Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [190]
He stopped right where he was.
“Is this how you end it?” she said. “Is this what you want?”
“Where did you get those?”
She bunched the page in her fist. “They were sitting here on the table.” Then she threw it at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“You must really hate me,” she said, “to have dreamt this up.”
Pepin picked up the page she’d thrown and read it.
“I didn’t write this,” he whispered.
She suddenly went wide-eyed, as if she’d seen something in the back of her mind or behind his back.
Pepin heard footfalls and turned around. Nothing there, but then the door slammed with a bang.
“You kill my joy,” she said softly, then took two handfuls off the plate and shoved them into her mouth.
For a second he couldn’t believe his eyes because the physiological impact of the allergen knocked her right over backward, still seated in her chair. “Don’t!” he screamed and was at once on top of her, pulling her hands from her face. And already the transformation was occurring, the swelling like a werewolf reversion, her lips inflating and curling away from her teeth, her fingers and cheeks fattening, hives rising everywhere, a pink distention rashing along her neck, chest, and hands.
“Call nine one one,” she gasped.
A mixture of nut and saliva had collected in the corners of her mouth, and she was gagging while he screamed her name. Then he ran to the bedroom and pulled open her bedside drawers, the EpiPens missing in both and in the medicine cabinet and her purse as well, its contents now spilled out across their bed. She’d thought it through. She knew.
He ran back and kneeled before her, pausing at the sight, his hands held up in terror. She was squeezing her neck as if she were choking herself, her face gone purple as violets, gone blue.
There was nothing to be done but he did it. Her esophagus had swollen shut. He rammed two fingers into her mouth, pressing them past her swollen tongue as far as he could into her puckered throat, trying to clear her airway. If someone had walked in, it would’ve looked like he was killing her, stuffing her mouth with his hand. But instead he was doing something he’d never been able to, something that should’ve been done long before this, something else he’d dreamed of. He pressed into her with all the strength he had, her hair bunched in his other fist for leverage. Would this be the last thing she remembered? Would it be their last embrace? He reached as far as he could, which wasn’t far enough, trying to touch her where she’d touched him, trying desperately to reach back to a time when they were happy, when they didn’t know then what they knew now—all the way to her heart.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to express my gratitude to Gary Fisketjon, friend and editor, whose extraordinary work on this book was integral to its realization. Several books on the Sam Sheppard case provided essential background information: Jack P. DeSario and William Mason’s Dr. Sam Sheppard on Trial, Cynthia L. Cooper and Sam Reese Sheppard’s Mockery of Justice, and Paul Holmes’s The Sheppard Murder Case. James Neff’s The Wrong Man deserves particular praise for its compassion, scope, and utterly convincing presentation of evidence old and new, and so I must express my tremendous gratitude to its author. My endless appreciation is extended to my agents, Susanna Lea and Mark Kessler, for their tireless advocacy. To several readers: Kalen McNamara, whose keen insights and numerous discussions were a boon, as well as the comments and suggestions of Phoebe Carver, George Cassidy, Diana Fisketjon, Emily Milder, and Frank Tota. Thanks to Nick Paumgarten for pep talks. Thanks to my brother, Eban, for help with Hastroll’s menu, among many other things. For their time and expertise, I am grateful to Drs. Dan Canale, Donna Crowe, and Tiffany Hines. Special thanks to Ann Teaff and the Harpeth Hall School for