The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [19]
“I’m tired, Daddy,” Ree said. “I want to take a nap.”
“Okay,” he said.
They headed upstairs.
Jason watched Ree brush her teeth. He wondered if this is what Sandy had done.
He read Ree two stories, sitting on the edge of Ree’s bed. He wondered if this is what Sandy had done.
He sang one song, tucked the covers around his daughter’s shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. He wondered if this is what Sandy had done.
He made it all the way to the doorway, then Ree spoke up, forcing him to turn around. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his fingers fisted beneath his elbows, where Ree couldn’t see the tremors in his hands.
“Will you stay, Daddy? Until I fall asleep?”
“Okay.”
“Mommy sang me ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’ I remember her singing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’”
“Okay.”
Ree shifted restlessly beneath the covers. “Do you think she’s found Mr. Smith yet? Do you think she’ll come home?”
“I hope so.”
She finally lay still. “Daddy,” she whispered. “Daddy, I have a secret.”
He took a deep breath, forced his voice to sound light. “Really? Because remember the Daddy Clause.”
“The Daddy Clause?”
“Sure, the Daddy Clause. Whatever the secret, you’re allowed to tell one daddy. Then he’ll help keep the secret, too.”
“You’re my daddy.”
“Yep, and I assure you, I’m really good at keeping secrets.”
She smiled at him. Then, her mother’s daughter, she rolled over and went to sleep without saying another word.
He waited five more minutes, then eased out of the room, and just barely made it down the stairs.
He kept the picture in the kitchen utility drawer, next to the pen flashlight, green screwdriver, leftover birthday candles, and half a dozen wine charms they never used. Sandra used to tease him about the tiny photo in its cheap gilded frame.
“For God’s sake, it’s like hiding away a picture of your old high school sweetheart. Stick the frame on the mantel, Jason. She’s like family to you. I don’t mind.”
But the woman in the photo was not family. She was old—eighty, ninety, he couldn’t remember anymore. She sat in a rocking chair, birdlike frame nearly lost in a pile of voluminous hand-me-down clothes: man’s dark blue flannel shirt, belted around brown corduroy pants, nearly covered by an old Army jacket. The woman was smiling the large, gleeful smile of the elderly, like she had a secret, too, and hers was better than his.
He had loved her smile. He had loved her laugh.
She was not family, but she was the only person who, for a very long time, had made him feel safe.
He clutched her photo now. He held it to his breast like a talisman, and then his legs gave out and he sank to the kitchen floor. He started to shake again. First his hands, then his arms, then his chest, the bone-deep tremors traveling down to his thighs, his knees, his ankles, each tiny little toe.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t make a sound of protest.
But he shook so hard it felt as if his body should break apart, his flesh flying from his bones, his bones splintering into a thousand pieces.
“Goddammit, Sandy,” he said, resting his shaking head upon his shaking knees.
Then he realized, quite belatedly, that he’d better do something about the computer.
The phone rang ten minutes later. Jason didn’t feel like talking to anyone, then thought, a little foolishly, that it might be Sandy, calling from … somewhere … so he picked up.
It wasn’t his wife. It was a male voice, and the man said, “Are you home alone?”
“Who is this?”
“Is your child there?”
Jason hung up.
The phone rang again. Caller ID reported the same number. This time Jason let the machine get it. The same male voice boomed, “I’ll take that as a yes. Back yard, five minutes. You’ll want to talk to me.” Then the man hung up.
“Fuck you,” Jason told the empty kitchen. It was a foolish thing to say, but it made him feel better.
He went upstairs, checked on Ree. She was tucked almost