Page 54 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“Hypothetically, who is he going to attack?”
“I don’t know. A woman. In her twenties. With red hair.”
“Cassie Baughman was a blonde,” he countered.
I huffed. “Don’t fight the hypo.”
It’s a turn of phrase I’ve picked up from the prosecutors I work with. Lawyers call it ‘fighting the hypo’ when you resist the facts of a case as stated.
He rolled his eyes. I was pretty sure they didn’t teach him that body language in school.
“If you told me he was going to hurt a specific, named person, I’d call the police. If you truly believe he’s going to hurt someone, soon, but you don’t know who or when, you might want to try to contact him. Not because you’re obligated to, because I don’t think you are. But because you want to stop him. It’s valid to act because you want to, Tate, and not just because you have to.”
It sounded so obvious when he puts it that way. That was his job, after all—to cut through the bullshit and expose the truth, the heart of the matter. But he was wrong to think I secretly wanted to find my brother. I’d do it if I had to—if the law, or morality, or my psychotherapist told me I must—but I couldn’t justify exposing my life, my wife, to the monster that was my brother if I didn’t have to.
This was, I knew, the same calculus that my mother had used when we basically fled from Maine. She hadn’t wanted to cut ties with her firstborn. But her safety, and, at that time, mine had required her to do so.
I left the session with Dr. Wilde resolute in my decision not to connect with Tate.
Six months later, Giselle Ward’s neck will be sliced open, resulting in the complete transection of her carotid artery. The fully severed artery will cause a massive hemorrhage. Her death will be nearly instantaneous. And it will be my fault.
Thirty
Emily
* * *
I wake up to drumming. It takes a minute for it to sink in that the noise is hard rain pelting the windows. I turn toward the sound, which is when I realize I’m not in my bed, not in my house. I panic for a moment, then I recall the events of last night. I’m at the farmhouse, Alex’s farmhouse.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and look around for a clock, but there isn’t one on the bedside table. A glance at my fitness watch tells me it’s a few minutes after seven. I bolt upright, my heart pounding, not from fear, but from amazement. I have literally not slept past 4:51 AM in seven years. I can’t believe I did it here, of all places. I spend a few minutes trying to work through the psychological meaning of this breakthrough and ultimately decide it’s a question for my next therapy session.
Ridiculously refreshed from the two hours and twelve minutes of extra sleep, I stand up and stretch, then walk over to the window, cracking my back and hips with a series of satisfying pops as I go. I pull aside the curtain. It’s pouring. Yesterday, for all the wildness of the blizzard, the world was white and beautiful, pristine under the heavy blanket of snow. Now the snow is a melting grayish slush, wet and raw. I hate the rain.
I turn from the window and pad down the hallway to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face.
Alex is already in the kitchen, slipping a blue enamel dish into the oven. Freshly brewed coffee sits in the carafe.
“Good morning.”
“I made a quiche,” she says in a bemused voice.
Then she throws me an embarrassed, baffled look over her shoulder as she shuts the oven door. “I don’t know why. I’ve literally never even thought about making a quiche before today. I feel like a 1950s housewife.”
“It smells wonderful,” I tell her.
She ducks her head and smiles. “Dried herbs from my garden.”
I consider her for a moment. “So you grow your own food? And preserve it?”
“Some. I have a vegetable garden. I can. I pickle. I jar jams and sauces. I dry herbs.”
“It must be satisfying to be so self-sufficient.”
“It’s something to keep me busy.” She deflects my admiration deftly.
“So you don’t work?” I wince at how that sounds and hurriedly add, “I mean, I know you rent out the cabin. That’s work.”
She laughs. “No, it’s okay. I don’t have a job. I live pretty simply. A lot of what I need, I make. Or I barter for it. My biggest expense is books, but I get those used and swap with some folks in the valley.” She shrugs. “And, you’re right, I have the rental income. I don’t have to be so frugal—Robert earns a good salary. But we’re saving most of it.”
