That was me, sweetheart. That was your mom.

I mean, not yet, but soon.

I climbed into the tub and turned on the shower. The brown water wasn’t hot anymore. It dribbled from the showerhead, mostly cool. I didn’t wash my hair, because I had no way to dry it with the power out, and I couldn’t leave it wet. Instead, I tucked as much of it as I could under a plastic shower cap. I soaped up quickly, watching dirt run down the drain, and I rinsed off, freezing.

When I yanked back the shower curtain, I screamed.

Ricky was right in front of me. He looked me up and down, his wife’s naked body, me shivering like a soaking-wet cat and wearing my stupid yellow polka-dot shower cap. His chest was still bare. His pajama bottoms and underwear were pooled around his ankles. The pudge of his stomach swelled from his waist, but everything else was muscle. He dangled, already beginning to grow. His hands took hold of my shoulders, and he squeezed with his thick fingers, not enough to hurt me, but definitely enough to remind me of his strength.

I felt the weight of his arms shoving me to my knees and making it very clear what he wanted.

“Ricky, not now,” I told him. “Not like this.”

I held my breath, wondering if words would be enough to put him off this time. He waited a long, long moment before he let go. Then he laughed, as if this was only a game. As if we hadn’t been on the verge of something ugly. He yanked up his pajamas with a shrug, but he gave me a look as he did, and I saw that same strange challenge in his eyes.

I dare you.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

“Where were you on Sunday evening?” Darrell asked Sandra Thoreau when we visited her later that morning. That was his very first question. We hadn’t told her about Gordon Brink, but I assumed that phones had been ringing all over town with news of the murder. She didn’t look surprised to see us.

Sandra’s eyes went from Darrell to me and back to Darrell. We were seated in the living room of her small rambler. When I’d seen her shortly after midnight, she’d been smoking and drinking a can of Old Style, and she still was. In between, she’d tied her hair back and put on jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt. I saw a few toys near the Christmas tree where her son, Henry, had unwrapped them. Henry himself was in the front yard, building a snowman. Sandra had told the boy to go outside when we arrived.

“Well, shit, Darrell,” she replied, blowing smoke at us. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”