The Witness (27 page)

“I could use a cookie.” Reaching down, he skimmed a hand over Abigail’s hair.

“Thank you very much, but I need to get to the market, and home to my own dog.” Abigail picked up the puppy as she rose, handing his wriggling body to Sunny. “It was nice to see you again, and to meet Plato.”

She moved as quickly as she could, trying to judge the line between busy and running away.

They’d charmed her, seduced her. The man, the mother, even the little dog. She’d let herself be swept along. Conversation, invitations, pie, sex.

People had seen her walking with Brooks. Holding hands with him. Talking to his mother. And people would talk about it. Her.

Just because she wasn’t part of a social network didn’t mean she was oblivious to how it worked.

She couldn’t be the unexceptional, hardly noticed woman who lived
on
the fabric of Bickford if she became part
of
the fabric through Brooks.

Why wasn’t he behaving per the basic male profile? They’d had sex. He’d conquered. Now he should move on to the next challenge.

When someone grabbed her arm, she reacted without thought. Pure instinct had her swinging around, leading with a backfist fired by waist and hip, the follow-through of jab already primed.

Brooks slapped a hand on her fist a half-inch before it connected, had to brace, push back.

“Whoa.” He managed, barely, to block the jab as well. “Excellent reflexes, Xena.”

“I’m sorry.” The simple trip to the market took on the quality of a nightmare. “You startled me.”

“At least. Fortunately, my reflexes are pretty good. Otherwise I’d be sporting another bruise on my face.”

“I’m very sorry.” She spoke stiffly now. “You came up from behind and grabbed me.”

“Got it.” As if to soothe, he stroked a hand down her hair. “Baby, you’re going to have to tell me who hurt you eventually.”

“Don’t talk to me that way. This isn’t going the way it’s supposed to. You had sex.”

“I think that’s we, and yeah. Why don’t you clue me in on how it’s supposed to go?”

“You’re supposed to go away.” Agitated, she pushed a hand through her hair, glanced around. “I can’t discuss this now, here. I don’t understand why it needs to be discussed. You’re not supposed to be interested now.”

“For someone as smart as you are, you can be thick as a brick. I had sex with you because I’m interested. And since we slept together, I’m more interested.”

“Why? No, don’t answer. You always have answers. You confuse me. I don’t want to feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! I need to go to the market, and I need to go home, and I need to finish my work, and—”

“You need to take a breath.” He laid his hands on her shoulders now. “Take a breath, Abigail.”

“I need to take a breath.” She closed her eyes, fighting the panic attack. Oh God, oh God, why hadn’t she stayed home?

“Good, just take another breath. Take it easy, that’s the way. Now, here’s what we’re going to do.”

“Don’t tell me what we’re going to do. There’s not supposed to be any
we.
”

“Apparently, there is. How about here’s what I suggest we do? Why don’t we go over to my office. You can sit down, have some water.”

She shook her head. “I have to go to the market.”

“Okay, you go on to the market. Later, should be around six or six-thirty, I’ll come out. I’ll bring a couple of steaks and grill them up. We’ll have some dinner, see if we can sort this out.”

“We don’t need to have dinner or sort anything out. I just need to—”

Very gently, very quietly, he laid his lips on hers. When he lifted his head, her breath shuddered out.

“I’ve got the sense that’s what you don’t want to feel. But you do, and I do. So we ought to sort it out.”

“You won’t go away.”

“Let’s see how it sorts out. If it comes down to that, I’ll go away. I’m not going to hurt you, Abigail, and I’m going to do my best not to make you unhappy. But when two people feel something, they ought to respect that enough to try to figure it out.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, honey, I don’t. But I want to. Let’s get you to the market.”

“I don’t want you to walk me back there. I want to be alone.”

“All right. I’ll see you tonight.”

One more conversation, she told herself, as she hurried away. One more where she’d remain calm and rational. She’d simply explain that she wasn’t interested in or inclined toward a relationship. Her work kept her too busy for the distractions of dinners and company and overnight guests.

She would be firm; he would be sensible.

They’d end whatever this was that should never have begun amicably.

And everything would be quiet again.

As soon as she got home, she’d practice what she’d say and how she’d say it.

She’d be prepared.

S
HE PUT OFF THE PRACTICE
, reminding herself her priority was, and would always be, the work. Maybe compartmentalizing proved a little trickier than she expected, but she carefully reviewed all the data she’d gathered, made a few small adjustments. And composed her e-mail.

Using the system she’d already devised for the message, she routed it through various locations, shut down the temporary account. As she often did, she thought she would have enjoyed communicating with her FBI contact, exchanging thoughts and opinions, but she had to settle for gleaning information from the occasional memo or file she hacked.

After shutting down, she locked her copy of the data away.

“We’ll walk,” she told Bert. “I’ll practice what I need to say to Brooks while we do. Tomorrow, everything goes back to the way it should be. We have to work for a living, too, right?”

As she pocketed her keys, Bert rubbed his body against her leg. “I met another dog today. He’s very sweet. I think you’d like him.”

When she stepped outside, Bert fell in at her heels. “You’d like a friend. Next year I’ll get a puppy. You’ll help me train him, and he’ll be good company for both of us. That’s all we need, isn’t it? It’s all we need.”

With Bert, she walked around to look at her young vegetable garden. “It needs some tending, and it’s time to think about putting in some more flowers. Past time. I’ve been distracted, but we’ll get back on schedule.
I need to do more work on the virus. One day, Bert, when the time’s right and I’ve perfected it, we’re going to infect the Volkovs like a plague.”

She sighed. “But I can’t think about that now. I have to think about this situation.”

She unzipped her hoodie as they moved into the woods, laid her hand briefly on the butt of her gun.

The wild plums popped, fragrant petals among the tender haze of green, and the willow someone had planted years before dipped its lacy fingers toward the busy water of the stream. Wood violets spread a carpet of rich purple.

In the quiet, in the scent, in the color, she calmed as they walked through sunlight and shade.

Quivering in anticipation, Bert shot her a look, and on her go joyfully scrambled off the slope of the bank to splash in the water. It made her laugh, as always, to watch the big bruiser of a dog play like a toddler in a wading pool.

She gave him his moment while she scanned the woods. Birds called, a musical lift accompanied by the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker hunting for lunch. The sun through the filter of young leaves cast a dreamy light.

It would brighten as they walked, she knew, and the view would open to the hills. She loved looking out from the high ground, studying the rise and fall of the land. And here, in soft light and shadow, with the birdcall and the mutter of the stream, the splashing dog—here, she thought, was more home than the house.

She’d buy a bench. Yes, she’d go online later and find something organic and woodsy. Something that looked as if it might have grown there. Of course, benches didn’t grow, but it would have that illusion. And she could sit where the world opened to the hills, while her dog played in the stream. Maybe one day she’d feel secure enough to bring a book. Sit on the bench in her woods with the hills outstretched beyond, and read while Bert splashed.

But she had to stop thinking about the future. She had to deal with the right now, or the coming evening.

“All right.” She signaled the dog, kept her distance as he raced out to shake a storm of water in the air. “‘Brooks,’” she began, while they walked, “‘while I find you attractive and certainly enjoyed having sex with you, I’m not in a position to pursue a relationship’—no, ‘I’m not willing to engage in a relationship.’ That’s firmer. ‘I’m not willing to engage in a relationship.’ He’ll ask why. That’s his pattern, so I have to have an answer ready. ‘My work is my priority, and involves not only a great deal of time but requires my focus.’”

She repeated it, trying different inflections.

“It should be enough, but he’s tenacious. I should say something about appreciating his interest. I don’t want to make him angry or upset, or to damage his pride. ‘I appreciate your interest. It’s flattering.’ Flattering is good. Yes.”

She took a long breath, relieved the panic didn’t come again.

“Yes,” she repeated. “I could say, ‘I’m flattered by your interest.’ And I am. It’s easier to sound sincere if you are sincere. ‘I’m flattered by your interest, and I’ve enjoyed our conversations.’ Should I bring up the sex again? God. God! How do people do this? Why do they? It’s all so complicated and fraught.”

She lifted her face to the sun, breathing in the warmth and light as she came out of the trees. And looking out over the hills, she wondered. So many people out there, with so many connections, all those interpersonal relationships. Parent, child, sibling, friend, lover, teacher, employer, neighbor.

How did they all do it? How did they mix and mingle and juggle all those needs and dynamics? All those expectations and feelings?

It was easier to live quietly and alone, with your own schedule, your own goals, meeting your own expectations and needs, without constantly being required to add others to the mix.

It’s what her mother had done, and certainly Susan Fitch was successful
on all fronts. Yes, the daughter had been a disappointment in the end, but then again, that’s what happened when you added another individual.

“I’m not my mother,” Abigail murmured, as she laid a hand on Bert’s head. “I don’t want to be. But even if I wanted relationships and complications, I can’t. It’s not possible. So, let’s try it all again. ‘While I find you attractive,’” she began.

She worked on the content, tone, structure of the speech, even the body language, for nearly an hour, fine-tuning it as she and Bert walked home again.

Assuming the discussion and dinner should be civilized, she opened a bottle of Shiraz. And had a half-glass to steady her nerves. By six-thirty she had to order herself not to pace, or pour another half-glass of wine.

When he drove up at six-forty-five, her nerves had taken the time to build again. She repeated her prepared speech in her head, using it to calm herself as she went to the door.

H
E REALLY WAS PLEASANT TO LOOK AT, SHE THOUGHT
. I
T
might take some time for the chemical reaction she experienced around him to dissipate.

“Sorry, I’m late.” With a grocery bag tucked in his arm, he walked to the porch. “I had a couple things come up.”

“It’s all right.”

“Hey, Bert.” Casually, Brooks rubbed a hand over Bert’s head as he walked into the house, then he shifted his angle, laid his lips on Abigail’s. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I can take the bag to the kitchen.”

“I’ve got it.” He nodded toward the wine on the counter as he set the bag down. “Nice.”

“You said steak. This should go well with red meat.”

“Good, because I’ve got a couple of fat New York strips in here.”

“You didn’t say what you wanted to have with the steaks, so I wasn’t sure what to fix.”

“Nothing. I’ve got it.” He pulled out two boat-sized potatoes and a bag of salad mix.

“What is that?” Abigail tapped the bag.

“Salad. It’s a bag o’ salad.”

“Bag o’ salad.” Despite the nerves, her lips curved. “I have plenty of fresh vegetables for salad.”

“That you have to chop up and so on. The beauty of bag o’ salad is it’s already done. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get the potatoes on.”

She didn’t think she should sit. She hadn’t practiced sitting down. “Would you like to have our discussion before dinner?”

“Do we only get one?”

“I’m sorry?”

He glanced back at her as he took the potatoes to the sink to scrub. “Only one discussion? How about we talk before dinner, during, even after.”

“Well, yes, of course. But the discussion of the situation. Should we have that now, or would you prefer to wait until dinner?”

“What situation?”

“You and I … This social connection. The interpersonal relationship.”

He set the potatoes on the counter, and with a smile so warm it made something inside her ache, he took her face in his hands. “Interpersonal relationship. I’m next door to crazy about you.” He kissed her, strong, long, until the ache spread. “Would you mind pouring me some of that wine?”

“I … yes. No, I mean, I don’t mind pouring the wine. We need to discuss—”

“You know, ‘discuss’ sounds like we’re going to get into politics.” He frowned at the oven for a moment, then set it to bake the potatoes. “Why don’t we stick with talk?”

“All right. We need to talk.”

“About our social connection and interpersonal relationship.”

In reflex, her back stiffened. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little. These are going to take a little while. Maybe we could go sit down. I could build us a fire.”

Too cozy, she thought. “Brooks.”

“So you can say it.”

“Say it?”

“My name. It’s about the first time you’ve used it.”

That couldn’t be true. Could it? “You’re confusing me. I haven’t even started and you’re confusing me.”