A Stranger in the House Page 4

  As he drives home, Tom thinks about Karen, and about their life together. They’d been so happy, so settled. And now this . . .

  When they met, she was temping at his firm, where he’s an accountant. There had been an immediate attraction. He could hardly wait for her two-week assignment to be over so that he could ask her out. Still, he was wary, because he’d misjudged before. So he promised himself he would take his time getting to know her. That seemed to suit her as well. She was reserved in the beginning. He thought perhaps she’d misjudged before, too.

  But she wasn’t like some other women he’d known. She didn’t play games. She didn’t mess with his head. There was nothing about her to set off alarm bells. There never has been.

  There has to be a reason for what she’s done. She must have been lured there by someone under false pretenses. She will get her memory back, and then she’ll be able to explain everything.

  He can tell Karen’s scared. He’s scared, too.

  He parks the car in the driveway and walks heavily up the front steps. Once inside, he looks around the house wearily. The place is a bit of a mess. There are dirty dishes in the kitchen—in the sink, on the table. He’d been grabbing a bite at odd times, going back and forth to the hospital.

  He’d better clean up. He can’t have Karen coming home to a messy house—she would hate that. He starts in the living room, tidying up, putting things away, bringing dirty coffee cups to the kitchen. He runs a vacuum over the large area rug, cleans the glass-topped coffee table with glass cleaner and paper towels. Next he tackles the kitchen. He fills the dishwasher, wipes down the counters, and runs hot water and dish soap into the sink to wash the glass coffee carafe by hand. He searches for the rubber gloves that Karen uses to wash the dishes but can’t find them. He plunges his hands into the hot soapy water. He wants Karen to focus on getting well when she comes home, not worrying about the house.

  —

  Karen’s alone when Dr. Fulton stops in for the last time before he leaves that night. It’s late, the ward is quiet, and Karen is drowsy. The doctor sits down in the empty chair by her bed and says, hesitantly, “There’s something I wanted to mention.”

  She sees the uncertainty in his eyes and feels her body tense.

  “When they brought you in, you were very disoriented,” he begins. “Saying things.”

  She’s anxious now, and wide awake.

  “You kept saying someone’s name over and over. Do you remember that?”

  She goes completely still. “No.”

  “I couldn’t remember, but one of the nurses told me you kept mentioning someone called Robert. Does that name mean anything to you?” He looks at her curiously.

  Her heart is racing now. She slowly shakes her head back and forth, pursing her lips as if thinking hard. “No,” she says. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Fulton says, standing up again. “Thought it was worth a try.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything,” Karen says. She waits until the doctor is almost at the door, and then adds, at the last moment, “I don’t think you need to mention it to my husband.”

  He turns and looks at her. Their eyes lock for a moment. Then he gives one short nod and leaves the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Tom’s barely out of the shower the next morning when the doorbell rings. He’s thrown on jeans and a T-shirt and his hair is still wet, but combed. He’s leaving for the hospital shortly—another day out of the office. He’s barefoot, and has just put a pot of coffee on.

  Tom can’t imagine who would be at his front door this early. It’s not even eight o’clock. He pads over and peers out the door’s window. Officer Fleming is standing on the porch.

  The sight of Fleming standing outside immediately irritates him. Tom has enough to deal with already, and he doesn’t know any more than he did yesterday. He can’t help the cops. Why the hell doesn’t Fleming just go away and leave them alone until Karen’s memory comes back?

  He opens the door; you can’t leave a uniformed cop standing on your doorstep.

  “Good morning,” Fleming says.

  Tom stares back at him, unsure of what to do. He remembers how kind Fleming was to him the first time he came to Tom’s house, with the terrible news of Karen’s accident.

  “May I come in?” Fleming asks at last. He’s professional and respectful, just as he was that night. He has a quiet, relaxed air about him. He’s not threatening; he seems like someone who would want to give you a hand.

  Tom nods and opens the door. The house is full of the smell of brewing coffee. He supposes he’d better offer him some. “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Sure,” Fleming says, “that would be great.”

  Tom heads to the spacious kitchen at the back of the house, the cop following him across the hardwood floor. Tom can feel Fleming watching him while he pours them each a cup. He turns around, puts the mugs on the table, and grabs the milk and sugar.

  The two of them sit down at the kitchen table.

  “What can I do for you?” Tom asks. He feels awkward, and he’s not completely able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  Fleming helps himself to milk and sugar and stirs his coffee thoughtfully. “You were there when we spoke to your wife yesterday about the accident,” Fleming reminds him.

  “Yes.”

  “You understand why we had to press charges.”

  “Yes,” Tom says, his voice sharp. He exhales and adds sincerely, “I’m just glad no one else was hurt.”

  There’s a long, heavy silence as Tom ponders just how bad it could have been. Karen might have killed someone—what a horror that would be to live with. That’s the sort of thing you never get over. Tom tries to tell himself how lucky they are.

  Suddenly Tom wants to talk. He doesn’t know why he’s telling this police officer—a virtual stranger—this, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “She’s my wife. I love her.” The cop looks back at him sympathetically. “But I have questions, too,” Tom says recklessly, “the same questions as you. What the hell was she doing down there driving crazy like that? That’s not my wife. My wife doesn’t do things like that.” Tom pushes his chair back and gets up. He takes his cup to the counter and refills it, trying to regain his self-control.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Fleming says, watching him closely. “I wanted to see if you’d thought of anything, remembered anything that might shed some light on the circumstances around her accident. Sounds like you haven’t.”

  “No.” Tom stares moodily at the floor.

  The officer pauses for a moment before asking his next question. “How is your marriage?” Fleming asks quietly.

  “My marriage?” Tom says, looking up sharply. This is the second time Fleming has asked him about it. “Why do you ask?”

  “You made a 911 call that night that she was missing.”

  “Because I didn’t know where she was.”

  Fleming says, his expression neutral, “Your wife seems to have been running from something. I have to ask—was she running from you?”

  “What? No! How could you even ask that? I love her!” Tom shakes his head. “We haven’t been married long—our second anniversary is coming up soon. We’re very happy.” He hesitates. “We were thinking of starting a family.” Then he realizes he’s just spoken in the past tense.

  “Okay,” Fleming says, making an appeasing gesture with both hands. “I had to ask.”

  “Sure,” Tom says. He wants Fleming to leave.

  “What about your wife’s life before she met you? Has she ever been married before?”

  “No.” Tom sets his mug down on the counter behind him and crosses his arms.

  “She ever been in trouble with the law?”

  “No, of course not,” Tom says dismissively. But even he can see that, given the ci
rcumstances, it’s not such a ridiculous question.

  “What about you?”

  “No, I haven’t been in trouble with the law either. I’m sure you can check us both out. I’m a chartered accountant, she’s a bookkeeper—we’re rather dull.”

  “I wonder—” Fleming hesitates, as if he’s not sure he should say it.

  “What?”

  “I wonder if she might be in some kind of danger,” Fleming says carefully.

  “What?” Tom says, startled.

  “Like I said, she was driving like she was trying to get away from something, as if she were frightened. A calm person doesn’t drive like that.”

  Tom has no answer to that. He stares at Fleming and bites at his lower lip.

  Fleming tilts his head to one side and says, “Would you like me to help you look around the house?”

  Tom regards Fleming uneasily. “Why?”

  “To see if we can find anything that might shed some light . . .”

  Tom freezes. He doesn’t know how to answer. Normal Tom, before all this happened, would have said, Sure, let’s take a look. But this is postaccident Tom, who doesn’t know what his wife was up to when she fled their house and crashed her car. What if there’s something she’s hiding, something the police shouldn’t find?

  Fleming is watching him, waiting, to see what he will do.

  —

  Brigid is having her morning coffee, sunlight streaming in and falling in a slant across the carpet. Bob has already left for work, slipping away with a peck on the cheek. Things have not been good between her and Bob for some time.

  Mostly, he stays away, busy at work. He’s the owner of Cruikshank Funeral Homes. But when he’s home—when he thinks she isn’t looking—he watches her, as if he’s worried about her, about what she’s thinking, about what she might do. But he doesn’t genuinely care how she is, Brigid tells herself. He stopped truly caring a while ago. Now he only cares about how her actions might affect him.

  They don’t talk about it anymore, but Brigid knows that their inability—their failure—to have a child together has changed everything. Their infertility has made her depressed and moody, and it has made Bob withdraw from her. She knows she’s changed. She used to be fun, even a little reckless. She used to think she could do anything. But now she feels older, more subdued, less attractive, although she is only thirty-two.

  Brigid saw the uniformed police officer arrive in his cruiser a few minutes ago, right after Bob left. She wonders what the cop is doing at the Krupps’. Tom is still home. His car is in the driveway.

  She lives so much in her head these days. She knows it isn’t good for her, but she has no interest in finding a new job, and adjusting her expectations, as Bob encourages her to do. She has a lot of time to think about things. She remembers when Karen first moved in. Tom had been single when he bought the house—the only single man in a neighborhood full of families. (How bitter Brigid feels; she and Bob had chosen this particular suburb as the perfect place for children—children they will never have.) Then Tom started dating Karen. Once they were married, Karen had made the place her own. Very quickly, Karen had made the place her own. Painting, decorating, landscaping. Brigid watched the transformation take place; there’s no question Karen has a good eye.

  Right from the beginning—before Tom and Karen were even married—Brigid made a point of welcoming Karen to the neighborhood. Brigid was as friendly as it was possible to be. Karen had seemed reserved at first, but quickly began to accept her friendship, as if she were starved for female companionship. Which Brigid supposed she was, having moved recently from out of state, not knowing anyone. They began to spend more and more time together. Karen genuinely seemed to value her as a friend, even if she wasn’t quite comfortable sharing confidences.

  Brigid learned that Karen had been temping at Tom’s firm and that she was looking for permanent employment. Brigid was the one who got her the spot as bookkeeper at Cruikshank Funeral Homes. It’s Brigid who’s now making sure that Karen’s job is held open for her for as long as she may need. They’re relying on a temp in the meantime.

  No one could accuse her of not being a good friend.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom drives Karen home from the hospital in the early evening. It’s been three days since she had the accident. He drives slowly, carefully, avoiding potholes and sudden stops, as she watches out the window. She’s grateful. She glances at Tom’s profile as he drives. She can tell that he’s tense by the set of his jaw, although he’s trying to pretend that everything’s fine.

  They finally arrive at their little street, and Tom pulls into the driveway at 24 Dogwood Drive. It’s good to be out of the hospital and home again. She loves that trees have had time to grow here. There’s none of that crowding you find in the newer, less expensive suburbs, where houses are crammed so closely together, a measly patch of grass for a lawn. She loves the spaciousness here, the green. She’s proud of her garden, bursting now with big pink hydrangeas.

  The two of them sit quietly for a minute, listening to the ticking of the cooling engine. Tom puts his hand on top of hers, briefly. Then she slowly gets out of the car.

  Once inside the house, she’s turning to close the door behind her when Tom tosses his keys on the table by the door. She starts. The loud clatter makes her feel a slice of pain in her temples and a sudden sensation of vertigo. She closes her eyes briefly, sways a little, her hand on the wall.

  “Sorry! Are you okay?” Tom asks, contrite. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’m okay, just a little dizzy,” she says. Sharp noises bother her, as do bright lights and sudden movements. Her brain does need time to recover. After a moment, she walks into the living room, appreciating the soothing pale gray and white colors and the uncluttered decor. The carefully chosen white sofa faces a modern marble fireplace with a smooth, unfussy exterior. In front of the sofa is a large, square, glass-topped coffee table, with her collection of Elle Decor and Art & Antiques stored on the shelf beneath it. Above the fireplace is an enormous mirror, and on the mantelpiece there are framed photographs of the two of them, Tom and her. Matching gray chairs face the sofa, with plump pillows in soothing pale pinks and greens. The entire space is light and clean and airy and completely familiar to her. It’s as if the last few days had never happened. She moves slowly to the oversized picture window at the front of the room and looks out. The houses across the way look perfectly benign.

  At last she turns away and follows Tom into the kitchen.

  “I cleaned up,” Tom says, smiling.

  Everything gleams. The sink, the taps, the countertop, the stainless steel appliances. Even the dark hardwood floor is shiny. “You’ve done a great job,” she says appreciatively, smiling back at him. She glances out the sliding glass doors into the backyard. Then, feeling thirsty, she goes over to the cupboard and reaches in for a glass to get herself a drink of water. She turns on the tap and looks down at the sink and quickly grabs the counter to steady herself. “I think I’d like to lie down,” she says suddenly.

  “Of course,” Tom says. He takes the glass from her and fills it from the tap.

  Karen follows Tom upstairs. The bedroom is also light and airy, with lots of windows across the back. There’s a novel on her bedside table, and more books on the floor beside the bed. She’d signed them out of the library recently; she’d especially been looking forward to reading the new Kate Atkinson, but she can’t read much now until her concussion is better. Doctor’s orders. Tom is watching her.

  She glances at her dresser. On top of it there’s a mirrored tray holding perfume bottles. Beside that is her jewelry box. Her regular jewelry she’s wearing again—her diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band, and the necklace Tom bought her for their first anniversary.

  Karen sees herself in the familiar mirror above her dresser, still battered and bruised.
She remembers how frightened she’d been. All those times she’d come home and found things slightly out of place, subtle signs that someone had been going through her things. It had scared her. And Tom knew nothing about it.

  She’d been hiding an awful lot from the man she loves. And she’s been so anxious, worried that Dr. Fulton would share what she’d said in Emergency with Tom, with the police. If only she could remember what happened that night! She feels as if she’s blind, trying to navigate dangers she can’t see.

  All at once, she’s very tired. Tom says soothingly, “Why don’t you rest and I’ll make supper.”

  She nods. She doesn’t want to make supper. She doesn’t want to do anything but curl into a ball under the covers and hide from the world.

  He says carefully, “Some of your friends have been asking when they can come visit.”

  “I’m not ready to see anyone just yet, except for Brigid.” She’s been grateful for Brigid, but she doesn’t want to see anyone else; she doesn’t want to answer their questions.

  “I told them that; they want to come anyway.”

  “Not yet.”

  He nods. “I’m sure they’ll understand. It can wait. You’re supposed to have quiet, anyway.” He looks at her, concerned. “How do you feel?”

  She wants to say, Terrified. Instead, she says, with a faint smile, “Glad to be home.”

  —

  Tom lights the grill, marinates a steak, and quickly throws together a small salad and garlic bread. It’s a relief to have Karen back home again.

  But there’s still the elephant in the room. The accident—and what had led up to it.

  He wants to trust her.

  That police officer, Fleming, had wanted to look through the house this morning. Tom remembers how taken aback he’d been when the cop had suggested it. The first thing Tom thought was, What is he looking for? Then, What if he finds something? Something bad? He told the cop no.