He gathered the pages he’d filled with notes while talking with Sarah Gordon, butted them together, and stowed them in a manila file folder. He was about to shove everything into a locked drawer in his desk and get out to start chasing down leads when the phone on his desk rang. Please don’t let it be another case. “Police department, Larson.”
“Bill . . . Detective Larson? This is Sarah Gordon again. A friend has reminded me of some other things that might be helpful in your investigation.”
He opened the file folder that was still on his desk, found the last sheet of his notes, and pulled out his pen. As Dr. Gordon talked, questions arose in his mind, but he didn’t stop her. He’d flesh out the information later. For now, he wanted her to keep talking.
When she finished, he said, “Yes, you should have told me this when we talked earlier, but I’m glad you decided to call me now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I tried to ignore these episodes. After Harry and Jenny were killed, it was all I could do to keep going each day. I focused on the patients I saw, tried to move forward a day at a time, and if there was a bump in the road, I swerved around it and kept going.”
Larson knew the feeling. After his wife left him, taking Billy with her, his whole world felt like it left the tracks. Even the simplest decisions were hard to make. He’d found it difficult to concentrate on anything beyond what it took to get through the day. Matter of fact, the only time he seemed to be able to keep everything together was when he was dealing with police matters. Focusing his attention on cases was almost therapeutic. Maybe that had been the case with Sarah Gordon. Maybe that’s how everyone handled a traumatic event.
“Look, why don’t I call you later and get more details?” he said. “Meanwhile, it would help if you check your calendar, see if you can pin down the dates of these calls.”
“I will. And I’m sorry—”
“No need to be sorry. You’ve been under a lot of stress.” He knew how she felt. Larson wondered if she realized just how long that feeling might last. In his case . . . well, it was a slow process.
After he hung up, Larson’s thoughts remained on Sarah Gordon, although not as the victim of a crime. As he’d told Cal, he still hoped his family could be reunited, but there were times when it seemed to him even his continued sobriety wasn’t enough to mend the rift. As a result, Larson sometimes had dreams of starting over with a woman who loved and accepted him, one who would stand beside him as he fought the battle of continuing sobriety. And at times, especially now, those thoughts involved someone like Sarah Gordon.
* * *
Tom Oliver’s crew was hard at work, and a cacophony of sound made by fans, motors, hammers, and occasional shouts seemed to surround Sarah. There was no peace to be found in her living room, so she retreated to her bedroom upstairs. She lay there, propped in bed trying to read, but rather than being focused on the book that lay open in her lap, her thoughts flitted here and there like a restless butterfly.
Because of the noise of the fans, extractors, and cleaning machines, Sarah wasn’t sure if someone was really knocking at her door. She closed her book, not bothering to mark her place, and hurried down the stairs. As she approached the front door, she heard the sound more clearly. It had increased in intensity to a banging such as she’d seen on TV when the policeman hit the door with the flat of his hand and called out, “Open up. Police.” Although no words accompanied this knocking, there was no mistaking the intention of the person behind it.
Sarah looked out the clear diamond of glass in the center of the front door and saw a determined Bill Larson, slamming his hand against the wood. She called, “Hang on. I’m opening it.”
“Sorry,” Larson said once she had the door open. “I tried the bell several times. I wasn’t sure if the noise inside kept you from hearing it, or that it just didn’t work.”
Sarah averted her eyes. “The bell was one of the things Harry was going to fix. But he never . . . he never . . . ” She fought for control of her emotions.
“That’s okay,” Larson said. “I wonder if you have time to go over a few things.”
He came in and Sarah closed the door behind him. “I thought you were going to phone,” she said. As she spoke, she led him into the living room.
“I decided to come by, instead. Is it okay if we talk there?” He pointed to the sofa and chairs in the room.
“I’m afraid the quietest rooms in the house are upstairs,” Sarah said. Immediately, she wondered about the propriety of leading a man upstairs to her bedroom. What other rooms were upstairs, away from the noise? She thought of and discarded the choices immediately. Jenny’s bedroom and the large room where her daughter played hadn’t been used since the accident, and Sarah couldn’t bear to think of going into them now, especially to talk with a detective.
“I think down here is fine,” Larson said. “Or, if you like, we can get out of the house for a bit.”
That was the last thing Sarah expected, and she let her puzzlement show on her face. “Look, you show up unexpectedly, you don’t have another detective with you, and then you ask if I’d like to go out somewhere.” She looked directly at him. “Is this an official visit, or are you trying to make it personal?”
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” Larson shook his head. “Let me explain. I’m in kind of an awkward position here. To begin with, one of our detectives is out after surgery, where they found cancer. This is a small department, and that leaves two of us staffing the detective bureau. The other man, Cal Johnson, has the weekend off and needs to spend some time with his wife. So this investigation is up to me. That’s why I showed up alone.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“Then there’s this that makes it sort of personal with me. You and I go to the same church—or, at least, you used to go there. We . . . ” He took a deep breath. “We’ve both had losses in our life—we don’t need to talk about mine, but I imagine you’re having some of the same feelings I had after my ex-wife, Annie, left with Billy.” He grimaced. “So it’s hard for me not to identify with what you’re going through. I mean, you lost both your husband and your baby. That must have hit you hard.”
Sarah averted her eyes. Harry. And Jenny. I’m not a wife anymore. I’m not a mother. And I may never be. She fought to keep from crying, but the tears came anyway. When she turned back, Larson was holding out a clean handkerchief.
She took the handkerchief and blotted her face. “Sorry. My emotions are still pretty fragile sometimes.”
“No problem,” Larson said. “There’ve been times I wanted to cry myself.”
Sarah turned away for a moment, took some deep breaths, and fought for control. Finally, she turned back and said, “I’m okay now.” She handed him the handkerchief. “Let’s get back to what you came for. I suppose you want more details about the episodes I told you about.” She pointed to the sofa. “If you can stand the noise, maybe it’s best that we sit in here.”
Larson took a seat, but before he could get out his notebook, Sarah cocked her ear toward the front door.
“I think someone’s knocking,” she said. “I’d better get it.”
She headed for the front door. Given the tension associated with her interaction with Larson, she was glad for the interruption. Sarah appreciated the detective’s obvious empathy for her, but it seemed to her there