peered down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, the sliver of buttery light visible beneath the door.
His heart began to race. He tried to calm himself. Thought,
Sheâs taking a leak. Chill out.
He waited. Waited.
âBabe?â he called.
No answer.
He flipped the bedsheets off and hurried down the hall, twisted the bathroom doorknob.
Locked.
âHeather!â
He slammed one shoulder against the door. The frame splintered on impact. He stumbled into the cramped bathroom and froze as he saw her in the tub, the water around her stained pink, a razor in the soap dish. Her gaze shifted in his direction. He could see the life draining from her eyes even as he stood there.
He rushed to her, gathered her up out of the tub. Examining her wrists was like facing his worst nightmare. He wrapped her arms in towels and called 911. Twice she started to pass out, but he slapped her face and talked to her and made her eyes stay open.
You tricked me,
he thought.
You had me believing everything was all right so Iâd drop my guard. And then you tried to leave me again.
He was sobbing like a baby into her hair by the time the paramedics came in through the front door.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alan awoke covered in sweat, the memory of the past year clinging to him like a web. It took him a few moments to recall his surroundings: the new house, the new master bedroom. Their bed shoved against one wall, boxes still strewn about the bedroom half unpacked. Beside him, Heather slept soundly. The house was silent, not even the ticking of a clock to disturb the void. Alan stared at the rectangular panel of bluish moonlight along the ceiling while he listened to his own heartbeat.
(I didnât take any. I thought about it but I didnât take any.)
He pawed sweat from his eyes. He had been dreaming of the babies, the dead babies, and how the one had looked in the vacuum-sealed biohazard bag. The splayed foot, each toe perfectly and undeniably identifiable â¦
The memory of those events caused his ulcer to claw at the walls of his intestines. He groaned and rose creakily from the bed. His jeans were draped over a nearby chair. Heclimbed into them as Jerry Lee, whoâd been asleep on the floor at the foot of their bed, lifted his head and watched him with lazy detachment. Too tired to follow his master, the dog dropped his head back down on his paws while Alan made his way out of the room to the hall.
Stumbling in the unfamiliar darkness and fumbling for light switches he couldnât readily locate, he arrived in the bathroom just as the pain in his stomach tightened into a tiny burning fist. He found his antacid tablets and downed two of them. His reflection stared wearily back at him.
Being eaten from the inside out,
he thought. Grimaced. And on the heels of that, he couldnât help but think of wombs, broken and infertile â¦
As quietly as a cat, he slipped on his Nikes in the foyer and eased open the front door, stepping onto the porch and already poking a cigarette into his mouth. The porch floorboards groaned beneath his feet. Lighting one of the cigarettes, he looked out across the front yard. It was late. All the houses on the other side of the street were asleep. He listened, wondering what was wrong, what was missing ⦠then realized with half a smirk that it was the commotion of the city. He had grown so accustomed to city sounds that the rural silence was nearly deafening. Manhattan was alive in that electrical-current-through-wires way. Out here, it was as quiet and desolate as an ancient tomb.
From out of nowhere, he caught a strange yet oddly familiar scent on the air. Oddly
nostalgic.
It took him only two seconds to place the smell: his fatherâs cologne. That cheap, medicinal Aqua Velva smell. It had come down on the wind and infiltrated his nose as sharp as a slap across the face.
Bill Hammerstun, who had been a miserable human being up until the day he died from a bullet in the brain,
His heart began to race. He tried to calm himself. Thought,
Sheâs taking a leak. Chill out.
He waited. Waited.
âBabe?â he called.
No answer.
He flipped the bedsheets off and hurried down the hall, twisted the bathroom doorknob.
Locked.
âHeather!â
He slammed one shoulder against the door. The frame splintered on impact. He stumbled into the cramped bathroom and froze as he saw her in the tub, the water around her stained pink, a razor in the soap dish. Her gaze shifted in his direction. He could see the life draining from her eyes even as he stood there.
He rushed to her, gathered her up out of the tub. Examining her wrists was like facing his worst nightmare. He wrapped her arms in towels and called 911. Twice she started to pass out, but he slapped her face and talked to her and made her eyes stay open.
You tricked me,
he thought.
You had me believing everything was all right so Iâd drop my guard. And then you tried to leave me again.
He was sobbing like a baby into her hair by the time the paramedics came in through the front door.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alan awoke covered in sweat, the memory of the past year clinging to him like a web. It took him a few moments to recall his surroundings: the new house, the new master bedroom. Their bed shoved against one wall, boxes still strewn about the bedroom half unpacked. Beside him, Heather slept soundly. The house was silent, not even the ticking of a clock to disturb the void. Alan stared at the rectangular panel of bluish moonlight along the ceiling while he listened to his own heartbeat.
(I didnât take any. I thought about it but I didnât take any.)
He pawed sweat from his eyes. He had been dreaming of the babies, the dead babies, and how the one had looked in the vacuum-sealed biohazard bag. The splayed foot, each toe perfectly and undeniably identifiable â¦
The memory of those events caused his ulcer to claw at the walls of his intestines. He groaned and rose creakily from the bed. His jeans were draped over a nearby chair. Heclimbed into them as Jerry Lee, whoâd been asleep on the floor at the foot of their bed, lifted his head and watched him with lazy detachment. Too tired to follow his master, the dog dropped his head back down on his paws while Alan made his way out of the room to the hall.
Stumbling in the unfamiliar darkness and fumbling for light switches he couldnât readily locate, he arrived in the bathroom just as the pain in his stomach tightened into a tiny burning fist. He found his antacid tablets and downed two of them. His reflection stared wearily back at him.
Being eaten from the inside out,
he thought. Grimaced. And on the heels of that, he couldnât help but think of wombs, broken and infertile â¦
As quietly as a cat, he slipped on his Nikes in the foyer and eased open the front door, stepping onto the porch and already poking a cigarette into his mouth. The porch floorboards groaned beneath his feet. Lighting one of the cigarettes, he looked out across the front yard. It was late. All the houses on the other side of the street were asleep. He listened, wondering what was wrong, what was missing ⦠then realized with half a smirk that it was the commotion of the city. He had grown so accustomed to city sounds that the rural silence was nearly deafening. Manhattan was alive in that electrical-current-through-wires way. Out here, it was as quiet and desolate as an ancient tomb.
From out of nowhere, he caught a strange yet oddly familiar scent on the air. Oddly
nostalgic.
It took him only two seconds to place the smell: his fatherâs cologne. That cheap, medicinal Aqua Velva smell. It had come down on the wind and infiltrated his nose as sharp as a slap across the face.
Bill Hammerstun, who had been a miserable human being up until the day he died from a bullet in the brain,
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