As he brushes past me, leaving me with the hum of electronic music—a tune from the time before, whose lyrics probably don’t mesh with Fundamentals of Modern Christian Philosophy or Pure Manhood or Carl Corbin’s twisted worldview—I feel the heat of trouble settle on me again. It presses, squeezing out the air from my lungs, forcing me into a breathless state.

There’s no way Steven could know about Lorenzo, I tell myself. No way. We were careful that last time, meeting accidentally at Eastern Market, driving through traffic toward our Maryland crab shack with all of me scrunched down on the floor of the back seat. It was March, and Steven would have been in school.

Fatigue and worry hit me like bags of bricks, one on each side, and I head back down the hall to join Patrick in the kitchen.

He’s still whistling.

Chapter Thirty-four

THIRTY-FOUR

The sirens wake me up. They’re like screaming animals in the quiet of the night, growing louder and louder until it seems they’re at my bedroom window. Reds and blues flicker through the blinds, and I know I’m not dreaming.

“What the hell?” Patrick says, rolling over once, then twice, then pulling a pillow over his head. He doesn’t last long in his cave; reality seeps in, drawing back the curtain of sleep, and he’s up.

All I can think about is the conversation I had with Lin in our office this morning. Still got a thing for our Italian colleague? . . . How long has it been going on? . . . Be careful, honey. You’ve got a lot more to lose than your voice.

And then there’s Steven, his cryptic question ringing in my ears now.

“Oh my god,” I say, and go to the window.

As best I can see, there are two cars and one larger vehicle, boxy, like an ambulance, but not white. A third car pulls up behind the boxy van, blocking our driveway.

Blocking any cars from getting in. Or out.

The next words I say scratch the air, hardly more than a hoarse whisper. Nothing inside me is functioning, not my knees, which have gone to jelly, not my voice, not my stomach. Wave after wave of nausea ripples through me as I stare at the electric colors lining the street in front of our house.

I’m expecting the doorbell to ring, such an ordinary event, one I used to look forward to. Doorbells meant visitors on holidays; packages I was expecting; friendly pairs of young men from Utah who, despite my resistance to any sort of conversion, somehow always seemed pleasant and well scrubbed. Doorbells meant trick-or-treaters dressed as ghosts and goblins and the princesses or action heroes of the month.

“I’ll go,” Patrick says.