them to the sitting room, they were in their same chairs, talking polite, like usual, except he was so pale. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and she smiles and tells me, ‘You should go home now, Etta. It’s late.’ It was always strange how she could do that. From her face I couldn’t have told anything at all.
“I thought about her all night. But when I came back the next morning she was still in her room. When she finally came down I was in the kitchen, polishing silver. Her hair was just so, and there was powder beneath her eyes, as though she were hiding circles. She looked hardly alive, more like a doll. ‘I’ll be staying home now,’ she said.
“‘Is that what you want?’ I asked.
“She stared out the window. ‘We’ve come to an understanding.’ I didn’t say anything. Then she looked straight at me and said, ‘You’re the only one who knows, Etta.’ And then she asked for tea.”
Etta’s face had begun fading in front of me. “Did the man try to see her?” I managed.