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We had espresso and fresh juice in the courtyard, a haven I fell in love with when we first viewed the house two years before. The quad was all sun-bleached terra cotta, enclosed by walls laden with rose vines and bougainvillea. The morning held a golden light, trademark of so many of the northern California impressionists.
In the summers, I used the courtyard as my studio. I’d paint all day and sometimes all night, noting the metamorphosis of color, temperature, and sound. Everything was different at night, amplified. Even the cat, an indolent soul in the sun, became a fierce changeling, predacious under the stars and moon.
As Scott read the news, his tablet blocked his face. I smelled a clear hint of lavender essential oil in his aftershave, and I recognized his tie as one I’d chosen for him, sienna silk, hand-painted with a thousand tiny fractals.
Tired of being patient, I tapped my espresso spoon on the back of the tablet until he lowered it from his face. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What do you mean, well what?” I frowned. “You were going to tell me about last night.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” He folded the tablet cover closed.
“We found him. The paramedics came, we injected him with an anti-psychotic, and now he’s in H-2. End of story.”
H-2 was the locked psychiatric wing of the medical center. “What was all that talk about secrets? And why was he throwing up all over the place?” I grimaced at the replay in my head.
“The guy was out of his mind.” Scott stood from the table and tucked the tablet under his arm. “Look, I’m sorry you had to see all that. I’m sure it must have been upsetting. Try to put it out of your mind, sweetheart.” He nodded toward a pill he’d placed next to my juice glass.
I took the pill in my mouth and chased it with a tart sip of juice. Scott said the pills would ward off the descents down the hole. I hadn’t given up hope.
Apparently satisfied, he headed through the French doors into the breakfast nook. I raced to catch up, trailing silk in the air. “He seemed so scared.”
“It’s called paranoia.” Scott rounded the corner into the kitchen.
The home speaker announced a caller ID on the house phone. Detective Paul Hanson, Palo Alto PD.
Scott looked unfazed. “I’ll take it in my study.” He grabbed the handset from the kitchen desk and headed toward the far wing. The tablet was still tucked under his arm as he disappeared behind the door.
I followed him down the hall and pressed my ear against the door. It was antique oak, a bulky relic from an old English manor. The wood was too damned thick. I held my breath and strained to hear.
“He seemed both capable and responsible,” then a gap of muffled syllables. I kneeled and held my ear close to the keyhole. “That was the extent of my relationship with him,” I heard Scott say. “It’s a real shame. I’m headed to my lab now.” There was a pause. “That’ll be fine,” Scott said.
The conversation ended. I squinted through the keyhole and watched him unlock the bottom drawer of his desk. Scott slipped what looked like a flash drive into his front pocket and pulled a file from the drawer. He removed a yellow paper and returned the folder to its place. After a scan of the page, he folded it into quarters methodically, as if attending to the aerodynamics of a paper airplane, and tore it to shreds. I shifted my weight, and Scott shot a stare at the door. I held my breath until he stepped out of sight. When I heard the water flush in the den bathroom, I jumped to my feet and raced down the hall.
The study door flew open. Scott strode to the foyer and grabbed his briefcase. I sat on a breakfast nook chair, elbow on knee, idly twirling my hair. He bent to kiss me goodbye. The faintest lavender impression of his aftershave lingered on my lips.
“Bye, sweetheart.” I looked up into his face, wide-eyed and blinking.
He walked toward the front door but hesitated. “You’re not going to ask me about the call?”
“Oh, yes,” I bolted upright in my chair. “What did he want?”
Scott squinted. “Why so jumpy?”
“I’m not,” I said, fiddling with a saltshaker. It fell, clapping against the table, and I startled. “Just clumsy.” I swept the spilled salt with my hands.
“So, what did he want?” I didn’t look in his eyes. Instead, I stared at the spiral design of the floor tile.
“Just routine.” He stood at the door for what seemed a long time. “It’s nothing to worry about.” His voice was low and measured. I felt his stare on me. The door finally shut behind him. Keys jangled. The deadbolt slapped metal against metal as it locked.
