There was a girl.
Like a noxious ivy, this notion winds its way around every aspect of Tova’s daily routine. When she’s making up her bed in the morning: There was a girl. Waiting for the coffee to percolate: There was a girl. Dusting the baseboards (because it’s a Wednesday, after all, even when the world’s been tipped upside down): A girl, a girl, a girl.
Even though he was very popular, Erik was selective in who he chose to date. There were a handful of sweethearts throughout high school, and the police spoke at length with all of them. Not as suspects, of course—they never said that
—but as people who had once been close to Erik, who might have known what he was doing that night, whether he was playing some game or running away from home or . . .
There was Ashley Barrington, whom Erik took to the Sowell Bay High School homecoming dance the previous autumn, but she knew nothing, she’d been out of town with her family on a cruise the night it happened. Jenny-Lynn Mason, his prom date from earlier that spring, was also of no help, as she had attended a social gathering down in Seattle that evening and stayed the night at a friend’s there. Then there was Stephanie Lee. When the police prodded, Tova had identified her as a classmate who had come around the house several times that spring for so- called study dates. Stephanie said she was home, asleep. At first, the detective raised a brow at this, but eventually
determined that it was true, and that the young woman couldn’t offer any information.
There was a girl. How did she not know? Tova’s eyes seem to tangle with themselves as she tries to focus on the newspaper laid out in front of her with the daily crossword. Five letters: A daredevil’s move. She knows the word is “STUNT,” but her pencil wants to write A–G–I–R–L. Or better yet, the girl’s name. What was her name? Is it buried in her own memory? A name she’d heard but not attached any importance to? Had Adam Wright managed to remember it? Was he even trying? She had tried to look him up in the phone book, but he wasn’t listed, which probably made sense because he just moved back to town. And anyhow, perhaps he wouldn’t even remember their conversation from the Elland Chophouse. He had consumed quite a few martinis.
This, too, nags at Tova. What does anyone really know about Adam Wright? Who says the liquor-fueled memory of a lunchtime lush could be counted upon? He was a school buddy of Erik’s, but not a close friend. He said so himself.
She picks at a peeling edge of Formica on the corner of her kitchen table. A terrible habit, to pick at such a thing. She ought to superglue it down right away. But she keeps picking. Why is everything coming apart at the seams?
If she hadn’t taken her crossword down to Hamilton Park that day, had that moment of connection over Debbie Harry of Blondie, of all things, good heavens . . . would he have recognized her at the Elland Chophouse?
Why is he only now remembering these details about that night?
Why did Erik take that boat out?
Why can’t Adam remember the girl’s name? Why didn’t Erik tell her about the girl?
Why is all of this coming up now?
“Why?” she says to Cat, who is parked in a patch of sunshine on the linoleum. Cat licks a paw and squints.
It has been years since Tova has juggled so many of these Erik-related questions. It exhausts her, to the point where she lies down on the davenport after lunch for a nap, which is something she hasn’t done in years.
THE PHONE’S RING slices through her sleep. Tova fumbles the receiver, almost dropping it, and croaks, “Hello?”
“I have great news!” It’s a woman’s voice, and for the smallest second Tova’s mind flashes to a girl. But it’s Jessica Snell, the realtor.
“Oh?” Tova sits up and rubs her temple.
“We’ve got an offer. Ten thousand above asking!” Jessica Snell proceeds to spew a litany of details about the buyers and their offer and instructions about what Tova should do next if she would like to accept. “Mind you, we haven’t even done the open house yet, so I wouldn’t blame you if you want to hold out . . . but I can tell you, this is a good offer. We priced it aggressively. We could counter to take it off the market before the open house. What do you think?”
“Yes, yes.” Tova fetches a sheaf of newspaper and a pen and jots down the numbers in the margin next to yesterday’s half-completed crossword. She simply hasn’t had it in her to finish the puzzles lately. Somehow it feels less important than it used to. “Yes, let’s counter.”
“Great. I’ll email you the paperwork. Let’s see, what’s your . . . We don’t have your email on file?”
Tova sniffs. “I don’t have email.”
“Oh, that’s right, you brought the seller’s agreement to my office,” Snell continues without missing a beat. “No problem, we can do it that way. I’ll drop a hard copy of the counteroffer by your house this evening, okay?”
“Very well.”
After hanging up, Tova ratchets out a breath. They’ll accept the counter. A contract will be signed. The house will be sold.
In the kitchen, she pours herself a cup of cold coffee from the percolator, heats it in the microwave, and steps out the back door. On the porch, Cat stretches lazily in a sunlit patch, and Tova sighs bitterly at the sight. When she sits on the small garden bench, he jumps into her lap, places his paws on her chest, and nudges her chin with his head.
“What are we going to do with you, little one?” Tova murmurs, stroking the soft fur behind his ears. “I guess you’re not going back to life outdoors.”
In response, he purrs. A dilemma to face some other time.
THERE WAS A girl.
The thought of a girl nags at Tova’s mind as she signs Jessica Snell’s papers. It pecks insistently as she cooks supper and lingers like a persistent fly on the short drive down the hill to the aquarium. The turn into the parking lot sneaks up on her, and she nearly misses it. The turn she must’ve taken a thousand times.
It’s madness—this is how it begins. Losing her mind, all because of some passing remark from a man with one too many martinis.
Cameron seems distant tonight, and they work in silence. She fills the bucket with vinegar and water; he rinses and wrings the mop. Finally, as they make their way along the eastern side of the building, she asks, “Any word from your father, dear?”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She forces a bright tone. “You’ll find him one day, and when you do, he’ll be thrilled you did.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He moves ahead, rounding the corner.
She catches up and pauses, looking into Marcellus’s thick glass tank. He floats out from behind a rock, blinking a greeting before pressing a tentacle to the glass. His round suckers look like tiny porcelain plates, arranged perfectly as he glides along the smooth surface.
An idea strikes her. Something to bring the boy out of his daze.
