Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

Dan's car was parked in the driveway. The hood was cold to the touch; he'd been home for a bit. Not a good sign.

Five minutes later, she found Dan sitting in the family room with only the constantly chattering TV as a source of light. He started when she entered the room, and she would've sworn he made some kind of furtive motion. When she walked around for a better look, however, he was merely picking up a large, round cognac glass for one last sip. She stared at him, waiting to see who would talk first. Then she realized that he still wore a suit and his short, dark brown hair was horribly rumpled-he always ran his fingers through his hair when he was anxious.

On the TV, some blond newswoman was standing in front of the courthouse, talking into her microphone as a barrage of red and blue police lights relentlessly swirled around her head.

“Police have now confirmed that alleged rape suspect, Eddie Como, aka the College Hill Rapist, was shot and killed here earlier this morning. Sources close to the investigation say that twenty-eight-year-old Como was shot once in the head as he was being unloaded from the ACI van at the Licht Judicial Complex around eight-thirty. According to a fellow prisoner-”

“I came home as soon as I heard the news,” Dan finally spoke up.

Carol didn't say anything.

“I thought you might want to see me.”

Carol still didn't say anything.

“You could've at least called,” he said quietly. His eyes rose to meet hers. “I do worry, you know.”

“You're dressed for work.”

“Dammit, Carol, I canceled three meetings today-”

“You're going back to the office.”

“I don't have a choice! Clients pay me to be available at the snap of their fingers. Lawyering isn't a nine-to-five job. You know that.”

She said simply, “It will be dark.”

Dan's eyes fell. He opened his mouth, then closed it into a grim line and focused instead on rotating the now empty cognac glass between his fingers. He was angry. She read his tension in the tight, bunched line of his shoulders. But he didn't say another word. And the silence went on and on and on.

“I went shopping,” she said at last, chin held up defiantly.

“I can see that.”

“I bought three suits. Nice ones.”

“All right, Carol.”

“I spent two thousand dollars,” she pushed.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He spun the fine crystal goblet with even greater concentration. She decided on a new tack. The sun was going down. Dusk descending on their too big, too empty house. And he was leaving her again, proof that no matter what punishment she inflicted upon him, he was more than capable of inflicting it right back.

“The police came to see us today,” she announced. “Detective Fitzpatrick crashed our meeting.”

“He wanted to be the first to give you the big news?”

“No, he wanted to be the first to ask us if we killed him.”

“And what did Jillian say to that?”

“She told him to fuck off. Using bigger words, of course.”

“Detective Fitzpatrick should've known better.” Dan finally set his glass down on the coffee table. He rose off the sofa. His movements were restless and agitated.

“It wasn't just Fitzpatrick. A state guy came as well.”

“The state?” Dan's head jerked around.

“Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin. Big guy. Smart. He claims they'll subpoena our bank records next. You know, to see if they can find any mysterious cash withdrawals or money transfers, anything that might be construed as a payment to a hired gun. He seems very determined about it.”

Dan walked away from her, finally halting in front of the mantel around the fireplace. He ran one finger down the scrolling woodwork. Dan had long, lean fingers. He could've been a sculptor or a musician. Or a father teaching his son how to tie his first bowknot.

“Why are they bothering with an investigation?” he asked curtly. “Eddie Como has caused enough damage. He's dead. Let it be.”

“I don't care,” Carol said fiercely. “Whoever shot him. I don't care.”

She was holding her breath, willing her husband to turn around and look her in the eye. She had started this conversation to goad him, but now… Now she heard the ache in her voice. She hadn't told anyone, not even Meg or Jillian, but Carol half hoped her husband had shot or paid someone to shoot Eddie Como. It would be the first sign she had that he still loved her.

I know where you were that night. I've never told anyone, but I know where you were that night, and it was not working late.

Dan turned around. Dan looked her in the eye with his deep brown gaze. Ten years of marriage later, his face held new lines, darker shadows, grayer hair. The years had been rough on both of them. So many things that had not turned out quite the way they'd planned. And yet she still thought he was handsome. She still wished he would cross the room right now and take her in his arms.

If you would promise to try to touch me, I would promise to try not to pull away. If you would promise to try to reach out to me, I would promise to try not to see you as another Eddie Como. If you would promise to try to love me again, I would promise to try to forgive you. And maybe, if you did try and I did try…

He said, “I have to go. The meeting starts at seven and I still need to prepare.”

“Dan-” She caught the rest of the sentence. Bit it back. Swallowed it down.

“You'll lock the door behind me?”

“Of course.”

“And turn on the alarm?”

“I know, Dan.”

“Think of it this way, Carol-the press are bound to be back soon. Then you won't be alone, after all.”

He came around the sofa, glanced at her shopping bags and grimaced on his way out of the room. The next sound she heard was the front door opening, then closing behind him. A moment later, his car started up in their driveway.

Carol's gaze went outside, where the sun sank low on the horizon. Dusk falling. Night approaching. The dark coming, coming, coming to find her.

The silence, on the other hand, was already here.

On TV, the perky blond reporter said, “Eddie Como's family announced this afternoon that they will seek to claim his body from the medical examiner's office no later than tomorrow night, in order to prepare for a Catholic funeral service first thing Wednesday morning. The family, still claiming his innocence, has also said that they would like to start a memorial fund to help other wrongfully accused men…”

Carol locked the front door, armed the security system. Then she went upstairs to the main hallway. She walked down its long, shadowed length to the tightly shut door at one end. She opened the door. And she looked inside the room, the room she had once shared with her husband, the room where she had once made love to her husband, and what she saw now was merely a collection of dusty furniture held captive behind wrought-iron bars.

No open windows. No wet, blood-spattered cotton sheets. No piles of latex strips still littered with pieces of long, blond hair.

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Her hands started to shake. Her heart picked up its pace. He's dead, she tried to tell herself. He's dead, it's over, you're finally safe.

No good. No good, no good, no good.

Carol slammed the door shut, recoiling down the hallway, grabbing blindly at the walls with her bare hands. She had to get away. The TV was still on. Didn't matter, didn't matter. The house was too big, the silence too powerful, and God knows Dan would come home much too late. On her own. Always alone. Run, Carol, run.

She stumbled into the upstairs bathroom. She slammed the door. And then she leaned over the white porcelain sink, where she vomited until she dry-heaved.